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Dormant, but not dead.

A well of power. A spring of life.

He touched a thumb to the thorn and pressed down.

Blood blossomed, all deep red threaded through with dull violet, dripping to the ground to—to—

A crack ripped through the air, straight into his chest. Netherflame erupted where his blood touched, a river of it flowing between him and the grove of living trees, the dead branch before him shivering to life while, some distance away within the grove, a handful of shriveled buds dusted the shale.

That’s it, Orpheus thought, blinking up at the now glowing bud cradled between his fingers. That’s what the spell is missing.

Blood magic.

All around, the world fractured. A rising whine that split the seams of the dream and tore it right down its center. Reality emerged in brutal opposition. A waking punch that wrenched him straight back into his body.

Orpheus woke to a warning in the form of a Soot-stained note and smoke curling in the deepest corner of his prison cell’s shadows.

He’s coming for you, it read. Here’s what to do.

It was a good plan, Orpheus admitted. Better than good, because it just might work.

A rattling in the prison cell’s lock had Orpheus scrambling to hide Gwen’s note. By the time the door swung open he had his grimoire open to the last page, pen hovering over the paper as if caught mid-thought.

“Hard at work, I see.” Atticus’ shadow fell over the page while Serval and Duluth passed through the doorway. Orpheus did not resist when he was hauled to his feet—well, foot. “Just the collar, this time. He’ll need use of his hands.”

“It’s not ready yet,” Orpheus deflected because that’s what Atticus would expect, “I need more time.” Beside him, Serval snorted, closing the collar around his throat so Atticus could seal it with Orpheus’ blood. Orpheus wobbled when Serval let him go, looking for the crutch and panicking when he didn’t see it.

“Easy.” Atticus caught him before he could fall. “Looking for this?”

Orpheus took the crutch with a grateful, “Thank you,” that seemed to surprise them both.

“Don’t want to undo weeks of healing, do we? And do not fret if the spell isn’t ready. I’ve always found a little practical application helps the brainstorming process, just as some walking does the body good. A demonstration will be good enough. Now, let’s go.”

Demonstration? For whom?

The hood came down over his head before Orpheus could ask. Atticus held his elbow through the winding halls of Sanctuary’s passages, the crutch taking Orpheus’ weight better than it had the last time.

Like his fingers, his leg was repairing—healing—just as Atticus said.

By the time muted sunlight bled through his hood, Orpheus loped along at a steady pace, which made him all the more unprepared for when Atticus jerked him to a stop. There, on what must be the wall overlooking Sanctuary, Atticus squeezed Orpheus’ arm tight enough to hurt.

“Gwen, my dear, whatever are you doing here?”

“I want to watch. I want to learn.”

Atticus did not reply, silence stretching a beat too long.

“Please, Atticus,” Gwen whispered. “I want to help Sanctuary too. How else am I going to learn?”

Like a storm about to break, pressure built in the quiet howl of wind through Sanctuary’s soaring peaks. Close beside Orpheus, he could hear Atticus breathe.

“I do not trust our unfortunate mage to not try something stupid, but…” The hand on Orpheus’ elbow loosened—an unconscious loss of control so unlike Atticus Orpheus knew Gwen had won. “You will keep your distance and do exactly as I say.”

Orpheus’ hood came off with a flourish, but Atticus met his eyes before he could find Gwen.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Atticus hooked a finger in his collar and drew Orpheus close. “I’m going to remove this,” Atticus gave the collar a tug, “and Duluth is going to remove your head if you try anything stupid.”

Sharp steel met his skin, right there at the back of his neck.