When Cass was very small, her father would pick her up and spin, his arms raised, and tell her that one day she would fly higher than the birds.

He’s faded into a pattern now – dark hair, broad chest, a thick moustache – but his smell remains: sawdust and potions and smoke.  He had never wanted her to be a Maker.  He’d just wanted her to be Cass.

This is what runs through her mind when she flings herself from the back of a dragon, sword raised, ten thousand feet from the ground, towards the cloaked figures on their vicious birds.


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