The wind caught beneath Zafira's cloak as her wings spread wide, lifting both her and Leonhardt into the shadows above Astrea's sleeping spine.
She didn't speak, and he didn't need her to. The sound of her wings—muffled against the night air—was rhythmic, steady. Her grip on his coat was light but comfortable. One hand curled near his shoulder, the other just under his belt, adjusting each time they shifted against the light winds.
Below them, the city layered itself like a rotting cake of cheap slate rooftops and the polished wood and old brick houses of the slums.
Suspending each platform with thick support beams, massive stone struts were etched with glyphs that faintly buzzed when passing too close. Defensive wards. Triggered by sound, not heat.
