The glass edge fell before anyone answered.
Aylin pulled the high-root line. Jiang slid backward on his belly, leaving blood and loose down where the veined blade crossed the chamber rim.
White roots parted beneath the strike.
Rain trapped inside the glass reached Jiang's nose. The weapon had missed his throat by less than the width of his beak.
"Kill the roots if you like," Aylin said. "He does not own them."
Bringing the blade around one-handed, the rider showed no helmet. Storm water ran through close-cut gray hair and over a cheek webbed with old burn scars. Tiny clear scales had been set into the leather over her shoulders.
"They carry his pattern," she said.
"So does the blood in their teeth."
"The last hatchmaster I let speak wore three dead voices before it finished growing." The rider shifted the point back toward Jiang. "I will not wait for this one to grow another."
"Then look at what is biting him," Aylin said.
