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Riven pricks his finger and steps closer to me. Close enough for me to smell the scent of his soap—fresh eucalyptus and juniper, incredibly reminiscent of the forest surrounding us.
“I’m going to trace a mark on your forehead,” he says. “Hold—”
“Wait.” I stumble backward, bumping into Cinder, and hold up my hands to keep him at bay. “Are you using rune magic?”
His eyes narrow. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because witches use runes too.”
His laugh is haughty. “No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.” I glare at him. “And the way you described tracing a mark like that is exactly how blessed witches cast them, only they never use runes on living things.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“Rune magic can be unpredictable. Depending on the caster’s intent, it could blind me, scar me, or twist my mind.” I shake my head. “The spell could backfire in any number of ways.”
He blinks. “Fae and witch magic are different enough that the same rules don’t apply.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I just am,” he grits out.
“You just are? Forgive me if—”
“Gwyn,” he says gruffly. “My intentions are pure. I’ve already applied the same rune to myself and to Arkyn, and nothing has gone wrong. Now would you hold still so I can mark you and we can move on from this?”
I study him, weighing his words. The calm certainty in his tone, the fact that he’s already tested this rune on himself and Arkyn... It’s enough to quell the worst of my worry.
“All right,” I say, finally lowering my hands.
He reaches for me again, and I let him. With a featherlight touch, he traces a circle on my forehead with his blood and drags a line straight down its middle.
“Behold.”
There is a flash of hot followed by a chill of icy cool as my vision blurs and then comes back into focus. And when it does, the lush forest of thick trees is overcome by small pockets of glittering black.
The blight.
It’s everywhere.
Dripping from trunks, pooling in puddles.
The only space not afflicted is the small area around us where Riven and I stand.
“What in Dagny’s name,” I whisper, eyes scanning the forest as far as they can reach. Twisted greens and sickly blacks writhe together in a mess of shimmering sickness and living rot. “This is horrible.”
His smile is tired. “It only gets worse from here.”
Riven and I have ridden for hours in silence. I can’t say I’m bothered by it, as it’s given me time to think—time to ponder witch and fae history, looking for patterns or lessons that might help me find a way to aid the Fae Isles.
Without the king’s glamour, the forest feels heavy, the air too thick to properly catch my breath. There’s an aching in my thighs from straddling the horse and in my core and lower back from holding myself upright, only allowing myself to sink into Riven’s strong chest when I can’t bear the pain any longer.
On and on we go, through trees and over bridges. In his raven form, Achlys soars above us, his caws barely audible over Cinder’s clomping footsteps.
A few miles after we skirt around a rather small town with a handful of buildings, the sound of rushing water hits us, drowning out all other noise as we come upon a stunning waterfall pouring into a crystal-clear pool of water.
It’s only slightly tainted by the blight.
