Griff's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Griff circled above the ridge where Marcus had nearly died three winters ago. The ice storm had brought down half the cliff face that day, and somewhere in the rubble below lay the steel knife he'd lost when the rocks buried him. She'd found it yesterday, wedged between two boulders, the blade still sharp despite the rust. Now she clutched it in her talons, feeling its weight pull at her as she flew toward camp. He would want it back. He would probably smile and thank her and then march right back into danger, because that's what Marcus did. That's what he always did, no matter how many times she warned him, no matter how many scars he collected. The knife grew heavier with each wing beat. But something else caught her eye as she descended—a glint of silver among the broken rocks. Griff banked hard, the knife swinging in her grip. There, half-buried in scree, lay a small glass orb wrapped in silver wire. The darkness inside swirled like smoke trapped in ice. She'd seen Marcus wearing it the morning of the rockfall, the chain around his neck. He'd clutched it while she dragged the rope to him, his fingers bloody on the silver. Now she had to choose: carry the knife or carry this fragile thing that might break if she gripped too hard. Griff dropped the knife. It clattered against stone as she carefully lifted the amulet in her talons. Marcus needed to remember what nearly killed him, not what he used to fight back. She landed on the old stone circle that marked the spot where the rescue party had pulled him out. The settlers had built it as a warning to others, but Marcus walked past it every season without a glance. Griff set the amulet down in the center of the circle and stepped back. Let him come find it himself. Let him see where his recklessness had left him bleeding and broken. She wouldn't carry his lost things to him anymore, wouldn't make it easier for him to forget how close death had come. If he wanted the amulet back, he would have to face what it cost him. She launched into the air and turned toward camp, already planning which path would force him past the stone circle. Griff chose the twisted tree that overlooked the main trail, the one with branches that grew together like woven fingers. From this perch she could watch both the stone circle and the path Marcus always took toward the high country. She settled onto the highest branch and went completely still. When he came this way—and he would, because he never listened—she would make sure he saw the silver glint in the circle below. She would dive at his head if she had to, force him to look down at the place that almost became his grave. Her talons gripped the bark. This time he would remember. This time she would make him understand that staying alive mattered more than whatever pulled him toward danger.