Air pulled in and out of my lungs.

This wasn’t the stone sleep. My chest hurt, but it could still move.

I opened my eyes and flinched. The sun felt like spurs to the head, even though it was red and dying at the edge of the world.

Every inch of me hurt. My head sloshed when I sat up, and I had to brace myself with both hands to keep from falling over. Dry grass crackled and stung cuts in my palms.

I lifted one hand and looked at it. Saw Cherie hanging there with her white wings and long white hair drenched in blood.

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My spurs were still out. I put them away. Put the hand back on the ground and pushed myself to my feet. Swayed.

How did I get there?

“Cherie?” The wind caught my voice and carried it away, hissing over the tall grass.

I couldn’t see the stone forest and its perfectly straight cliffs. I couldn’t see the woods of the Range. There was nothing in any direction but brown, dead tall grass. Bent and broken stalks marked the shining path a god had taken.

I took a step. Stumbled. Fell to my hands and knees. My wings—one bloody and bent, with a bone sticking out of it—slipped down on either side of me.

I rolled onto the side that hurt the least, rested my broken wing on top of me, and closed my eyes to wait for night.