Lancelot wanted the highest peak in Raven's Trove, and he could not tell which one it was. He crouched on a bare ridge at dawn, wings folded, his eagle eyes sweeping the mountains. Three peaks stood taller than the rest. From here, each looked like the winner. But fog hid their true heights, and he knew the ground lied about mountains. Pick the wrong one, claim it, and a stronger griffin would someday nest above him. In Raven's Trove, the lower bird served the higher one. He had seen rivals already. Yesterday a young male had circled the eastern peak, screaming his claim. Lancelot had driven him off with two beats of his wings. But driving one off meant nothing if he took a lesser perch. He needed to know, not guess. So he flew to the one creature who remembered. On the frozen spire of the Razor Peaks lived Aurelius Stormfeather, the oldest griffin alive. His feathers had faded from gold to storm-white, and his mane looked like frost. Seven centuries had passed under those amber eyes. If anyone knew which peak the ancestors had ruled from, it was the old one. Lancelot landed hard on the spire. The elder did not turn. He sat near a twisted tree, its bark peeling in layers, its crown bent by wind. The tree had grown here longer than most griffins lived. "You come for the height," Aurelius said. "They all do." "Tell me which peak stands highest," Lancelot said. "I will not take a lesser one." The old griffin laughed, a dry sound. "Your eyes lie to you. The eastern peak looks tallest at dawn. It is not." He raised one worn talon and pointed west, past the twisted tree, toward a peak half-swallowed in cloud. "That one. The ancestors nested there. The others only seem to rise because they stand closer." Lancelot stared at the western peak. It had looked smallest from his ridge. "How do you know?" "I measured it with my wings for three hundred years." Aurelius lowered his talon. "Now go. Claim it before another believes his eyes instead of me." Lancelot pushed off the spire. He flew straight for the western peak, fast, before doubt could slow him. He landed on its bare summit and screamed his claim across the valley. The sound rolled off every lower slope. He had the highest perch in Raven's Trove. No rival could ever tower over him now. Then he saw it. Below the summit, tucked into a high ledge, sat a nest already built. Gold glinted among the bones and woven branches. A carved stone face guarded the entrance, beak open. Someone had claimed this peak before him. And whoever had built that eyrie would be coming back.