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He’d been alive only yesterday. Her throat constricted painfully.

She backed out of the bathroom, hand gripping the doorframe so hard her knuckles whitened. The cottage spun.

Where is Lysander?

She forced herself towards the front door. She tested the latch, not locked.

A cold prickle ran down her spine. Lysander said he’d stay nearby, that he’d watch.

Her gaze drifted back towards the bathroom, to the body slumped in red water, to the carved sigil.

“A grim mess,” she whispered.

The cottage door creaked.

Cold air swept in, and purposeful footsteps crossed the threshold. Lysander had his coat’s collar turned up against the chill.

He stopped the moment he saw her standing there, barefoot, hands trembling at her sides. His gaze flicked over her, as if checking for wounds.

“Idonea,” he murmured.

Something in his tone cracked her chest open.

But she couldn’t speak. She only stepped aside, letting him see what waited beyond the bathroom door.

He moved past her, and when he reached the doorway, he froze. Lysander’s breath left him in one harsh exhale.

He stepped inside the bathroom, careful not to disturb the water. His boots made no sound on the stone. He crouched to inspect the lacerations, the angle, the depth. His jaw twitched.

“This wasn’t self-inflicted.”

Idonea’s throat burned. “I know.”

He didn't stand yet. He held his hand a finger-width above the cleaved throat, not touching, tracing the line of it in the air.

"This was done with care."

The word landed wrong against the rest of the room. Idonea didn't understand it.

"What?"

"The wound." Lysander's voice was very level. "It's clean. The pressure was even. Whoever did this took their time."

He moved to the arm. The long, precise gashes from wrist to shoulder. He held his hand over them the same way. "These too. Each one of these was a separate stroke. Made carefully. With a blade."

"Lysander."

"I know."

He rose, head tilting up to the sigil. “And that—” The muscle in his cheek twitched. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Lysander turned to face her, his grey eyes steady. "Someone wants this to look like the daemon. Someone wants us to keep looking outside the village for who did this."

The cottage was very still.

"Who," she said. Her voice was thin.

Lysander didn’t answer. He stepped out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He faced her fully.