Kaul's second breath came from the eastern tower as it broke.
The sound crossed Skykeel through copper mouths. It was rougher than the first, catching wherever the living-throat hook pulled against him. By the time the breath reached the center chamber, half the tower's upper rooms had folded into its empty stairwell.
Riders carried the last residents through the windows.
Riders chose their own landing roads.
The city slid toward the Bellmother's wake.
Fixed calls still held its outer roots. Each one fought the movement, stretching bridges between the place Skykeel had occupied and the place its living weight was going. Wood split. Iron chains drew straight enough to sing.
Jiang felt the strain through his feet.
The lowest copper lip had sunk into water. Beneath it, the black-green braids crossed like tendons around one final dark root. Kaul's new living strand ran among them, red with his blood and changing whenever his breath caught.
Cutting everything would free the city.
