A scream tore from Lirren’s throat, a raw, ragged sound that echoed the terror in Zorien’s own gut. Below him, the green mist coiled, thick and voracious, reaching upwards like hungry tendrils. He was falling. The wind rushed past his ears, cold and unforgiving. The blur of the iron carriage receded overhead, and then a hand shot through the grate.
“Zorien!” Pell’s voice, usually a nervous tremor, was a guttural shout of sheer panic. His fingers, surprisingly strong despite their tremor, clamped around Zorien’s wrist. His hold slipped an inch along the sweaty skin, straining Zorien’s dead-weight drop.
Zorien’s vision swam. The gas scorched his windpipe like lye. Above him, Lirren wheezed through clenched teeth. He kicked, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, polished shaft wall, but his magi-leg was useless, his other foot dangling into the abyss. Pell grunted, a strained, pained sound, his face contorted with effort. His knuckles were bone-white as he strained, muscles in his arm bunched and shaking. For a agonizing moment, Zorien thought they would both go down. The entire shaft below them was now a swirling, verdant vortex, a promise of suffocation.
With a choked heave, Pell hauled. Zorien felt a searing pain in his shoulder, his arm feeling like it was being ripped from its socket, but then he was sliding upwards, scraping against the hard edge of the cage. Lirren was there, her hands grabbing at his clothes, helping Pell drag him inside with a strength Zorien hadn't seen in her for years. He tumbled back into the cage, landing in a heap, gasping, as the gas surged past the opening below them, a silent, deadly wave.
The winch cables shrieked, taking the load. The iron carriage clattered upward, grease rattling along the guide rails. Zorien lay there, chest heaving, the metallic taste of fear and exertion on his tongue. Lirren slumped against the iron mesh beside him, spitting dark foam. Pell, still shaking, released a shuddering sigh, collapsing against the opposite wall, his face pale and slick with sweat.
The ascent felt endless. Each upward jolt slammed bile into the back of his throat. He tried to speak, to ask if they were safe, but his voice wouldn’t come. He just watched Lirren, her eyes fluttering, her face growing steadily paler. A cold dread began to coil in his stomach, replacing the immediate terror of the fall. The gas might be behind them, but the Deep-Roots had already taken its toll.
The lift shuddered to a stop against the landing blocks. Counterweights groaned, and the lattice gate slid back into the dawn. Above them, the petrified wood skyscrapers of the canopy towered, their woven branches catching the first rays of the morning sun. The air, crisp and cool, carried the scent of fresh moss and dew, a stark contrast to the putrid decay of the roots. They had made it.
Zorien pushed himself up, his crippled leg screaming in protest, but he ignored it. He turned to Lirren, a triumphant, relieved smile forming on his lips. “Lirren, we’re out. We’re safe.”
But the smile died on his face. Lirren didn’t respond. Her eyelids hung slack, and the frantic heave of her ribs had vanished entirely. Black seepage leaked from her lip as she slumped against the grille, sliding sideways onto the iron deck.
“Lirren!” Pell dropped to his knees, clawing at her shoulders. “No, wake up, get up!”
Zorien stared, uncomprehending. Safe. They had cleared the pit, yet her ribs did not stir. His mind, usually sharp and calculating, dissolved into a raw, primal panic. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything. Not after he had finally understood. Not after he had fought his way through hell to save her. He knelt beside her, fumbling for a pulse that wasn’t there.
He remembered. The box. Her apartment. The relic. The tainted siphon Old Man Grell had taunted him with, the cylinder Lirren had traded her youth to secure. It was supposed to be a cure for *him*, not a burden for *her*. He had it. He still had it. He had guarded it through the climb as a last gamble. He ripped open his tattered coat, his fingers clumsy, tearing at the inner lining until he felt the small, smooth cylinder of carved jade.
With a trembling hand, he pulled out the relic. It pulsed with a faint, sickly green light, a distorted echo of healing. He fumbled for the injector mechanism, his vision blurring. He jammed the needle into her arm, not caring where, just needing to get it in. The cylinder ticked once, discharging a dull pulse of dark aether into her vein.
But nothing happened. Her chest remained still. Her skin was growing cold.
“No,” Zorien whimpered, a sound torn from the deepest part of his soul. “No, Lirren, not like this.”
He knew what he had to do. The brass was cracked, its reservoir fouled. It needed a conduit, a focus. He had heard whispers of old, forbidden healing rituals, of direct transfers, of the body’s own aether fueling the cure. It was reckless, suicidal, and his only card left. But he had nothing left to lose.
He positioned his mouth over hers, the taste of ash and blood on his tongue, and forced air into her lungs. He clamped his mouth over hers again, forcing his own core to drain inward, driving his reserve into her throat. The jade casing burned ice-cold in his fist as energy channeled between them, shocking the dead space behind her ribs. He strained until blood pounded behind his retinas, willing her heart to turn. He emptied himself, his mind screaming a silent plea.
He held it, held the kiss, held the transfer, until his own vision began to grey at the edges, until his body felt hollowed out and spent. The tainted charge tore through her chest, fracturing the necrotic rot locked in her tissue. A single, silent tear tracked down his grimy cheek.
Then, with a sudden, violent gasp, Lirren’s body convulsed. Her gaze flew open, milky and vacant, as a spasm forced a thick discharge of tarry fluid onto the grating. She coughed again, and again, gasping, her lungs working, clearing themselves with terrifying force. Fresh, clean air, the air of the canopy, rushed into them. She dragged in air, coughing out bile, the raw rattle of working lungs.
Zorien pulled back, trembling, his body weak, but his eyes fixed on her. Her ribcage expanded in rhythmic, unbroken motion. Color returned to her mouth, and her pupils narrowed to meet his. Her gaze was soft, bewildered, but alive. Truly alive.
“Lirren,” he whispered, his voice raw, his eyes burning. He reached out, his hand shaking, and gently cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm. He could feel the faint tremor of her returning life.
Pell, who had been watching in stunned silence, let out a choked sob of relief. “She took it. By the boughs, she’s pulling air!”
Lirren coughed once more, a soft, almost normal sound, and then she leaned into Zorien’s touch, her hand coming up to grasp his. Her voice, when it came, was a raspy whisper. “Zorien… my lungs… they’re clear.” She repeated it, a note of wonder in her voice. “They’re… clear.”
Dawn broke across the outer rim, washing the landing stage in amber glare. Zorien, stripped of his cynical empire, his body aching, his magi-leg a useless husk, felt a wholeness he hadn't known in years. He pulled Lirren into his arms, holding her close, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his own. The city stretched out before them, a sprawling canvas of petrified wood and emerald moss, harsh and beautiful.
His syndicate rank was gone, his safehouses burned, his ledger worthless. None of it registered against the warmth of her throat. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the faint scent of rain and earth, a scent that now carried no hint of decay. He had nearly destroyed her, nearly destroyed himself. He had been cruel, obsessive, and blind. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, not yet. But he would spend the rest of his life earning it. Through every daylight hour Ilythra offered, he would stand guard over her, until the briars claimed them both.