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They ignited.

Flames danced through the trees, the autumnal oranges of the leaves erupting in angry shades of burning red. Elyria leapt back as an enormous charred branch, the initial impact point of the sanguinagi man’s magic, fell from overhead. The horror on her face was momentarily replaced with disgust at the wet squelch that came from said branch landing directly on the body of the cultist woman Elyria had felled.

The man turned and ran.

Elyria started to bolt after him, but a cry from Jocelyn as she slumped to the forest floor had Elyria halting after only a few steps.

“Fuck, she’s lost so much blood already.” Kit held a hand over Jocelyn’s wound, healing magic already at her fingertips, trying to keep her from losing more.

Shadows dissipating into the ether, Elyria looped Jocelyn’s uninjured arm over her own shoulder. “He’ll get away.”

“Let him,” Kit replied, bracing Jocelyn from the other side. “Look up.”

Elyria looked. Looked at the heavy smoke billowing from the flaming treetops and then to the empty glade behind them. “Elderglade is lost,” she whispered.

“It is.” There was something worse than sadness in Kit’s voice. Something infinitely more final. “But we haven’t. Not yet.”

So, together, the three of them ran through the forest, following the path trod earlier by tinier feet, heading toward the towering goldwood at the back of the glen.

33

SANCTUS SALUTUM

CEDRIC

Pride and gratitude and blessed, blissful relief lit Cedric from the inside the instant he saw Elyria, Kit, and Jocelyn emerge from the trees. Then it shrank into fear as he took in Jocelyn’s state—her lolling head, her tunic so soaked with blood, it was dripping from the hem—and the smoke rising into the sky behind them.

“Quickly,” he said, darting forward and scooping a now nearly-unconscious Jocelyn into his arms. “To the healers.”

“One of the cultists escaped,” Elyria said bitterly.

Cedric grimaced. “One of the creatures did too.”

Sid loped up beside him, maw wet with black blood, and released an irritated huff. She did not appear pleased with the fact that one got away.

“It doesn’t matter.” The faint scent of rosemary wafted through the copper-tinged air as Kit used her magic to rinse Jocelyn’s blood from her hands. “Did you see the others come through? The children?”

Cedric nodded, gently shifting Jocelyn in his arms as the small, bloodied group began walking up the path. “Yes. The oldest girl told me where she’d last seen you three fighting. And then we ran into two of the elders who had come looking for them.”

“Larkess?” asked Elyria.

Cedric shook his head. “She remains at the council chamber, ushering everyone through. Evidently, there’s an exit within the goldwood, but only an elder can keep it open.”

The bond vibrated with the magnitude of Elyria’s relief. “I knew there had to be something.”

“Where will they go?” asked Kit. “The sanctuary is . . .”

Cedric’s eyes darted back to the smoke-filled tree line, then to the ever-brightening glow appearing between the trunks at their back. “I don’t know,” he replied. “They seem like they know what they’re doing though. And we clearly need to get moving. We’ll regroup with everyone, and surely we can figure out⁠—”

Pain flared against his sternum. His steps faltered.

“Ric?” Kit’s voice was full of alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Elyria was immediately at his side, her hand on his shoulder, her voice a balm to his mind. But it did nothing to stop the searing pain on his skin.

“Take her,” Cedric gritted out, and Kit was quick to lift a limp Jocelyn out of his arms right before he doubled over, his hand clawing at his chest. “The locket,” he gasped. “It’s—it burns.”

Elyria’s fingers were already at his neck, grappling with the chain of the locket and withdrawing it from beneath his tunic. It glowed, bright and hot, orange-tinged at the edges, like it had been freshly pulled from a forge. “What’s happening? Why now?”