Page 72 of Knight from the Ashes (Crown and Crest 1)

Clover lifts her head, breathing hard. Her pupils are too large, and she trembles under my hands, both from the growing strain and her fear.

“Let go of the rock,” I repeat, gritting my teeth, preparing to pull her up.

“Can’t.” She shakes her head, and a strand of wayward hair falls over her eye.

“I have you, Clover—I won’t let you fall.”

Her eyes lock on mine, and indecision plays in their spring green depths. Finally, she releases the rock with her left hand and quickly turns her palm to clasp my arm.

I hold my breath as she releases her second hand, tightening my core to brace myself for the additional weight.

Clinging to me tightly, and using her legs to assist, Clover pulls herself up. I crawl back, ready to let out a sigh of relief, but just as she reaches the top, she finds a loose pocket of stones, and her foot slips.

With a squeal, Clover loses her footing and begins to slide down. The momentum tries to jerk us apart when she comes to a sudden stop, but I hold tight.

She now hangs above the ground with nothing but me to anchor her in place.

Dislodged pebbles fall to the ground, hitting the rocky shelf as they fall, echoing in our ears as we both silently acknowledge she would have gone with them if I hadn’t climbed up ahead.

Without wasting any more time, Clover scrambles to find a foothold and pushes herself up and over the ledge. I pull her away from the cliff’s edge, standing on my knees once she’s made it.

And then it’s just the two of us, together atop the outcrop, with nothing but sky and the forest canopy surrounding us.

“I could have made it,” Clover says, blowing the strand of hair out of her face, her voice breathless from the climb.

“I know,” I answer, but we both know it’s a lie. She would have gone down, and Pranmore would once again be mending her broken body.

“The height doesn’t look so great when you’re standing on the ground.” Her expression is laced with lingering embarrassment and something a touch warmer, and it makes me want to pull her into my arms and assure her it’s all right—an impulse I don’t dare give in to. “It’s different when you’re halfway up the side.”

“Heights are like that,” I say.

After we’ve had a minute to catch our breaths and let our hearts slow to a somewhat less uncomfortable pace, Clover’s eyes drop to the space between us. I follow her gaze and frown at my hands, which still appear to be clasped upon her arms. When I reluctantly meet her eyes, she raises a questioning brow.

Immediately, I release her.

She rises to her feet and steps away. I push myself up, dusting small pebbles and dirt from my leather brigandine.

Clover lets out a soft exclamation as she looks across the forest, and I turn her way. A cool gust of pine-scented wind catches her long, silken hair, fanning it to the side. The sun glistens off it, turning it from brown to gold, capturing my attention and holding it hostage. When she looks back, she gives me a bright, unburdened smile—the kind of smile that lights her face and makes my heart beat just a little faster. “It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?”

I open my mouth to answer, but my words catch in my chest. Thankfully, Clover turns back without waiting for my response.

I take a few steps toward the center of the rock outcrop. The formation is wider than it is tall, with plenty of room for us to safely make camp. There are no pockets of soil in the granite, nor vegetation that might grow in them. However, a few recesses dip into the rock and hold water from a recent storm. The shallow pools reflect the sunset, glowing in shades of amber and salmon.

I walk to the ledge and peer down, satisfied with the height and inaccessibility of our camping spot. As long as aynauths can’t climb, we should be safe up here.

“Would you look at that view,” Bartholomew says from right behind me, making me jump as I turn around.

Pranmore stands next to my squire, his eyes on the sunset. “Magnificent.”

“How did you two get up here?” I demand, knowing there’s no use pretending they didn’t startle me.

Bartholomew answers, “We found a narrow trail cut into the rock.”

A trail.

My squire jabs his thumb toward the back of the cliff. “Just back there.”

He stares at me, as clueless as a puppy, and I shake my head and eye his empty hands. “Where are our packs?”

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