Boreal

Chapter Nineteen

Ptarmigan crouched in the shadow of the tower, the walkway swinging gently beneath his feet. From where he'd positioned himself, he had a clear view of the window which led to Grebe Blackhand's shop. There were more of them, a dozen or so children he could see similarly tucked away on the surrounding bridges – all far older than he was – all of them instructed to find a way to hold up the monster if it tried to cross. Fulmar, it seemed, had done his part in rallying the dock children to their cause. And, while it seemed as though Pater Rook had failed to bring them help from the Citadel, he had apparently yet to inform the Academy of their plan; the Guardian patrols had been no different from usual, and they'd paid Ptarmigan little mind as they'd passed him on their rounds.

The upper throws were abandoned. It was unnerving, to see the towers still and dark. Festivities should have been in full swing, what with the Long Season being so close. But the market stalls had been closed, and the taverns and fancy little shops shuttered. He had seen only children, and the Guardians, for the last few gongs. One of Fulmar's boy's had said that the upper throws had been closed down in fear that the weather would make it unsafe. He was unsure how much of that he believed. Indeed, the storm had only worsened, fat snowflakes whipped around like little arrows by a howling wind, but it was not unusual nor extreme enough to close an entire section of the city.

And now, more than ever, he was certain Grebe had been right – the grown-ups were hiding something. Conspiring to keep the monster hidden, for reasons he couldn't even begin to grasp.

Were it not for the fact he was watching for her, Ptarmigan was sure he would have missed his wyvern as she darted around the side of the tower. Her feathers flashed in the moonlight as she plummeted through the snow, landing heavily on the icy marble beside him. The walkway swayed. Ptarmigan's grip on the railing tightened a little.

"The Guardians outside of the shop are gone," Shyam announced, hopping towards him. Ptarmigan was quick to scoop his wyvern up, holding her safely in the warmth of his cloak. "Harrier came to collect them. We spoke with Grebe." His wyvern clicked her beak, her crest twitching.

"And?" He asked, certain she was missing something out.

"She isn't best pleased with us still being here," she admitted. "Said this is a fool's errand." Maybe it was, but they had too much riding on this to back out now. Ptarmigan's hand crept down to the handle of his dagger. He tugged the blade from its sheath, turning it over, the wicked metal glinting. His wyvern shrank back, pressing herself against his chest. "Do you think it will be angry?"

"The angel?" He said. Shyam bobbed her head. "I don't know if it can be angry, can it?" Could things without starlight - things that weren't alive - be angry? He shifted a little, the walkway swinging with his movements. The metal wires creaked and groaned. The walkway swayed a little more, and as the gongs began to ring out, marking the dawn of the new day, something large and heavy shifted in the dark of the tower ahead of them.

Ptarmigan scrambled to his feet, the dagger heavy in his hand. He ushered his wyvern onto his shoulders. The doorway was bathed in shadow, though if he focussed, he could just about make out the stairwell, winding down to the lower levels. He'd chosen this walkway when Fulmar had asked where he would wait for one reason: without scaling the tower, this was the only way to Grebe's shop. He'd been certain he could do...something, to hold it off, long enough for the other children to converge if it did come this way, at the very least. He struggled to focus, to listen above the roaring wind for any sign of movement. He needn't have tried. Schreech. Schrich. Schreech. A chill ran down his spine. There was a cracking, stone buckling underfoot.

One eye appeared in the gloom, glowing a brilliant white.

And then two.

Then three.