They expanded in a single motion, snapping outward to their full span: enormous, the membrane a deep violet that darkened at the edges to near-black, the internal structure visible where the morning light hit it, translucent in the thinner sections, the individual ribs casting shadows across the street. The span of them, fully extended, covered the width of three huts.
The gust hit everything at once.
Edda's white hair snapped backward. Her garment pressed against her body from the front—the tight fabric conforming to every line of her, the muscle, the mass, the heavy curve of her chest, the density of her thighs—before the wind released. The great sword at her back rang softly against the scabbard.
Jacob sat down in the dirt.
He did not do this intentionally. His knees simply made the decision.
Rika grabbed the fence post beside her with both hands.
Raven looked at Edda.
His voice, over the subsiding wind:
"Edda."
