As it so happened, Keon didn’t rest much that night. Avana had forged a multi-layered mat of parchment that served as an unusually soft mattress. Everyone slept on similar mats, their gently heaving bodies wrapped in their shawls like spring rolls.

Keon sat on the edge of his mat awaiting the rising sun. The night was beautifully cool, like the height of summer; the temperature perfectly balanced by a gentle breeze.

Had Dad ever sat up to watch a similar sunrise? When had he first come to Underland anyway? Was it as a kid? Did he crawl underneath his bed every night when he was a boy? What if he met another woman here and had a whole other family they didn’t even know about? Was that possible?

No. As complicated as his feelings were for his dad, he wasn’t like that. If he was anything, he was faithful. Faithful to his friends. Faithful to his colleagues. His peers. It was this faithfulness that made the biting bitterness of his absence that much more agonising. He’d been faithful to the end. All the more reason for why Keon had to bring him back.

“Can’t sleep?”

Zahara took the spot next to him, hugging her knees close to her face.

“How could you tell?”

“You’re awake, genius.”

He chuckled.

“Think I’m tryna make sure,” he said, staring at his boots, “was kinda hoping I was dreaming.”

“Listen, about before…” she said, her voice muffled by her knees squeezing against her cheek.

“Nah it’s cool. I was being a bit of a wasteman.”

“Just a bit?” she said, raising her head. He smiled as she elbowed him gently in the ribs. “So…your dad.” He tensed at the mention of his dad, retreating back into his shell. “At least it wasn’t Gabriel Reed, right?”

“Might as well’ve been,” he scoffed.

“How do you mean?”

“We had a fight—me and my dad—about the fight. It was pretty bad,” his chest heaved as though filling his lungs for one last breath. “They said I might’ve broken his nose…”

She grinned, nodding a ‘not bad.’

“Nah, it’s not good. It puts me on the radar in a bad way. My parents are afraid I’ll end up in a PRU or something and ‘waste my potential.’”

“Well, it depends,” she shrugged, “what do you wanna do with your life?”

“You mean, other than being a librarian?” they chuckled, “I like to travel and I like being around different people. So, maybe something where I get to do both. Like, building sustainable housing overseas or something.”

“Or—you could be a travel vlogger.”

“Or that,” he said, wagging his index finger. “You’re right…What about you?”

It was Zahara’s turn to tense up; rubbing her shins as she stretched them out.

“Uh…honestly, I don’t know…But I like the sound of what you wanna do.”

“You like to travel?”

“I’d like to get away,” she said quickly, realising she may have said too much.

Keon frowned.

“Is that why you’re here, Zahara? To get away?”

She scanned his eyes, as if searching for a lifeboat in a storm. Blinking back her thoughts, she tore her gaze away.

“I’m here ‘cause the King saved me,” she said.

“From what?”

Before she could answer, a heavy hand landed on Keon’s shoulder, making him start. It was Shem. When had he gotten up?

“Time to go, kids.”

The first gold tendrils of daylight were peaking out over the horizon like amber spires, sending narrow fingers of shadow creeping across the treetops.

Zahara gave Keon a weak smile.

“Better go pack.”

He could only watch the moment slip like sand through his fingers. He nodded, stood up and dusted himself off.

“How far are we going anyway?”

Shem cocked his head to one side, calculating internally as he adjusted his bracers.

“To the Eastern Monument? About two thousand, two ‘undred and forty miles, give or take.”

“Two thousand—two hundred and forty miles?! Are we walking?”

Shem chuckled, “You see any horses, mate?”

He couldn’t remember walking more than ten miles in his entire life, and that was for their trip to Swanage three years ago. How on earth was he supposed to manage two thousand miles on foot? That was like—sixty miles of walking a day (if that); for thirty days! Thirty days of walking!

Blinking back to reality, his gaze panned around the camp.

“Wait, where’s Wellworn?”

“He’ll have gone on ahead to scout the next campsite,” said Shem.

“I didn’t even see him leave…”

“You wouldn’t. Not unless he wanted you to.”

* * *

It took another fifteen minutes for the Millionth and Fifth to pack up camp and assemble. The Lowlands were still bathed in orange and gold as daylight continued to creep over the horizon. The paper mattresses disintegrated once they had no further use for them. Apparently, the fragments would sprout new trees. Keon didn’t get how, but any-who. All they had left to do was throw their shawls across their shoulders.

“Who’s taking point?” said Zahara.

Dawit inched forward, raising a hand, “That would be me.”

“I thought Shem was field leader?” asked Keon.

“It’s whoever Wellworn appoints for the mission. Everyone gets a shot—even you, mate,” he said, slapping him on the back. “When you’re ready.”

Keon was not ready, and his face said it all.

Dawit straightened his back, puffing out his already wide chest. Clearly, he slouched because he was a good few inches taller than Keon had thought.

“Well, we should get going. We’ll walk until about midday, then break to forage. If you have any petitions, you should probably save them ‘til then.”

* * *

The Millionth and Fifth moved at a brisk pace, cutting the descent to about half the time it took Keon the previous night. He wished he’d had more time to take in the sights he hadn’t really stopped to appreciate the day before. The woodlands that stretched for miles like a bobbly green carpet. Hills as wide and as tall as mountains. The humungous dragon blood trees that brushed the edges of the sky beneath the glistening upside-down ocean.

He wondered how all this vegetation got water, given that the clouds were upside down (never-mind thousands of feet in the air). Their flat bases faced up whilst their cotton crowns pointed down towards him. A war to split a world in two and turn it upside down. What was he thinking?

He did a double take as he caught sight of something strange rising over the horizon, obscured by wisps of cloud. He wasn’t entirely sure, but it looked like a landmass peeking out of the heavenly ocean, hovering just above the glow of rising daylight.

“Is that what I think it is?” he gasped.

Shem came to a stop beside him, “Depends. What do you think it is?”

“An island?!”

Shem’s head bobbed in a confident nod.

“That’s mad!” he leapt onto a section of rock jutting out from the edge of the cliff, knowing full well it wouldn’t get him any closer. “That has to be at least thirty-two thousand feet high. That’s crazy!”

“Welcome to Underland, mate.”

Keon glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s it doing up there?”

Dawit turned aside to join them.

“That’s Zaphon. The source of all light in Underland.”

He was right. Blooming heck, he was right. He hadn’t noticed it before, but then you didn’t exactly stop to look right at the sun on any given day. Bad for your eyes and all that. Sunlight emanated from something at the islands peak, illuminating the whole of Underland.

“Daylight comes from the island?”

“From a city on the island. The Empyrean.”

* * *

Once down from the pillar, they turned due south, continuing for a good five hours. In that time, Keon experienced more rapid changes in weather than a typical English Tuesday. First, they passed into a shower of autumn leaves. He’d had to tug on his shawl and pull up the hood as the temperature dropped rapidly with each step. The yellowing forest soon gave way to crystalline frost that sparkled like diamonds.

“Guys?…what the heck?!” he said.

If he could’ve, he would’ve actually set himself on fire.

Shem and Dawit, walking ahead of him, chuckled.

“In Underland, seasons are regional. They can vary from place to place. Even mile by mile,” said Dawit.

“For what purpose, man?! How’s that even work?”

“The state of the region affects the environment. What people are thinking. What they believe. How they feel. It all influences the time and seasons.”

“You’re saying people control the weather?”

“Nah, but they can influence it,” said Shem. “The traffic of the Messengers drives the weather and the weather drives the seasons.”

“The Messengers?”

“Servants of the Royal Court. Running errands and fighting wars,” added Dawit

Keon squinted towards the sky, shaking his head.

“I don’t see ‘em.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re too busy doing their jobs to satisfy your curiosity, mate. Be thankful you don’t see ‘em. That usually means the land’s at peace.”

“And if I do see them? What then?”

“That usually means war…”

By the afternoon, the forests had thinned to vast stretches of long grass as they passed from frosty mist to burning summer. Upside-down ocean and dragonblood trees notwithstanding, Keon was struck by the affinity Underland held to the undulating slopes of Kent he’d grown up around. The hills rose behind them like gargantuan green tidal waves rolling over the region.

As they weeded their way through the towering stems of long grass, they moved in single file like a human centipede; Dawit at the front with Jonas covering the rear. Zahara walked ahead of Jonas to interpret messages quickly if need be, following Kai, Shem, Avana and Keon in that order.

Keon was convinced Avana hated his guts. She hadn’t broken a smile since that cup of wine the night before. She probably blamed him for ruining the ambience—which, of course, he had. Dawit was cool though and Dawit was leading the trek, so he stuck close to Dawit.

“So, how long have you been…like…Underland-ing?” said Keon.

“I wasn’t much older than you actually. Angry at everything…”

“I can’t imagine you angry.”

“Oh, I had my reasons,” he said with a grin.

“Care to share?”

Dawit looked at him quizzically.

“Y’know, for someone who clearly has anger issues,” Keon added.

Dawit sniffed a chuckle. His eyes grew serious, remaining fixed on the ground as they walked side by side.

“My family faced a lot of discrimination when we moved to the U.K. Me and my siblings, we didn’t really fit in at first. We questioned why we were there. Why we had to be so different.

“Eventually, my older brother found the belonging he was looking for in a gang. Things got so tense between him and our parents that he left home. Ended up in a care home for his own safety. One day, a rival gang caught him slipping. Followed him to the home; then came back with a larger group and waited for him outside. They say he held his own for a bit, but…”

Dawit shook his head, jaw clenched.

“That’s crazy…”

“I was about to follow him into that life when the King called me here.”

Dawit looked up, comforted by the memory as though it sat waiting on the distant horizon.

“It felt like home, coming to Underland. There was something about this place that reminded me of Eritrea. Of family.”

“Is that what stopped you being angry?”

“It didn’t happen overnight, but there was something Wellworn said to me my first day here that stuck with me. He said, ‘Better to be slow to anger than a mighty warrior. To control your temper than to capture a city.’”

Keon’s lips curled in thought.

“Anger and frustration make you reckless. Anger consumed my brother. It’s a path he wouldn’t have wanted me to take.”

“I think he’d be proud of who you are now.”

Dawit’s hazel eyes almost vanished beneath the creases of his cherubic smile.

“I’d like to think so.”

“You should be proud of you too,” said Keon candidly. “If people have a problem, that shouldn’t be your problem. At least…that’s what my dad always used to say.”

“He sounds like a smart guy, your dad.”

A slight smile coerced its way across Keon’s face; the first time he’d smiled at the thought of his dad in weeks.

“Yeah…he is.”

* * *

Keon sat amidst the long grass, staring up at the sky. It was midday, meaning he could get a good look at the Empyrean as it passed directly overhead. The glare from the light made it hard to make out any details beyond the outer fringes of the island; but he could see what looked like white beaches and something that sparkled in the light.

His lips moved wordlessly as he worked, trying to calculate the height of the island. An untouched ring of bread lay in his hand next to a canteen of water tipping precariously to one side. He paused as Dawit stepped into the periphery of his vision. He too was looking up at Zaphon, Codex open in one hand. Glancing back between it and the island, he scrawled something onto one of the pages. Some of the others were doing the same, scribbling notes in their codices.

Coming to a stop, Dawit tore out the page, neatly folded it, then reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew a handmade flint and steel kit. Keon felt around for a similar pouch and, sure enough, found he also had a flint and steel kit. Dawit laid the paper flat on a nearby rock and struck the flint, showering the paper with golden sparks. As it kindled, he held the paper aloft until the flames licked his fingertips. He watched the last flecks of ash rise into the sky.

“What was all that about?” asked Keon.

“A petition for the King,” said Dawit, dusting off his hands.

“How’s he supposed to read it if you burn it?”

“Oh, he’ll read it,” he said with a confident grin.

“Right…So what’d you ask for?”

“Strong winds this afternoon.”

Keon stared at him, incredulous.

The others followed suit, setting their folded pages aflame.

“And you guys?” said Keon, pointing with his chin.

“Private,” replied Kai with a salute.

Shem winked, slipping his kit beneath his shawl. Zahara smiled to herself and went back to playing with a stalk of long grass.

Avana rose, brushing the grass off her thighs.

“I’m gonna forage. Meet back in an hour?”

Dawit nodded.

“Come on mate,” said Shem, signalling towards the edge of the nearby forest, a stick of grass protruding from the corner of his mouth. “Time for your first lesson in foraging.”

“Really?” scoffed Keon. “Shouldn’t I be learning something more useful, like Forging weapons?”

Shem sniffed a smirk, spitting out the grass, “That’s not ‘ow things work around ‘ere, mate. Gotta walk before you run.”

Keon looked around, confused, “Looking for nuts and berries isn’t exactly rocket science.”

Dawit and Kai shared amused glances. Shem paced over towards him, stepping over the long grass.

“You see any animals round ‘ere, mate?”

“Nah. It’s weird, actually.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Keon’s shoulders inched their way up into a shrug.

“You got me…”

“All animals in Underland are herbivores and most of what grows comes from the fragments of what we Forge. So, think the wrong thoughts and creatures die. It’s that simple. Eat the wrong thing and you could die too. Best case scenario, you’ll only end up ensnared in a Stronghold.”

Keon blinked silently, swallowing.

“Figure out ‘ow to pick plants without killing yourself—or anyone else, for thar matter—and maybe we’ll see about Forging, yeah?”

Keon paused for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright.”

Shem winked, slapping his shoulder, “Come on.”

* * *

“Alright, so look around you. What d’you see?”

“Trees?”

“Right. But that ain’t all there is to see.”

Keon eyeballed him with a ‘huh?’ as they trudged through the woods and oversized leaves, twigs snapping beneath their feet. Iridescent pillars of light pierced randomly through the canopy, bathing the ground in nourishing warmth. The forest was dense but felt oddly spacious. Almost dark yet full of light.

“Back ‘ome, you plant a seed, water it, it grows. You get leaves, you get nuts, you get berries.”

“Produce.”

“Right. Here, it’s the same principle, but a different seed.”

Shem stopped and pulled out his Codex. Flipping to a page, he tore it out, forging a long staff that he dug into the ground.

“Here, everything that grows is the fruit of someone’s choices. So, the root…” he said, pointing the staff towards Keon’s chest. “Determines the fruit.”

Spinning the staff around his wrist, he continued to walk. Keon followed, contemplative.

“Whatever we Forge ultimately fragments. Those fragments seed new trees, new bushes, new vines.”

Just like the mattresses, Keon thought.

“So, whatever’s in your heart is what’s gonna grow. Bitter hearts make bitter fruit. Envy, anger and malice produce poison,” he stopped again, gesturing with the staff, “But what we do for each other, ‘ow we look out for each other; that makes good things grow.”

They stepped over a felled tree trunk, Keon stopping to glance at it.

“It’s the same thing when we forage. If a boy asked his dad for bread, would he give him a stone?”

Keon frowned and shook his head.

“Course not.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause that’s not what he asked for.”

Shem shook his head.

“Nah. ‘Cause he cares about him,” he said, pointing the tip of the staff. “So, when we forage, we forage with that in mind: what’s gonna ‘elp those around me?”

He dug the staff into the ground again, resting both hands on the tip.

“And that is why we learn to forage before we Forge.”

Keon nodded, eyes scanning the ground.

“So, you any good at drawing?” said Shem.

Keon looked up, unsure of the relevance.

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

Shem kicked up the staff and tossed it to Keon who caught it with one hand. Though made of paper, it felt solid as wood.

Shem pulled out his Codex. Its leather-bound cover was a deep blue, embossed in gold. Keon realised it read from right to left.

“Do you read Hebrew?” said Keon, intrigued.

Shem winked. He opened the Codex onto a series of pages filled with annotated sketches of various leaves, herbs, roots and fruit.

“Now, rather than poisoning the crew through trial and error, here’s a little hack to get you started,” he passed the Codex gently to Keon’s open hands which sunk beneath its weight. “Copy these pages out into your Codex and when we start foraging, you’ll know what to look for.”

“You serious? Just like that?”

“Just like that. But you gotta be accurate; like, bang on.”

“Can’t I just trace it?”

Shem stopped, chewing on the idea. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I dunno. Can you?”

“Worth a shot,” Keon shrugged.

“Alright, well, take a seat and get tracing. Once I get back, we’ll take you out for a spin. Just, whatever you do, don’t copy it out into ‘Memories.’”

“Memories?”

Shem took the Codex back and sat down on a nearby rock, thumbing it open.

“Here. Every Codex is arranged like a library and each section has a different purpose,” Keon craned his neck over Shem’s shoulder as he flicked through the various sections, “You’ve got Knowledge, Memories, Beliefs, Dreams, Truth, Fears and Hopes. At the back is the Appendix. Whatever your Mirror thinks, sees or feels is recorded there.”

Keon shuddered. That was where he’d found the phrase ‘Found you’ writing itself out the night before.

Shem slid a long stick of graphite out of a hidden pouch on the book’s spine, holding it up.

“This here’s for writing.”

“What do you do when it runs out?”

“It won’t,” he said, stuffing it back in. “Now, writing your own memories is dangerous. You could get lost; forget what’s real. New information always goes under ‘Knowledge.’ That way, it’s automatically added to ‘Memories.’”

“What if I make a mistake; do I just rip it out?”

Shem scoffed, “That won’t work. Ripped pages always regenerate from Memories. The moment you rip it out, you’re just making a memory of ripping it out, and that memory’ll have the same information in it. Just like that, it’s back in your Codex.”

“That’s actually crazy…”

“Welcome to Underland,” shrugged Shem.

He clapped Keon on the back with enthusiasm, almost knocking him over.

“Right. Won’t be long.”

“You won’t need this?” said Keon, gesturing with the Codex.

“I got plenty of tricks that don’t require a Codex,” he winked.

And with that, he disappeared into the bushes.

Keon peered around the area, checking the canopy for any sign of movement. Heaving a sigh of relief, he took a spot on a large stone jutting out from the ground. Glancing around once more, he flicked through Shem’s Codex until he found what he was looking for.

* * *

Now, tracing one large, hardback book with another large, hardback book was no easy feat. Keon had to hold one at a right angle from the other, meaning the images didn’t line up the same way. He hoped it wouldn’t affect his recollection of the information later. On top of that, finding a spot where he could comfortably sit and lay out the books and trace without them sliding all over the rock wasn’t easy.

Realising a break was in order, he took a moment to flick through his own Codex until he landed on ‘Memories.’

Peeling back the pages, he found thick pillars of text and intricately detailed sketches pulled from the deepest recesses of his mind. There were things there he hadn’t thought about in years, details he didn’t even know he remembered; all of them perfectly preserved within the pages of the Codex.

The memories were arranged, more or less, chronologically; sometimes interspersed with recollections and repetitions from a previous page. His seventh birthday party, the one they’d held in the old conservatory. Exploring the rolling hills and forests of Kent before they moved back to the city. Mum and Dad dancing before the fireplace on New Years Eve. It was all there.

He didn’t realise he was crying until the first tear drop splashed onto the page. It was a double spread of the family sat around the table for Sunday dinner. As the wet patch spread to the outer fringes of the drawing, it suddenly filled with colour as though a pot of rainbow-coloured ink had been spilled across the page. Suddenly it was alive and moving. Dad’s dashing smile, the brown fringes of his hair bouncing. Bella rocking backwards in silent laughter whilst Mum served the roast potatoes. There were notations dotted all around the edges, snatches of conversation, sights, tastes and smells. The text seemed to dance around the imagery as it moved.

Fearing he was about to crumble, he skimmed over the next few pages, only coming to a stop when something caught his eye near the end of the section. The text was arranged in columns across two pages. Breaking the columns in the middle was a single sketch. A girl with shoulder-length golden hair—dark at the roots—boarded by two locks that fell past her shoulders. A distinctive golden chain dangled around her neck.

Zahara.

Every single thought about her that had flashed before his mind in the last twenty-four hours was etched onto the page; like memories preserved in amber.

Suddenly, the book rippled from front to back, and this time he didn’t hesistate to throw it. It bounced off a tree, landed on its back and flapped open as though the wind were flicking through its pages. He spun round on the spot, scanning the trees. Nothing. Shem’s staff still leaned against the rock, so he grabbed it. Tip-toeing over, he prodded the book once with the staff. It didn’t move. Obviously it didn’t move because that was crazy! He tossed the staff to the side, walked over and scooped the book up. Once again, he felt drawn to the back pages. And there, once again, he found black words bleeding onto the centre of the page.

These lot can’t help you.

You have to help yourself.

He slammed the book shut—paused, his eyes racing through his thoughts—then opened it back up again.

The page was empty.

* * *

He had just finished the outline of what he assumed were mint leaves when Shem re-emerged from the bushes looking quite pleased with himself. Whistling as he walked, he unslung his foraging pouch from over his shoulder and dropped it in front of Keon.

“How we getting on, mate? Bloody hell, you not done yet?”

“Sorry. I uh—kinda got distracted…”

Shem glanced at the sky.

“Listen, that’s all well and good yeah, but we need to move if we wanna cross the Narrow Strait this afternoon.”

Keon held the page aloft for them both to see, Shem’s Codex open on his lap.

“Think I’m about done,” he beamed.

Shem’s eyes darted back and forth between the books as he checked and re-double checked. A smile spread across his face and he slapped Keon on the back.

“Nice one! Now, keep this little hack between me and you, yeah? Avana thinks it’s ‘unwise’” he said, rolling his eyes. “Not that I give a crap what she thinks…”

Keon rose as he chuckled, forgetting that Shem’s Codex was perched on his lap. The book tumbled onto the grass.

“Oh! Yo! My bad…”

The pages flapped in the wind, opening up onto ‘Hopes.’

Keon stopped, pointing.

“What’s that?”

Shem scooped up the Codex and slammed it shut. Keon eyed him with a cheeky smirk.

“Was that?…”

“Leave it, yeah?” he said, tugging at the collar of his shawl.

“But didn’t you…?”

Shem holstered the Codex, staring straight ahead, “I said leave it. We gotta get you foraging.”

Before Keon could protest, Shem started walking.

He moved to follow, then stopped; pointing at a bush of bright green, pointed leaves.

“Hey! Peppermint!”

* * *

The sparkling white walls of the crystal canyon could have been carved from giant blocks of granulised salt. Rising some four hundred feet above the floor of the valley, the opposite walls of the shimmering Narrow Strait could be seen looming ahead about three miles away; not quite so steep but no less perilous. The Millionth and Fifth were perched on the edge of a spoon-like slope that broke through the middle of the rock face.

Keon leaned precariously over the edge to see if it really was as high as he thought. A sudden imbalance threatened to throw him over. He was saved only by Shem grabbing the hem of his shawl and yanking him back, cracking a quick wink.

Keon was relieved to be back in his good books. The return journey to the rendezvous point had been tense. Clearly, Shem had a sensitive spot he didn’t like getting poked. Meeting up with the others seemed to only sour his mood further. They’d lost more than an hour dealing with the Codex and a further half-hour foraging. Now, there was a chance that sundown would catch them in the midst of the Narrow Strait. Apparently, that was bad.

“So, are we abseiling? ‘Cause I’ve abseiled before,” said Keon, wide-eyed with enthusiasm.

“Way too easy and nowhere near as fun bro,” said Kai.

He unsheathed his Codex. The hefty scroll could have been a weapon all on its own, being about three inches thick and about fourteen long. God knows how he managed to find what he wanted without tearing off half the scroll in the process.

Kai swiped the edge like he was flicking a deck of cards, sending the sheet sailing straight out in front of him. Tearing off a narrow strip, he began to fold. Shem, Jonas, Zahara and Dawit withdrew their books. Avana unrolled her palm-leaf manuscript.

Keon tentatively reached for his Codex, “Should I do the same, or…?”

“Don’t worry about that brother, we got you covered,” said Dawit.

As Keon watched, their bends and folds grew more elaborate as the paper contraptions formed. It was like a game, trying to figure out what they were Forging before they could finish. The more things started to take shape, the further Keon’s jaw gaped.

“Yo…”

Digging the contraptions into the dirt, the Millionth and Fifth stood beside seven towering gliders. Dawit held two, one in either hand. Keon guessed that the other one was meant for him.

“Still wanna abseil bro?” said Kai.

“Are we riding these the whole way?”

“Less than a third, unfortunately,” said Dawit. “That’s their limit. We’ll need a good run from the top of the slope to gain lift, then it should be smooth sailing for about a kilometre.”

“We can reach the other wall in under an hour once we land. The problem is the climb. It’s not safe in the dark; hence why time is of the essence,” said Avana, cutting her eyes at Keon and Shem.

“We’ll make the descent then jog the rest of the way. That should buy us the time we need to scale the wall,” said Dawit.

There were nods of agreement, then they began making their way back up the slope. Dawit handed Keon his glider. It was shaped like a flattened arrowhead with a wingspan of roughly three metres. Instinctively, Keon held it aloft like a banner.

“Better to carry it under your arm, brother. We don’t want you catching the wind yet.”

Keon swung his head around, confused, “I don’t feel any wind.”

“You will,” said Dawit with that same confident grin.

Keon wrinkled his nose, recalling Dawit’s ridiculous petition from earlier that afternoon.

The yelp barely escaped his mouth as a violent blast of air rolled down the slope like an avalanche, barrelling into the glider. The impact lifted him several feet off the ground, spinning him into a half-turning somersault. Landing heavily on his side, he slid down the slope, gripping the glider tightly. He debated whether he should let go or hang on for dear life, but panic wouldn’t let him decide.

He just about heard Zahara screaming his name, muffled by the roar of the wind stampeding past his ears. The ground disappeared for a split second before rolling again into his side. He felt his grip slip from the glider—found two handles—and then wished he hadn’t. The wind caught the surface of the glider, spinning him high into the air and over the edge of the cliff.