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They reached the trees. Snowmelt dripped from the branches and damp moss coated the rocks. Idonea pulled her cloak tighter, its weight sodden with cold, but she didn’t complain.

The further they walked, the quieter it became, until it was just the hush of their breath and the low crunch of snow beneath boots. Even Lance’s wings were silent overhead.

The fjord was a narrow, glacial ribbon of black water, flanked by sheer rock walls slick with ice. A cold wind coiled up from the depths, carrying the scent of brine.

She tilted her head back and drank in the stars, the cold air harsh in her lungs.

“Now what, witchling?” Lysander asked.

Witchling. She should hate the way he said it.

Instead, it settled under her skin, warm, albeit infuriating.

Lance hissed, circling high and then sweeping back towards her shoulder. She pulled her dagger free.

“Now,” she said, “you keep watch.”

Lysander unsheathed his sword. A soft rasp of steel and silver.

She sat in the snow. The ritual would need more than a shallow offering.

Teeth clenched, she sliced across her arm.

She held out her arm. “Lance.”

She closed her eyes as he bit down on the open wound. As his jaw released, Idonea pulled on the Current. Her pupils slit, nails lengthened, and the wind shrieked.

Current pulsed around her, drawn by blood and pain. She tugged at its threads, twisting them, binding them, feeding the daemon scent Lance offered through the bite.

A ripple crossed the Current. A pulse, and it was strongly distorted.

Her jaw clenched as she pulled at the Current. She’d have her answer. It pulsed strongly towards the town.

Her concentration fractured as Lysander’s voice cut through her trance. “Idonea!”

She severed the connection, eyes jolting open.

A sound split the air, soft, like metal dragged through snow. It stepped from the dark. Half-formed. Its body unravelled as it moved, edges bleeding shadow, the shape flickering between smoke and sinew. No eyes. No mouth.

It lunged.

Instinct guided her hand. She slashed open her palm, blood welling hot against the cold, and with a single flick of her wrist, she whispered the word that ignited it.

Crimson light hissed from her fingertips. The droplets flared and burst into a gust of burning force, striking the daemon square in the chest. It staggered back, limbs twisting like a spider’s legs.

The backlash hit her a heartbeat later. Her pulse skipped, a wave of dizziness rolled through her skull.

Lysander was already moving. His sword sang, its silvered edge catching the daemon’s writhing silhouette. When he struck, the sound was wrong, like flesh and shadow tearing at once.

Lance screamed above them, wings slicing the air.

The Current pulsed beneath her skin, calling for more. The blood still spilled down her wrist.

She raised her bleeding hand and traced a rough sigil in the air, voice hushed.

The spilled blood glowed crimson, the sigil spun into being before her, every line pulsing in rhythm with her heart. The daemon jerked as if caught in invisible chains, its form flickering faster, thrashing against the Current that caged it.

The nausea came sharp and fast, roiling in her gut.