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Oleander groaned. His body felt heavy. Something curled around his middle in a snug embrace. I don’t want to wake up, he thought with surprising reluctance. It’s warm here.

Another voice piped up, sharp and annoyed, “I don’t think that had the effect you intended, Croft. He’s slipping further under.”

“Shut up, Tusinger!” The first voice—Brennessel Croft—snapped. “If you say one more idiotic thing, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll eat your own heart.”

“Well, fine,” the second voice—Tusinger—muttered. “Honestly, you’re a rude research partner.”

“A sneeze would have been a better partner than you,” Croft shot back. “And I have been very patient.”

“Well…” Tusinger said self-importantly. “I’m requesting a new partner, then.”

“Good,” Croft replied.

“Wait—”

“You can leave now.” Croft said with an air of finality. “You’re no longer my problem.”

Oleander heard footsteps retreating and then nothing. He sighed, letting himself sink deeper into the strange warmth. Something like cords wrapped around him, pulsating.

Then, without warning, something sharp pierced his thumb, followed by the searing sting of needle sinking into each of his fingers. Waking him from the magical stupor he’d been in.

His eyes snapped open to find magma orange vines closed painfully around every inch of his body. Another squeeze and now it was choking him. Through his blurred vision, he saw Brennessel Croft suddenly loom into view. Her hands gripped his face, her brows furrowed with annoyance.

“Tell me your most embarrassing memory!” she shouted.

“What? No!” Oleander shouted back, desperate and scared.

“Damn it, Brightmore!” Croft growled. “Don’t be an idiot. Look at the vines! You’re being strangled to death by a Conceit Crawler. The only way to get it to release you is to focus on mortification!”

Oleander felt the pressure increase around his waist, and he choked, gasping for air. “Well,” he hesitated, his mind racing. “I knew that, obviously.” The vine squeezed tighter, almost cutting off his air completely. “I can, um, think of something embarrassing, privately... inside my own head.”

Croft grinned wickedly, her teeth bright in the dim light. “But sharing your story makes the magic stronger. And you’re pretty close to death as it is.”

“I hate you,” Oleander sighed.

“The worse it is, the better, blue boy.”

He gave a choked but highly annoyed grunt as he shuffled through memories until he found one well and truly mortifying.

“Back when I was fifteen, I—” He squeezed his eyes closed.

“Look me in the eyes, Brightmore! You’ve got to deeply feel the embarrassment.”

Reluctantly, Oleander cracked one eye open. “I figured out how to make a Passion Stone connected to Perine to see if she fancied me.” He opened the second eye, face burning. “The stone never changed colours—except to black.”

“Gods below! Black!” Croft said, delighted.

“I’m fully aware that black is quite awful.”

The vines began to loosen. His mortification burnt fiercely across his face as he continued talking. “Anyway, I waited a whole year, and when it never turned any other colours, I chucked it into a lake and tried to forget it ever existed.”

Grinning mischievously, Croft grasped his hand and pulled him from the mess of vines. “I knew you liked Peri!”

“Not anymore!” He quickly corrected. “Later, I realised we were incompatible in every conceivable way.”

Croft hummed sceptically. Oleander ignored her, archly brushing his greyscale clothes off. When he finally glanced up, she was balancing a deadly-looking axe on her shoulder.

“Where,” he sputtered, “did you get an axe?”