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“I fear Father is right—” Silas said, turning back toward her. “You’re not ready yet.” His pupils shrank until the green swallowed them whole. “But you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You hurt them, and you want me to follow you?” Wren’s hands shook, and the darkened threads of Spirit faltered. She backed away, shaking her head, breath coming stilted and fast. Her eyes darted toward the others, crowded around Garin.

“You’re wrong. I’m not like you.”

Silas’s sigh was long and theatrical, as if her answer bored him. “I thought you’d say that.” His eyes lit with green fire. A beam of magical energy hit her square in the chest.

Wren’s body seized. Her breath hitched in her throat and her eyes rolled back. In a blink, her gaze fixed ahead; eyes glassy, pupils blown so wide the brown nearly vanished. She was staring at something they couldn’t see. Something that hollowed her expression and pulled the color from her face.

Orzen tore at the vines, pain flaring across his limbs. One arm escaped and he dragged the vines from his mouth. “Wren! Look at me!” he plead. “It’s not real! Whatever you’re seeing, he’s lying to you!” She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t hear.

He’d lose her if he didn’t do something.

And suddenly the flames were there. Fire exploded through him like a snapped tether. Heat roared up his throat and out through his skin. The vines turned to ash in a single burst of bright blue flame. He didn’t think. He lunged.

The sword swung free, wreathed in blue fire. Silas wasn’t prepared. The blade carved across his chest, splitting cloth and skin open. Black blood spilled out—thick as sap—and when the flesh peeled back, it wasn’t bone beneath. It was bark.

Orzen charged again, but the ground trembled beneath his boots. Briars erupted in a wall between them before he could reach Silas. Hooked thorns covered it, bleeding sap across the tangled barrier. Orzen slammed his burning sword into it. Fire crawled up the thorns. It barely made a mark. It wasn’t enough.

“Sweet dreams, Wren.” Silas’s call slid through the briars, smooth as smoke. Then he was gone.

Orzen spun toward Wren in time to see her sway. Her eyelids fluttered and her knees buckled—the last threads of Silas’s imposed horror leaving her mind.

The flames died instantly. He dropped the sword and caught her before she hit the dirt. Her skin was cold, her breath shallow and uneven. Shadows crossed her face, like something had reached inside her and pulled too much away. For one heartbeat, Silas didn’t exist. The world didn’t exist.

It narrowed to her weight in his arms.

To the fear that she’d never wake again.

Chapter 34

Toward Stillglen

Wren lay in his arms, lighter than he’d imagined, breath shallow and uneven. He brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind a horn. It was soft, even after days in the forest. Lying there, horns tilted against his chest, she was more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her.

“Come on.” Orzen’s voice cracked. He was an ill-tempered blade breaking under too much strain. “Wren, please wake up.” She didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

He scanned the dark clearing desperately. Jessa and the others were shadowed on the other side of the campfire. He didn’t know what he hoped Jessa would do. He simply couldn’t watch Wren fading away without doing something, no matter how futile it was.

“Jessa!”

“Kinda busy!” Jessa snapped back breathlessly.

Only then did he see Garin slumped on the forest floor. Jessa’s hands pressed hard against the wound. The shoulder of his cloak was soaked through, blood dripping down his arm in thick rivulets. For a breath, Orzen’s world narrowed to two points—Wren’s limp body in his arms, and Garin bleeding out in front of him.

He gathered Wren carefully, lifting her as if she might shatter. Her head sank against his shoulder and the ache in his chest deepened.

He laid her on her bedroll near the fire. Only a moment. Then he’d be back. The sight of her so still, so pale, scraped raw inside him, but Garin needed him too. Orzen tore his eyes away from her.

The thorn jutting from Garin’s shoulder was as thick as a finger, dark as rusted iron. Shallow enough to pull; deep enough to ruin an arm forever if not done right. Every beat of Garin’s heart pushed a thin spill of blood over Jessa’s trembling hands. Orzen dropped beside his pack, tossing supplies aside until he found the roll of bandage wrapped in oilcloth.

Not enough, but it would have to do.

“Get his flask,” he barked at Calen. “Bottom of his bag.”

Garin groaned, teeth bared in a grimace.

“Waste of good liquor. Took weeks to distill.”