She notices.
Her eyes flick to him for half a second—the wrong half-second—and in that gap Ren steps forward and presses two fingers to the back of her wrist.
His own blood rises to his fingertips first; I see it, the thin dark line at the skin, his Sanguis finding hers through touch, and copper feathers across the back of my tongue. He's in her bloodstream before she can pull away—not controlling it, not doing anything to it, just listening, the way Ren listens to everything: the racing pulse, the exhaustion, the hollow of a body that's been spending magic it doesn't have in reserve. He finds the hollow. He presses it.
She staggers.
Not much. Enough.
Her binding stutters.
"Now," Callum says.
I throw everything I have at the crack Callum made. Not one discipline, all four at once, braided the way only I canbraid them: charge crawling down my arms, cold pooling off my ankles, a flicker riding the corner of my sight, copper flooding the back of my tongue as I work my grip into the binding itself. Because this is the thing a grimoire does that nothing else alive can do. I don't just strike the working. I take hold of the magic it's made of and I unwind it, forty years of Catalina's stored power coming loose in my hands strand by strand, stolen twice over now and mine to spend, and I spend all of it straight back into the crack. The working shrieks—not a sound but a vibration that goes up through the stone and into my feet and my knees and my back teeth—and Catalina wrenches every scrap of her attention away from Callum and brings it back to me. Hard.
The backlash hits me in the chest, and every rib on both sides tries to go a different direction at once. I go back two steps, three, and my shoulders hit the stone and the world does a brief horrible spin.
"Okay," I say, winded. "That was rude."
"Everly." Atlas's voice, sharp.
She's coming at me. She's past Callum—past Ren—moving with that forty-year patience that looks like speed, hands already shaping the next working, and this one I can see because it leaves a trace in the air: thin silver threads pulling tight between her fingers, the kind that finds the edges of things and pries.
She's going to pull my magic apart at the seams.
I scramble upright and throw up the only defense a grimoire has, which is open hands. The silver threads land on me and Itakethem, unwinding the working out of them faster than it can pry at me, drinking it down—most of them. The spell shears sideways and hits the wall to my left instead, and the stone where it lands goes dark and cold instantly, the cold spreading out like a bruise in the rock.
That's what she was going to do to my magic. To me.
"Felix." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Five to two," he calls back, "which is better than it was." A card turns in his hand, a different one than before, and I hear a second die hit the stone floor somewhere behind Catalina. The chamber shifts—a flicker at the very edge of my sight, glimpsed and gone, the room tilting toward a branch only he can see?—
Her next working misfires.
It goes crooked. Not enough to save me entirely: the spell catches Ren's ward as it passes and Ren takes the overflow in the arm, his ward flaring red and then going dark, and his face does the thing it does when he's in pain and has decided I'm not allowed to know it. I know it anyway. I've spent months learning the difference between Ren composure and Ren carrying something privately.
"I'm fine," he says, before I can open my mouth.
"I know," I say, which is a lie, and Atlas uses the half second she spends regrouping to call lightning again, this time just a crack of it, thunder and ozone in miniature, a short sharp burst at her feet that scorches the stone and forces her to jump back. One step. Two. Three. Her binding stutters a second time, her attention split too many ways now, and she stumbles and she's three steps closer to the Well?—
And I see Helena.
She's at the Well.
I think, for one second—one stupid, hopeful second—that she's trying to close the tear. That she's found something in the journals, some proof or working I haven't read yet, and she's down here ahead of us because she wanted to get there first and help. She's been helping. That's been the whole of it, these past weeks: Helena, helping.
"Helena." I'm already moving toward her. The fight is still happening behind me—I hear Atlas, hear the crack of another bolt—but I cross the chamber because Helena is at the Well andthe Well sounds wrong, a low shuddering I feel in the stone through the soles of my boots.
I get close enough to see her hands.
She's buried to the wrist in the tear I opened weeks ago. Not closing it. Her working is threadedintothe wound, fingers spread wide inside the opening like she's found the seam of something and is pulling it apart from the inside. And the copper taste on my tongue doubles—her working layered over the Well's own old rot, two things that should not be happening at once?—
I stop.
And I understand. All at once, and I cannot believe I didn't see it sooner.
The still face. The patience I'd taken for grief and was something else entirely: certainty, the face of someone who has been waiting a very long time for one room to be exactly this. The rescue she offered in the corridors of the Hollows. The journals she handed me one by one, each one building the road I needed to get back to this chamber. The way out she kept gesturing at—a way to keep the magic alive without feeding anyone to it—was never a way out at all. It was a wayhere.She'd needed the Well awake and a grimoire strong enough to crack it open standing at her shoulder, and she'd spent weeks building me into exactly that.
