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"I can explain. Probably."

"It looks like you bled out under a tree."

"That's what it looks like. But I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"Lysander, I swear to all the stars, if you say I'm not fine one more time I'm going to scream."

The clash of voices and the sharp clatter of hooves cut her short.

Her throat closed. “He’s arrived.”

Time was up; the Grand Templar had arrived, and she still hadn’t found the relic.

Lysander’s jaw clenched. “You need to be in that cottage.”

But by the time they returned from the river, it was already too late. The space between them and the cottage was thick with Templars in gleaming armour, their breath misting. At their head, astride a pale gelding, sat the Grand Templar himself.

Alcaeus stood at the horse’s side, speaking up to his superior.

The Templars bore the marks of weariness. Shields dented, blades stained, one man's arm bound tightly in linen. Yet if they had truly fought a daemon, the toll would be heavier, or they wouldn’t be here at all.

The Grand Templar turned from Alcaeus, surveying the gathering with a sharp gaze. The Magistrate and Elzhbeta stood at the fringes silently.

Elzhbeta’s gaze found Idonea, as if she’d been searching for her. Her eyes swept over Idonea’s blood-stained sleeves. Elzhbeta dipped her head in a formal bow.

The cold bit deeper. Horses stamped restlessly.

“The Qoruul raiders,” the Grand Templar declared, his voice clipped, precise, carrying easily through the cold. “We drove them back. But they will return.”

They were nomads of the high steppe, living far beyond the eastern reaches. They followed the old ways, refusing any attempts at encroachment from the Republic. Every winter, the snow swallowed their grazing lands first. Herds starved, camps dwindled, and winter was when they became desperate, and desperation made them bold.

The Grand Templar continued, “They burned two farmsteads on the eastern ridge. No survivors.”

Lysander stiffened beside her, every line of him tense.

Idonea sensed Elzhbeta’s eyes still on her. The woman’s expression remained smooth, but her fingers twitched at the sleeves of her coat. When Idonea met her gaze fully, Elzhbeta’s lips curved into what many would think was a smile.

Alcaeus’ eyes found them in the crowd. He crossed swiftly, his expression composed but heavy. Idonea folded her arms close, trying to hide the cuts and blood from his searching gaze.

“The Grand Templar wants you to lead a contingent south to see the raiders routed,” Alcaeus said to Lysander.

Lysander’s left hand curled at his side. “Qoruul are no daemons.”

“Yet, that is his request.”

The Grand Templar’s attention shifted, his piercing gaze landing on them, and Idonea’s breath caught. She wanted to vanish into the snow.

He dismounted, boots striking the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd of Templars parted like water before him. Idonea edged behind Alcaeus and Lysander, though she knew the effort was futile. Current clung to her, loud and wild, and the blood was impossible to fully conceal.

“Severant Lysander,” the Grand Templar said. Up close, his voice carried an edge of brittle exhaustion beneath the authority.

Lysander inclined his head. “Brother Marcin.”

“I’d have you head out now,” Marcin replied.

“Of course,” Lysander said. Not even a heartbeat’s hesitation. Duty swallowed the softness in his voice, duty burned away the kiss they’d shared a night ago.