"I ordered a sure hit on a rampaging weapon," Torven said, and his voice had gone quieter, which was worse. "I did not order you to finish someone else's binding."
Below them, the dragon surged.
It did not roar first. It moved. Chain screamed against stump and stone. Ember light flared between scales. The massive body lunged upslope with a speed that made the overlook feel suddenly small, suddenly foolish, a shelf of rock pretending to be safety. The second rider shouted. Horses screamed. Serenya staggered as Torven yanked her back from the edge, and the yellow-fletched arrow sprang free of the string and skittered uselessly into the needles.
They ran.
Not down into the dragon's reach and not back along the open ridge where the chain's slack might yet find them, but sideways into the pines where the mist thickened and the ground fell away toward an older wall. Torven's second man—Callen, lean, dark-haired, armor more polished than Torven's—fought his horse through the trees and dismounted hard enough to jar his teeth. Serenya's boots found roots. Her braid whipped. The bow caught on a low branch and she tore it free without stopping.
Behind them, something heavy struck stone. Earth shook. A wash of heat rolled through the mist, smelling of copper and pine smoke.
The wall rose out of ivy as if the forest had been trying for years to swallow it and had only managed to decorate it. Heavy arched stone, Celtic-style knotwork and concentric circles cut deep enough to hold shadow even at noon. A large vertical iron handle waited in the center of a door that looked as if it had not opened for anyone who still had a name.
No sound came from it. No hinge squealed in welcome. It was simply there: silent, mysterious, a mouth in the mountain's side.
Torven put his palm flat on the stone beside the handle and spoke a word Serenya had never heard him use on a battlefield. The concentric circles answered with a faint blue pulse—the same unnerving blue that had lived in her eyes a minute ago. The door sighed open on air that smelled of cold dust and old beeswax.
"In," Torven said.
Callen hesitated. "If that thing follows—"
"If that thing follows with the cuff still locked, the ward will hold it at the threshold," Torven said. "If the cuff opens, we have worse problems than a door."
Serenya went through because standing outside meant measuring her life in the length of a chain she did not control. The passage beyond was narrow at first, then opened into a chamber lit by pale moss in niches and a single oil lamp someone had left burning as if they expected visitors who would not thank them. The door shut behind Callen with a sound like a held breath released.
For a long moment none of them spoke. Serenya's hands shook around the bow. The yellow fletching looked childish now, almost bright enough to be mocked. She set the bow against the wall carefully, as if care could undo what she had nearly done.
Torven leaned his forehead against the stone and closed his eyes.
"Say it," Serenya said.