Runesworn: Stone One (Runesworn Series—Book One) E-Book

Taylor Night

• Herausgeber: Lukeman Literary Management
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Runesworn
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 251

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

From fantasy author Taylor Night comes the debut novel in a breathtaking new romantasy series, ideal for fans of Rebecca Yarros, Sarah J. Maas, and Cassandra Clare. When 20-year-old street thief Lyra Ashborne breaks into a legendary library to afford medicine for her dying guardian, she accidentally awakens an ancient dragon and discovers she can read the forbidden Draconic language that has eluded scholars for centuries. Sentenced to death for her crime but rescued during a barbarian invasion, Lyra finds herself hunted across war-torn realms while learning to harness magical powers that could either save her world—or destroy it. Torn between the idealistic Prince Cassian who risks everything to save her and the cynical rogue Riven who understands the brutal realities of their world, Lyra must master her abilities and begin a perilous quest to collect ancient tablet fragments—unaware that her newfound powers threaten the very foundation of a society built on stolen magic. The series transports readers into an electrifying fantasy realm where magic comes at a deadly price and ancient secrets threaten to reshape civilization itself. Following a street thief turned unlikely hero as she navigates forbidden romance, deadly political intrigue, and world-altering discoveries, this epic saga delivers unexpected twists and heart-pounding suspense that will captivate both young adult audiences and devoted fantasy enthusiasts seeking their next unforgettable adventure.

Leseprobe

RUNESWORN:

STONE ONE

Taylor Night

Taylor Night is author of the SKYBORNE and RUNESWORK young adult epic fantasy series.

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the fantasy genre, Taylor loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit taylornightauthor.comto learn more and stay in touch

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE: LYRA

CHAPTER TWO: LYRA

CHAPTER THREE: PRINCE CASSIAN

CHAPTER FOUR: LYRA

CHAPTER FIVE: LORD COMMANDER VEX MORTAINE

CHAPTER SIX: LYRA

CHAPTER SEVEN: LYRA

CHAPTER EIGHT: PRINCE GARETH

CHAPTER NINE: KING ALDRIC

CHAPTER TEN: CASSIAN

CHAPTER ELEVEN: LYRA

CHAPTER TWELVE: PRINCE CASSIAN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: LYRA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: KYTHARA IRONTIDE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CASSIAN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: LYRA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: LYRA

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: KING ALDRIC

CHAPTER NINETEEN: PRINCE GARETH

CHAPTER TWENTY: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE: RIVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: PRINCE CASSIAN

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: ERASMUS QUILL

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX: DRAKMOR

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT: LYRA

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE: LYRA

CHAPTER THIRTY: PRINCE GARETH

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE: KYTHARA IRONTIDE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO: CASSIAN

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE: RIVEN

CHAPTER ONE: LYRA

The fever broke two hours ago, but Rhea still hasn't opened her eyes.

I dip the cloth in the basin of cool water and press it to her forehead, watching for any sign of improvement. Her breathing comes in shallow gasps, each one a struggle that tears at my chest. The woman who raised me, who taught me everything I know about surviving in this brutal city, looks so small beneath the threadbare blanket.

"Come on, Rhea," I whisper. "Don't give up on me now."

She doesn't stir. Hasn't moved since the coughing fit that left blood on her lips three days ago. The healer I dragged here took one look at her and named his price—more coin than I've seen in months. He left behind a small vial of medicine and a warning that rang in my ears: She has weeks at the most, maybe a month if you're lucky.

The vial sits empty on the wooden crate that serves as our table. I used the last drop this morning.

I smooth the blanket over her chest and stand, my knees protesting from hours of kneeling on the hard floor. Our single room in the outermost ring isn't much—cracked walls, a leaking roof, and barely enough space for two bedrolls. But it's been home for most of my twenty years, ever since Rhea found me scavenging for scraps behind a bakery, all bones and defiance at age five.

She could have walked past that day. Most would have. Instead, she took me in, fed me, and taught me the skills that have kept us both alive. How to pick a lock without leaving scratches. How to read a mark's body language. How to disappear into a crowd when the city watch came sniffing around.

"You're a natural," she used to say when I'd return from a successful job. "Quick fingers, quicker mind. Just remember—we only take what we need, and we never hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."

I touch her cheek, feeling the heat that still burns beneath her skin. She needs medicine, and medicine costs coin. More than I have, more than I can earn with the small jobs that usually keep us fed.

I need to find something bigger.

Which means I need to leave Rhea alone.

I grab my cloak from its peg by the door and pull up the hood. The Broken Barrel isn't far, and if anyone in the outermost ring has work that pays well, that's where I'll hear about it.

Leaving our small apartment, I spot our neighbor Dani down the hallway. Perfect.

“Can you look in on Rhea in a bit?” I ask her. “I need to run out for a while.”

Dani’s the closest thing I have to a friend, even though she’s a good few decades older than me. I’ve never spent much time with the girls and boys my age in the neighborhood, mostly because their parents told them to stay away from me, the “little thief.”

Dani smiles and nods, but it doesn't reach her eyes. As the neighborhood's unofficial healer, she's seen her fair share of deaths, and I recognize the acceptance in her face.

But I won’t accept this. Not yet. Not when there’s still something I can do to save my only family.

The narrow streets of our district greet me with their familiar chaos. Even in the early evening, Lexicos’s outer ring pulses with desperate energy. Vendors hawk questionable meat from shadowy stalls, their voices competing with the clatter of cart wheels on cracked cobblestones. A group of children no older than I was when Rhea found me dart between the legs of passersby, nimble fingers searching for loose purses.

It would be sad if I weren't so used to it. But I accepted long ago that for those of us in the outer ring, there's no coming up in the world. Sometimes, if you're from the middle ring and you have the right connections, you might be able to secure a job in the inner ring. We outer ringers are seen as trash by everyone else, though. Looked down on just for existing. While we can technically go into the other rings, it’s frowned upon.

Not that an inner ringer in this neighborhood would be welcomed with open arms. They’d be relieved of their coins and jewelry within minutes, then probably sent back to the inner ring with a few bruises as a token of their visit.

I pull my cloak tighter and keep to the center of the street. The alleys here hide worse things than pickpockets—cutthroats who'd kill you for the shoes on your feet, slavers who prey on anyone foolish enough to walk alone. But this maze of crooked buildings and broken dreams is home. These people, rough as they are, don't ask questions about where you come from or what you've done. They understand that sometimes survival requires bending the rules.

A drunk stumbles out of a doorway, nearly colliding with me. I sidestep him easily. Rhea taught me to read the streets, to anticipate trouble before it finds you. The skill has kept me alive more times than I can count.

The Broken Barrel's crooked sign comes into view, swaying in the night breeze. Light spills from its grimy windows, and I can hear the rumble of voices within. This tavern reeks of unwashed bodies and cheap ale, but it's where contractors come when they need someone with my particular skills. I've built a reputation here over the years—reliable, discreet, and skilled enough to handle jobs others won't touch.     

I press myself into the corner booth, fingers wrapped around a mug of watered-down ale, and listen to the conversations swirling through the smoky air. Most of it is useless chatter—complaints about the weather, gossip about neighbors, crude jokes that make my skin crawl.

But I'm patient. Rhea taught me that, too. Good thieves wait for the right opportunity, she'd say. Great thieves create it.

An hour passes. Then two. The ale grows warm in my hands, and my stomach clenches with hunger I try to ignore. I haven't eaten since yesterday, but food for me won't help Rhea breathe easier or stop the fever that's consuming her from within.

"Another round, love?" The barmaid appears at my side, all sharp elbows and tired eyes that remind me too much of my own reflection.

"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

She moves on to the next table, and I go back to listening. Somewhere in this cesspit of a tavern, someone has to know about work. A courier job, a retrieval, anything that pays enough for the medicine Rhea needs.

At the table beside me, two dock workers argue over cards. Their voices rise above the general din, but it's just petty squabbling over coppers. Nothing that will help me.

Then I hear it—a word that makes my pulse quicken.

"Treasure."

I lean forward, straining to catch the conversation from across the room. An old man with a gray beard sits hunched over his drink, speaking in low tones to a younger companion. I've seen them before—petty smugglers who run goods between the rings when the city watch isn't paying attention.

"I'm telling you, Philo, I saw it with my own eyes. Guards carrying chests from the Codex Vitae. Heavy ones, judging by how they struggled."

My blood turns cold. The Codex Vitae. Everyone in Lexicos knows that name—the great library that towers over the capital from its perch on the inner mountain. A place where only the Runesworn and the elite are allowed to tread. A place that might as well be on the moon for someone like me.

"What kind of chests?" the man, Philo, asks, leaning closer.

"The kind that holds coins. Lots of it." The old man takes a long drink, his voice dropping even lower. "They say there's a vault somewhere in that library. Hidden away where common folk like us ain't supposed to look."

A vault. In the library.

I close my eyes and picture Rhea's face, pale and drawn, her breathing growing shallower by the hour. The healer's words echo in my memory like a death sentence. But if there really is treasure hidden in the Codex Vitae...

It's insane. The library is in the inner ring, guarded day and night, protected by magic I don't understand. Even if I could somehow get inside, I'd be signing my own death warrant. The penalty for theft from the Runesworn is execution.

But Rhea is dying.

I think of her hands, gentle but scarred from years of surviving in the outer rings. The way she'd patch my cuts after a job gone wrong, never asking questions, just making sure I was safe. How she'd sit up all night when I had nightmares, telling me stories until the fear went away.

She gave me a life when I had nothing. I can't even remember where I was before her, and though I wonder about it sometimes, I know that I'm probably better off with Rhea because she loves me. She saved me.

And now it's my turn to save her.

I stand abruptly, the wooden chair scraping against the floor. Several patrons glance my way, but I don't care. My mind is already racing ahead, calculating distances, planning routes. The skills Rhea taught me, every lesson about locks and guards and moving unseen, all converging on one impossible target.

The Codex Vitae. If there really is treasure hidden there, it might be enough. It has to be enough.

I push through the crowd toward the door, ignoring the curses and complaints as I jostle past tables. The old man is still talking, his voice carrying despite his attempts at discretion.

"'Course, getting in there's another matter entirely. The place is locked up tighter than the king's treasury. And the Runesworn don't take kindly to trespassers."

Let them worry about locked doors and whatever magical guardians the Runesworn might have in place. I've been picking locks since I was eight years old, back when Rhea first showed me how a bent piece of wire could open any door. If there's a way in, I'll find it.

I have to.

The tavern door swings open, and the night air hits my face like a slap. The outermost ring of the city takes on a different character in its first hour after dark. Shadows stretch longer between the flickering torches. The honest folk have gone home, leaving the streets to people like me.

People who take what they need to survive.

I take three steps into the alley before I realize I'm not alone.

Four shapes detach themselves from the darkness around me. Men, all of them bigger than me, all of them moving with the predatory confidence of those who've done this before. Street thugs, the kind who prey on anyone foolish enough to walk alone after dark.

"Well, well. What have we here?" The leader steps into the torchlight. His face is scarred, his smile showing too many missing teeth. "Little bird, flying around all by herself."

I don't run. Running in the outermost ring marks you as prey, and prey gets hunted. Instead, I let my hand drift toward the knife at my belt—the one Rhea taught me to use when words and speed aren't enough.

"I don't want trouble," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"'Course you don't." Another thug moves to my left, cutting off that escape route. "But trouble found you anyway."

The third man circles behind me while the fourth blocks the mouth of the alley. Professional. They've done this dance before, probably dozens of times.

"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be walking alone." The leader's eyes glitter in the torchlight, and I see hunger there that has nothing to do with coin. "Dangerous out here."

My fingers close around the knife's hilt. Rhea's voice echoes in my memory: Lyra, move fast and strike hard. Don't give them time.

"Lucky for you," the leader continues, taking another step closer, "we're here to keep you safe. For a small fee, of course."

The circle tightens around me, four wolves closing in on what they think is wounded prey.

They have no idea what Rhea taught me about being dangerous.

CHAPTER TWO: LYRA

The leader lunges for me, confident in his size advantage. Big mistake.

Rhea always said the strongest weapon a small person has is letting others underestimate them. As his meaty hands reach for my shoulders, I don't pull back. Instead, I step into his grip and drop low, using his own momentum against him. My shoulder drives into his stomach as I pivot and heave upward.

Physics does the rest.

He flies over my back and crashes into the alley wall with a satisfying crunch. Brick dust rains down as he crumples to the ground, groaning.

"Bitch!" The second thug swings a fist at my head. I duck, but not fast enough. His knuckles graze my temple, sending stars across my vision. Pain explodes through my skull, but I stay on my feet.

The third man comes at me from the left. I slash with my knife, aiming for his arm. The blade bites deep, opening a red line from his wrist to his elbow. He screams and stumbles backward, blood streaming between his fingers.

"She cut me! She actually cut me!"

Four against one is still terrible odds, even with one down and one bleeding. The leader is already pushing himself up from the wall, murder in his eyes. The fourth thug, the one who'd been blocking the alley mouth, starts closing in.

Time to go.

I feint toward the injured man, then spin and sprint for the gap between the other two. The uninjured thug makes a grab for my cloak, but his fingers close on empty air. I'm already past him, boots pounding against the cobblestones as I race toward the main street.

“C’mon now! What’s going on here? Don’t let her get away from us!    

Heavy footsteps thunder in pursuit. They know these streets, but I've been running them since I was a child. Every shortcut, every hidden path, every precarious route across the rooftops—Rhea made sure I learned them all.

Know your territory, she'd say. It's the difference between getting caught and getting away.

I round the corner onto Copper Street, dodging between a merchant and his cart as he rolls his goods home for the day. The thugs are maybe twenty paces behind, close enough that I can hear their labored breathing. They're strong, but strength means nothing if you can't catch your target.

The fire escape I'm looking for comes into view—a rickety ladder of rusted iron bolted to the side of a three-story tenement. Most people would see it as a death trap. I see it as salvation.

Without slowing, I leap and catch the bottom rung. The metal groans under my weight but holds. I scramble up the ladder, my boots finding purchase on rungs slick with moisture from the evening fog.

"Where'd she go?" one of the thugs shouts from below.

"She was just here!"

I freeze on the ladder, pressed against the building's brick wall. Through the gaps in the iron slats, I can see them milling around in the street below. The leader holds his side where he hit the wall, his face twisted with rage.

"Spread out," he orders. "Check the alleys. She can't have gone far."

I hold my breath and continue climbing, moving slowly to avoid making noise. The fire escape creaks softly with each step, but there’s nothing to be done about it. I need to keep moving.

At the second floor, I pause. The injured thug is directly below me now, scanning the shadows with his good arm while the other hangs useless at his side. Blood still drips from his wound, leaving a trail of dark spots on the cobblestones.

Good. Maybe next time he'll think twice before cornering someone in an alley.

I reach the roof and pull myself over the edge, rolling onto the flat expanse of cracked tiles and weathered wood. From up here, the outer ring spreads out below me like a map drawn in flickering torchlight. I can see the thugs still searching the streets, their voices growing fainter as they move away from my hiding spot.

The leader stops directly below my building and tilts his head back, scanning the rooflines. For a moment, I think he's spotted me. But the shadows up here are deep, and his eyes are adapted to the torchlit street. He sees nothing but darkness.

"This isn't over," he calls out to the night. "I know your face now, girl. Next time, you won't be so lucky."

They move on, disappearing into the maze of alleys that make up half of this district. I wait until their voices fade completely before allowing myself to relax.

My temple throbs where the thug's fist connected, and I can already feel the swelling beginning. I'll have a bruise there tomorrow, a reminder of how quickly things can go wrong in the outer ring. But I'm alive, I'm free, and I still have a job to do.

The Codex Vitae looms from Lexicos’s inner ring, its towers silhouetted against the star-filled sky. From here, it looks impossibly tall, impossibly far away. A fortress built on the mountain's peak, protected by walls and guards and magic I can't begin to understand.

But Rhea is dying, and impossible is just another word for difficult.

I settle back against a chimney and pull my knees to my chest, letting the adrenaline slowly drain from my system. The night air is cool against my face, and somewhere in the distance, a nightbird calls out.

Time to get a closer look at that fortress.

I push myself to my feet and brush the dust from my cloak. The rooftops stretch out before me, a highway known only to thieves and fools. From building to building, I can make my way across half the outer ring without ever touching the streets below.

The Codex Vitae waits in the distance, and Rhea taught me that every lock has a key. You just have to be clever enough to find it.

And so, I take a running leap to the next rooftop and disappear into the shadows, heading toward the mountain's peak.

CHAPTER THREE: PRINCE CASSIAN

The council chamber's vaulted ceiling seems to press down on me as the evening drags on. Golden light from dozens of candles flickers across the polished marble table, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the assembled lords and advisors. Father sits at the head of the table; his weathered hands are folded before him as he listens to yet another report from the northern borders.

I shift in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position. We've been here for three hours, and my backside has gone numb against the ornate wooden seat. The irony isn't lost on me—surrounded by the finest craftsmanship in the kingdom, yet utterly miserable.

"The situation grows more concerning by the day, Your Majesty," Lord Commander Vex Mortaine says, unrolling a map across the table. Red marks dot the northern territories like drops of blood. "Our scouts report unusual activity among the barbarian clans. Coordinated movements. Shared banners."

Father leans forward, his gray eyes studying the markings. King Aldric Valdris has ruled the city of Lexicos and the kingdom of Librum for twenty-three years, and the weight of those years shows in the lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his dark hair. Since Mother's death two years ago, he seems to have aged a decade.

"How many clans?" Father asks.

"At least fifteen confirmed, possibly more. The Ironspear, the Bloodmaw, the Ravencrest—tribes that have warred against each other for generations are now flying the same standard."

Gareth straightens in his chair beside me, his interest clearly piqued. My older brother has always been fascinated by military matters, though his fascination tends toward the brutal end of warfare. "What standard? Who leads them?"

"Unknown, Your Highness. Our spies have been unable to get close enough to gather reliable intelligence. What we do know is troubling; whoever this leader is, they've accomplished something no one thought possible."

I watch Gareth's face as he processes this information. There's a gleam in his dark eyes that I recognize, the same look he gets when discussing punishment for criminals or rebellious vassals. Since Mother died, that gleam has appeared more and more frequently.

"We should strike first," Gareth says, his voice carrying the authority he believes his position grants him. "Send a force north and scatter them before they can consolidate further. Show them what happens when barbarians threaten civilized lands."

Several of the older lords nod in agreement, but I catch the slight frown that crosses Father's face. King Aldric may be weary, but he's not bloodthirsty.

"And what of the outer realms caught between our forces and theirs?" I ask. It's the first time I've spoken since the meeting began, and several heads turn my way. "The people living in those territories didn't choose to become part of a battlefield."

Gareth's jaw tightens. "Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for the greater good, brother. The weak must step aside so the strong can protect the realm."

There it is again—that casual dismissal of anyone he deems beneath his concern. I've heard variations of this sentiment from him dozens of times over the past months, each iteration more troubling than the last.

"The 'weak' you're referring to are our subjects," I reply, keeping my voice level. "They deserve our protection, not our indifference."

"Sentiment," Gareth waves a hand dismissively. "You spend too much time reading poetry, Cassian. The world doesn't operate on noble ideals."

Lord Commander Vex Mortaine clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of our exchange. "Perhaps we might focus on gathering more intelligence before committing to any particular course of action?"

Father nods slowly. "Agreed. I want additional scouts sent out immediately. Find out who leads these barbarians and what they want. Until we know more, we maintain defensive positions."

"Defensive?" Gareth can't hide his disappointment. "Father, with respect, a defensive posture only invites further aggression. We should—"

"We should be cautious," Father cuts him off, and there's steel in his voice. "Rash action based on incomplete information has toppled kingdoms, Gareth. We will not repeat the mistakes of our predecessors."

My brother's face flushes, but he has enough sense not to argue further. Instead, he turns his attention to Lord Blackwood, one of the minor nobles from the outer realms.

"What of the dissent in your territories, my lord? Have you taken steps to ensure loyalty among your subjects?"

Blackwood shifts uncomfortably. "There have been some... complaints about the grain taxes, Your Highness. Nothing that can't be managed."

"Complaints." Gareth's voice takes on a dangerous edge. "Perhaps what's needed is a reminder of the consequences of disloyalty. Public floggings have a way of clarifying people's priorities."

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Even some of the lords who usually support Gareth look uncomfortable with his suggestion.

"The outer realms are not our enemies," I say quietly. "Heavy-handed tactics will only breed resentment."

"Resentment can be cured," Gareth replies. "Fear is more reliable than affection."

I stare at my brother, wondering when he became so cold. Growing up, Gareth was stern but not cruel. Competitive, certainly, and sometimes arrogant, but never this casually vicious. Mother's death changed him in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

The meeting continues for another hour, covering trade disputes, tax collection, and maintenance of the royal roads. Mundane matters that seem impossibly distant from the world beyond these palace walls. I find my attention drifting to the tall windows that overlook the city below.

From here, I can see the lights of Lexicos spreading out in concentric rings down the mountainside. The inner ring where we sit, blazing with magical illumination. The middle rings with its orderly rows of torches. And far below, the outer ring, where the light grows sparse and the shadows are deep.

I've walked those outer streets exactly twice in my twenty-two years, both times heavily guarded and only during daylight hours. Father believes exposure to the common people builds character, but Gareth convinced him that such excursions are too dangerous for the heir's younger brother.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to walk those streets freely. To speak with people who don't know my name or title, who would judge me by my words and actions rather than my bloodline. To live a life where every day brought new challenges instead of the same predictable routine of lessons, meetings, and ceremonial obligations.

"Cassian."

Father's voice pulls me back to the present. The other lords are filing out of the chamber, their conversations creating a low murmur that echoes off the stone walls.

"Yes, Father?"

"Walk with me."

We step out onto the balcony that overlooks the inner courtyard. The evening air is cool and sweet, carrying the scent of the gardens below. In the distance, the great library towers above us, its windows dark except for a few scattered lights where the Runesworn pursue their scholarly work.

"You were quiet in there," Father observes.

"I was listening."

He nods, understanding. "Your brother speaks from passion. Sometimes that serves a leader well. Sometimes it does not."

It's as close to criticism of Gareth as I've ever heard from Father's lips. "He's changed since Mother died."

"We all have." Father's hands rest on the stone railing, and I notice how they tremble slightly. Another sign of the toll these past years have taken. "Grief affects people differently. Sometimes it makes them compassionate. Others..."

He doesn't finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. We both know what Gareth is becoming.

"The barbarian threat is real," Father continues. "But so is the threat from within. A kingdom that turns against its own people is already lost, no matter how many battles it wins."

He looks at me then, and I see something in his eyes I've never noticed before—worry, not about the barbarians or the kingdom's enemies, but about what will happen when he's no longer here to guide us.

"Remember that, Cassian. When the time comes to choose between expedience and principle, choose principle. A crown built on cruelty is no crown at all."

With that, he turns and walks back into the palace, leaving me alone with the night and the weight of unspoken expectations.

Below, in the other rings, a life I'll never know continues in shadows I'll never walk. What stories unfold in those narrow streets? What struggles and triumphs happen beyond the reach of royal decrees and council meetings? From this height, the people below are just flickering points of light, but each represents a world as complex as my own.

I grip the railing and stare out at the darkness, wondering if I'll ever be more than an observer in my own life.

CHAPTER FOUR: LYRA

The rotted board gives way beneath my weight with a crack that sounds like thunder in the night air.

I plunge through the roof of the abandoned building, my hands scrambling for purchase on anything solid. My left hand catches the edge of a roof beam, stopping my fall with a jolt that nearly dislocates my shoulder. Splinters bite into my palm as I hang suspended in the air, curses ripping from my mouth.

I pull myself back onto the roof, testing each board before putting my full weight on it. The outer ring's buildings show their age in moments like this, decades of hasty repairs and cheap materials creating death traps for anyone foolish enough to trust them.