Crunch.
The net shot up, yanking Sarah off her feet and into the air. The world spun around as she was hoisted up high in the fir branches, dangling upside down over the snow-covered ground. A twist sent a cascade of powdery snow down on her.
Blood rushed to her head as she swayed, head-down, gently in the breeze, ten feet above the forest floor.
The net had caught her at a funny angle: one arm pinned against her side, the other tangled in the coarse rope. Still, she managed to shimmy just enough to work the wooden bird—Jory’s parting gift—from her pocket.
She bit down on its head, pinning the bird’s body against her shoulder. With a sharp jerk, the toy gave up its secret: a small knife, no longer than her thumb, hidden in the hollow carving.
Clenching the blade in her teeth, Sarah sawed at the rope with slow, strained, deliberate movements.
Suddenly—snap!
The net lurched and she dropped like a stone.
Her body slammed into the snowpack, knocking the air from her lungs. Cold exploded through her limbs, vision spinning white and blind, seeing stars.
A huge shape loomed, backlit by the early spring sun. For a breathless moment, her stunned mind conjured mountain legends—the snow giant, the frost wraith whispered of in Threadneedle.
Then the figure moved, and her vision cleared. Darkened skin. A weathered face carved by years of duty.
Garrick.
One of his massive hands clamped around her arm, hauling her upright. Snow fell in clumps from her clothes as she stumbled.
“I thought I caught a Crown soldier,” he rumbled.
He picked up the wooden bird she’d dropped and pocketed it. Then, without a word, he hoisted her over his shoulder and began the climb up the narrow, icy path toward the cave.
The trail wound along a jagged slope. Garrick’s boots found each treacherous step with practiced certainty. From the cliff wall, a cave appeared, hidden behind a curtain of ice-crusted branches. Inside, a fire glowed low on a stone platform.
He set her down—none too gently—against a cold rock wall.
Before she could move, he bound her hands behind her back with a soldier’s efficiency, tight enough to hold, tight enough to pinch.
“You don’t need to do that,” she said, finally catching her breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He studied her suspiciously, slightly amused.
“Seems I do,” he said, pulling the small knife from his pocket. He set it by the fire, well out of reach. “You’re one wanted little girl. The whole world's after you.”
They stared at each other across the cave, a contest neither was willing to concede.
“You think you have me captive?” she asked finally.
“I reckon,” he said, grinning.
Sarah brought her hands around to her lap. The rope fell away, slack and harmless. Garrick’s brow lifted, stunned for half a breath.
He opened his mouth slightly before asking, “You some kind of witch?”
She only smiled, offering no answers.
“Why’s the Crown chasing you?” he pressed.
She angled her head, just a touch. “Why are you in a cave, Garrick, instead of guarding Elena—or the Crown?”
Garrick’s posture changed a bit: a slump of the shoulders, a dimming of the light in his eyes. “I made a choice,” he said, the words coming out slowly.
“So did I.” Her voice softened. “I chose not to be the key. I chose to be me.”
Garrick looked at her like he was seeing someone new. He held her gaze, then dropped it, reaching for a stick. In the dirt, he traced a slow, circular pattern, one motion that connected beginning to end.
“What happens after that, we can’t control,” she continued, gaze steady on him. “You being here, finding me… that’s your destiny,” she said, the words more a challenge than a comfort.
“After the first Android War, they scattered the code for the end of the world across a thousand universes,” Sarah continued, sounding suddenly older than her years. “Only I can find it. I know that now.”
Sarah stood up, edging closer to where Garrick sat, pressed against the stone. “I am not afraid of who I am.” She looked directly into his eyes. “You shouldn’t be either.”
He gazed at her, searching her face for what, he didn’t know—an answer?
Scrape.
Outside, faint at first, came the sound of boots scuffing over stone and ice.
“It's over—we've got the cave surrounded, Garrick. Go ahead and drop your weapon. Hands where we can see them!” The words echoed up the mountain.
Garrick didn’t move a muscle. The boots were closer now, voices clearer: a whole garrison of Crown soldiers.
Neither spoke, but they both understood the thing that passed between them. We made a choice. What happens now is outside our control.
And in that moment, Garrick knew exactly what he would do.