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The tar-black tendrils sprawled densely in every direction, from his chest toward the stacked muscles of his abdomen, the last wisps fading like loose threads down his biceps.

My own scar resembled those final wisps, and my experience with dullroot had felt suffocating. So how long had he been subjected to the poison?

I must’ve been staring too long, because Goren grabbed his discarded shirt and pulled it over his head. I snapped back into my senses, abashed. Judging from Goren’s glare, he didn’t want sympathy. Especially not mine.

“Is there no place left to go in this gods-damned house?” he muttered, returning various weapons to their places.

“Wait.” I stepped closer. “I’ve changed my mind. I—” I swallowed my discomfort and lifted my chin. “I would like your help to train my specter.”

Goren turned to hang a sword on the wall. “My offer has expired.”

My stomach dropped. I’d spent all my mental fortitude on asking for his help; I hadn’t planned for his refusal. But as he strode for the door, I blocked his path and spoke the only thing that came to mind: the truth.

“I couldn’t fight her. Since I escaped Erik, my specter has felt different. I wanted to finish Mara tonight. And I couldn’t. If she comes after me again . . .” I drew a deep breath, hating that it trembled. That I was begging for something Goren had offered yesterday for free. But I smothered my ego and said, “I can’t wait for the protection of the Ansoran Gallery. I need your help now.” I added, through my teeth, “Please.”

Goren looked me over, as though determining how serious I was. Then: “We train my way. No whining. No running to Keil whenever your feelings get hurt.”

I bristled. “I wouldn’t run to—”

“And no arguments,” he said gruffly. “Deal?”

I clenched my hands into fists, already predicting that this would not go well. But Goren had single-handedly fought an Orrenish troop. He was a war hero. More than that, Keil had said he was the best person to help me Wield again after a great trauma.

And having just seen Goren’s expansive dullroot scars . . . I believed it.

So I said, “Deal.”

Goren nodded, then walked past me. “We start at dawn.”

“Dawn? But it’s already—”

“Don’t be late,” he said, marching out into the night.

I trudged back to my bedchamber shivering. It wasn’t until I went to twist the doorknob that I remembered the automatic locking system.

And that I’d forgotten the key.

I groaned, my forehead sinking against the door. Then, unwilling to let a forgotten key unravel me tonight, I straightened and turned. I only vaguely remembered the estate’s layout from when Keil had first guided me to my bedchamber. But even in my exhaustion, I’d become suddenly alert when he’d said, These are my chambers. Knock if you ever need me.

It was late. But unlike Goren, Keil didn’t make offers with expiration dates attached.

My specter began fluttering beneath my breastbone as I approached his room, the door slightly ajar. Keil must have still been awake. Soft light hazed around the entry, and when I quietly knocked, the door swayed further open at my touch.

“Come in,” Keil said, sounding distracted.

I pushed the door, then stopped at the threshold.

Shadows darkened the creams and golds of Keil’s bedchamber, a single lantern illuminating the polished surface of a writing desk strewn with bandages. Keil sat angled toward the door, preparing to wrap the wound on his bare shoulder.

Bare because he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

I swallowed drily. I’d seen men in various states of undress before, the last instance occurring five minutes ago. But seeing Keil like this was something different. Something dangerously intimate.

My eyes moved involuntarily lower, tracing the gold-tanned skin, the broad chest, the streamlined muscles funneling beneath his waistband.

Then he straightened, and those muscles shifted. I yanked my gaze upward.

And found an echo of my own intensity in Keil’s honey eyes.