“Do you know the language?”
“It’s an ancient form of Fae. Like Latin in your world. It’s not really used anymore except for things like this, apparently.”
Wylder nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sigurd—of course he did—but his mother being right there in front of them andnot being able to reach her was torture. He took comfort in the constant rise and fall of her chest. She was alive, which was so much more than he’d had his entire life.
“Alright,” Sig said, turning toward them. He’d cut the thin branch into three short segments and whittled a pointed end onto each one. He handed one to Wylder, then Silva, keeping the third for himself. “We’ll need to bloody the points and at the exact same moment, cut the origin line from each color. I marked them around the circle.”
“That’s it?” Wylder asked, expecting something worse.
“That’s it.” Sigurd looked back over the circle, gaze lingering on Maren before he turned back to them. “It’s a complex spell. Nexus spells usually are, but severing the anchoring lineswillbreak it.”
“Okay.” Wylder lifted the stick Sigurd had given him and braced himself. He pressed the point of the stick against the cut on his palm and reopened it, making sure to catch the fresh blood with the point. “Here.” He held his hand toward the others. Both of them looked like they’d rather slit their own throats than use his blood, but Wylder huffed and pushed his bloodied palm at them again. “I’m already bleeding. Just do it.”
With a grunt, Sigurd stepped forward and held Wylder’s hand still. He pressed his thumb next to the cut, making more blood well up and slide down into Wylder’s cupped palm.
“Sorry, love,” Silva said quietly, dipping the pointed tip of his stick, as well.
“It’s fine. Let’s do this.”
Sigurd moved back to the circle and pointed at the marks he’d made. “Wylder, you take the white line. Silva, the blue. I’ll cut the red. Get in position, and we’ll cut on the count of three. Our movementshave to bein sync.”
When they’d all three knelt down in front of their assigned lines, Sigurd glanced at each of them. “Ready?”
They both nodded.
“One, two, three?—”
Wylder ran the bloody point of his stick through the white line in front of him. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sigurd and Silva doing the same. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to stand up and ask what had gone wrong when Maren opened her eyes and took a great gasping breath.
Sigurd moved to her before Wylder could string two thoughts together. He watched his uncle kneel, hands gripping Maren’s shoulders as he helped her sit up. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Sig?” Maren said, sounding confused. “What?” She looked around then, taking in the clearing, lingering a moment on Silva, and finally settling her gaze on Wylder. Her eyes widened, and she sucked in an audible breath. “Wylder. Are you really here?”
“We’re here, Sis. We’re here.”
A smile broke over her face, bright as the sun overhead. She held out a hand, and Wylder scrambled to reach it. He grabbed her hand and let her pull him to her, something slotting into place in his chest as she gripped him tight.
“Oh, my boy,” she said, voice wobbling.
Hot tears streamed down his face. “I’m here, Mom. I’m here.”
She pulled back enough to grip his face between her hands, smile just as wide. “You have your father’s eyes.”
“Maren?” Sigurd asked. She reached for him before he could finish, and they embraced for a long moment. “The new Hunter, who is she?”
Confusion flashed across Maren’s face, and she furrowed her brow. “The woman, Helena, isn’t the Hunter. Selin is.”
Behind them, Silva cursed.
“Who’s Selin?”
She ran her thumb over Wylder’s cheek. “Kerak’s brother.”
“Selin?” Sigurd asked, taking Maren’s other hand.
She nodded. “Yes. My mate tried to befriend Selin when he arrived here several years ago, but Selin…he had his own agenda. He killed the Hunter, took over the Hunt, and has been a thorn in everyone’s side. No one knew what he was trying to accomplish. Although, I guess we do now.”
Wylder cleared his throat. “Is your mate my father?”
