Ciri and Noah were up and moving in an instant. Bryn’s pounding footsteps and Hruk’s frantic barking chased them as they sprinted up the stairs two at a time. At one harrowing moment, Ciri lost her footing and nearly slipped off the side before Noah caught her and yanked her away from the narrow ledge.
“Thank yo—” she began.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted, pushing her ahead.
Moments later they reached the top and practically hurled themselves into the tower. A very concerned-looking Cael stared at them in silence, but before he could speak, Bryn and Hruk burst in after them. Both were gasping for breath, though Bryn managed to croak out a single warning.
“Griffon!”
“Get down and hide!” Cael hissed, dropping his sandwich and pointing away from the door.
Still riding the adrenaline from the climb, Noah reacted faster than Ciri. He wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her toward the stone wall before her feet even moved. He collapsed against it a second later, falling backward and using his body to cushion her.
He held her there, waiting for something—anything—to happen. His eyes darted toward the others, where Bryn and Hruk huddled protectively around Cael. The fear on their faces made him pull out his knife. He leaned close to Ciri and whispered into her ear.
“Griffon? We’re talking about the creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, right?”
“Yes,” she whispered back shakily. “Are they in your realm too?”
“No.” Noah shook his head. “We have stories of them. Fictional ones.”
“They are not fiction.”
“I figured. And I’m guessing they’re dangerous enough to warrant all this?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her chest, nodding toward her necklace. “Shouldn’t the magical ward keep it away?”
“Griffons are intelligent. The wards affect them no more than they do you or me.”
“Intelligent and deadly. Great,” he muttered. “I thought you said there weren’t many creatures around here that fit that description.”
“There aren’t. Griffons usually keep to the forests east of the mountain. They rarely come this far.” She frowned. “Something must have disturbed its nest.”
“Any chance it’ll give up and leave us alone?”
“It is possible. If we entered the tower before it noticed us, it may continue its flight.”
“And if it saw us?”
“Then it will track us until it is sufficiently injured to warrant a retreat. Or until it kills and eats us.”
A large shadow flickered across the entrance, answering the question of whether the griffon saw them definitively. As the seconds stretched into minutes, Noah slowly became aware that his arm was still wrapped tightly around Ciri’s waist, her body pressed against his. More surprising, she made no effort to move away—she placed her hand over his and squeezed. Her pink hair brushed his cheek, and her natural floral scent washed over him.
Eventually, he felt confident they weren’t about to be attacked immediately. “Got any spells that might help us fight this thing off?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Are they resistant to magic like the Corrupted?”
“No. Just difficult to kill.”
“You can’t hit them with lightning like your moms did?”
“I…am not adept in combat magic,” she admitted, head dipping. “I have the spells—they simply will not work as effectively as my mothers’.”
“Okay, we’re circling back to that later. But it doesn’t have to be combat magic. We just need something. An advantage.”
“I… I can do that.” She flipped through pages again, clearly drawing strength from his words.
He looked up from her grimoire to see Cael and Bryn doing something similar. The Fae scribe was carefully writing a rune onto a fresh page, using the wall as his surface this time, while the Fae artificer held a scroll in one hand and a large hammer in the other. His eyes went from the couple to Hruk, to the discarded arctic exploration gear in the corner.
Improvise, adapt, overcome. That’s what Lucien used to say.There’s a solution here. I just need to put the pieces together.
“I can… make us difficult to see,” Ciri whispered as she stopped at a page.
“You mean invisible?”
“Not precisely. The spell will fail if the griffon looks directly at one of us for too long. It is not a perfect disguise—more of a camouflage. And it will not last long. Perhaps thirty seconds.”
His mind raced. “I think I have an idea.”
“What is it?”
A shadow passed in front of the door a third time, slower now. “We’re out of time,” Noah said. “Just cast that spell when I signal you.”
He quickly untangled himself from Ciri and stood, crossing the room to retrieve the discarded red arctic jacket. Then he signaled Bryn, Cael, and Hruk to back up to the far wall before holding the jacket to his chest. The arms of the heavy polyester waved as he moved it into place, earning him several bewildered looks from the Fae.
Please act like every other cat and bird I’ve ever known, Noah thought. Please be curious enough for this to work.
With a final glance at Ciri, he took a steadying breath, stepped over the threshold, and out onto the landing. For a heartbeat he dared to hope they’d avoided the griffon’s notice—that all of this had been unnecessary.
That hope died when the creature darted around the tower, turning to stare directly at him with amber eyes.
In a strange reversal from everything he’d seen in Tenebrae, the griffon looked exactly the way he’d expected it to. From beak to tail it stretched nearly four meters, with a wingspan at least twice that. Its head was that of a bald eagle—yellow beak, sharp avian features, white feathers fading to brown along its shoulders and forearms, ending in wickedly curved talons. Its back half was unmistakably feline: tan lion’s fur, powerful hind legs, a catlike tail.
Noah’s eyes widened as it banked sharply for a creature its size. It flapped twice, accelerating toward him. He dove back inside and dropped the jacket. Ciri—pressed against the far wall—stared at him in shock.
“Now!”
She pressed her hand to the page. A familiar chime rang out as it disintegrated, a gold and silver rune hanging in the air before fading. Noah’s body turned disorientingly translucent.
He had no time to marvel. The griffon landed outside with a resounding thud that shook the tower. It stalked forward on taloned legs until its head pushed into the room.
It looks even bigger up close, Noah thought, estimating it at least a meter and a half tall at the shoulder.
The griffon swung its enormous head from side to side, passing within a hairsbreadth of him. Its pupils dilated in the dim light; he heard the soft whistle of its breath. He cursed himself silently, thinking that he’d only hastened their deaths.
Please don’t let Hruk bark.
Then, slowly, the griffon did exactly what he needed it to. It lowered its head toward the jacket, nudging it with its beak. When it didn’t move, it found the opening and slipped its head inside, curious.
Gotcha.
Fighting every instinct inside him, Noah lunged and grabbed one of the Velcro ties. He yanked hard before the creature could react, cinching the jacket around its head and covering its eyes. It screeched as he threw the strap across and sealed it shut just as the spell faded.
Chaos erupted.
The griffon reared, flailing wildly. It slammed its head into the ceiling, then collapsed as if struck by a giant’s fist. The twin impacts seemed almost concussive in their forcefulness.
Seeing the opening he’d created, Bryn charged with a wordless cry. She raised her hammer in a two‑handed overhead arc and brought it down with all her strength. Even through the padded parka, the crack of bone echoed through the room.
Somehow, the creature still managed to scramble upright. But it realized—correctly—that it was outmatched. It staggered backward out of the tower.
Unfortunately for it, it forgot it was standing on a balcony.
Noah watched, almost disbelieving, as the enormous beast ran out of floor. For a long, cartoonish moment it hung suspended, wings and paws flailing, the fluffy red parka still wrapped around its face like something out of a Saturday‑morning cartoon.
Then it fell.
Noah sprinted to the edge. The griffon hit the ground with a heavy thud. It still thrashed, though slower now. One forearm and both wings bent at unnatural angles, but it had already torn a hole through the parka with its beak.
Poor creature, Noah thought, guilt rising despite everything.
“Is it dead?” Ciri called.
“No,” he said, turning back. “But it’s hurt. We should go before it decides to try again.”
“No argument here,” Bryn said, still wide‑eyed.
Within a minute they were packed and moving. Another minute and they were down the stairs. Two more and they reached the treeline. Only then did Noah risk a final look back.
The griffon had freed itself and stood shakily, limping forward. Its eyes locked onto his with unmistakable hatred.
“Noah! We need to go!” Ciri shouted, grabbing his hand.
“Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”
They ran for thirty minutes—longer than adrenaline should reasonably allow—until Cael tripped over a root and face‑planted. He wasn’t hurt, just spent.
“I think… we can… take a break,” Bryn panted.
“Yeah,” Noah agreed. “Need… water.”
Still gasping, Ciri pulled a waterskin from her bag, drank, then handed it to Noah before collapsing into the dirt. He drank and passed it to Bryn.
Sitting beside Ciri, Noah watched her tend to Cael’s scrapes, her touch gentle. Beneath the jokes and teasing, the love between them was obvious. When she leaned in to kiss him, Noah turned away—partly to give them privacy, partly because something had been on his mind.
“I guess that answers the question then.”
“What… question?” she said, still catching her breath.
“Whether the pattern will hold. You didn’t freeze. You thought clearly and found a solution.”
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “I did not. You found a solution.”
“There’s no way it would’ve worked without your spell.”
“It is unlikely, yes. But possible.”
He rolled his eyes and shifted topics. “I just wish we didn’t have to hurt it so badly.”
She frowned. “It was trying to kill you. You feel guilt over hurting it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like hurting animals. I know you said it’s intelligent, but to me it’s still an animal. Just like Hruk.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears; Hruk flopped over, belly exposed.
“I have read about human proclivity for pack bonding with anything. I did not believe it.” She shook her head. “I do now.”
“How did you know that trick would work?” Bryn asked, fully refocused now.
“I mean, I wasn’t completely sure,” Noah said. “Pretty sure. But nothing’s absolute.”
“Yes, but how?” Cael pressed.
“Every cat I’ve ever met—big ones, small ones, every breed—they all share one trait. If they find something new, they’ll try to crawl into it. Boxes, shoes, coats, whatever. Doesn’t matter if it’s too small; they’ll still try. Lots of birds do it too.” Noah pushed himself to his feet. “It’s just in their nature.”
Cael’s jaw dropped. Bryn burst out laughing. “You… you treated a griffon…”
“Yeah. Like a cat.” Noah chuckled and held out his hand for Ciri. “They’re basically a big cat‑bird.”
She took his hand and rose. “I have never heard a griffon described as a ‘cat‑bird.’”
“First time for everything.” He shrugged, determined to brush off how close they’d come to dying. “Now come on—hurt or not, that thing was still mobile. Let’s not give it a chance to catch up.”
Still laughing, Bryn fell into step with Cael behind him. Hruk barked happily and trotted ahead, proud to lead the way. In the back of his mind, Noah noticed Ciri still hadn’t let go of his hand.
“Sorry about your spells,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “We didn’t get all the runes written.”
“We can go back another time,” she assured him.
“And if the griffon is still there?”
“It will not be. I saw how injured it was. Something in the forest will attack it, and without its wings it is unlikely to escape.”
Law of the jungle, Noah thought. “Okay, well… that’s good, I guess. We should add the invisibility spell to the list of ones we need to write. Maybe make a few extras. I can think of a lot of ways we could use it.”
“That was my last one.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
“It was well spent.”