The mountain hawks descended through the pallid light of dawn, whilst the fire-pillars of New Varnathian waned into embers and gold as the sun advanced, stately and inevitable, over the jagged peaks. Emery's arms trembled from the strain of holding Zekar so fast, yet she found herself incapable of release. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Beside them, Ryker's hawk alighted upon the white stone terrace with a heavy sweep of wings, and Mira—poor, trembling Mira—nearly slipped from the saddle before Ryker caught her about the waist and steadied her.
