The Ridge

A broad ceramic planter blocked the path toward the outer railing. I did not walk around it. Digging my claws into the coarse rim of fired clay, I planted my tail against the concrete and hoisted my frame upward onto the soil. One step. Then two. Ahead rose the wide, painted steel bar of the balustrade. Cold. Dense. I heaved my upper body across the flat crest, letting my claws clamp down over the painted edge. Below, the courtyard stretched far beneath. High ground. The horizon opened up wide, and I held my stance against the open draft.