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Malron moves closer, moving with agonizingly deliberate steps, his lips curled into a smirk that makes me think of pain. Of the many ways he could use those silver spheres of magic hanging from his neck to inflict suffering. He steps forward, then stops. Steps forward. Stops. His cloak flutters around his ankles, sending ash scattering over my boots.
His nostrils flare as he scents the air. Stars help me, he’s going to smell us. My eyes burn and my lungs scream for air. At my side, the man from the Lands Below crouches on the ground, perfectly motionless. But how long can he go without breathing? How long can we—
“Malron!” Saria screams from up the canyon.
Malron’s head snaps up. His smirk twists into a scowl.
“Malron, we’ve got it!” she cries. “We can close it!”
Malron’s eyes narrow. For a heartbeat, he stares directly at us, at the shimmering magic keeping Phaedron and me hidden from his sight. Then he frowns, spins on his heels, and marches across the smoking ruin he just created. Magic in the air thickens like a gathering storm as I suck in a gasping breath. Beside me, the man from the Lands Below does the same.
Phaedron. Stars help me. Guilt twists in my gut as I turn toward him, but it’s not quite strong enough to drown the little whisper of curiosity that wonders what the handsome man from the Lands Below looks like now, without his illusions.
I shiver as the illusion magic around us ripples and twists. I won’t be able to hold this much magic while we’re moving. I open my mouth to whisper to Phaedron that we need to go.
And it stays open.
Because Phaedron looks exactly the same. Those high cheekbones, full lips, and disturbingly light eyes are exactly like they were when he crashed into my bedroom, although now there’s no scent of illusion magic tangled around his broad shoulders. He has ash smeared across his forehead, stubble on the flat planes of his cheeks, and violet half-moons beneath his eyes, but aside from that, the man from the Lands Below looks exactly the same as he had when he was wearing his illusions.
For a moment I feel like the world is tipping beneath me. I took his magic. He’d been wearing an illusion ever since he came through that portal, and that’s the magic I used to shield us from Malron’s flames. But if he wasn’t using the illusion magic to alter his appearance, then what in the stars’ many names was he doing?
My gaze drops from his eyes to his throat, to the white servant’s uniform stretched tight across his chest. To the—
Oh. Oh, stars. It takes my mind a heartbeat to process what I’m staring at.
Phaedron only has one arm.
His illusion magic wasn’t to make himself look handsome. It was to hide the fact that he’d tied the empty right arm of the servant’s uniform into a tight little knot at his shoulder. And by the time I realize how rude I’m being, it’s too late.
My cheeks burn as I force myself to meet Phaedron’s eyes, but he’s not looking at me. He’s searching the top of the canyon, or maybe the sky itself. Maybe he’d rather look at anything than meet my gaze.
Something deep inside of me pulls tight. Fair enough. I just stole his magic, and I’ve been staring at his knotted sleeve like I’ve never seen anyone without their illusion magic before. Which, honestly, I haven’t. A memory of Balmyr rises in my mind, his cocky grin and dark curls as he leaned against the doorway of the training yard, and I shove that memory down. Violently.
Magic swirls in the air around us, coating the inside of my nose and mouth. Something in my chest twists and howls. The remaining magicians are closing the anomaly; I can feel it. My eyes drift toward the swirls of ash and magic, toward the towering dead tree in the center of the canyon. The anomaly is there. All of the other magicians in King Grathgore’s court are there.
And we aren’t going to make it.
I don’t realize I’m falling until my knees hit the ground. My travel bag sinks into the ashes with a sound like a sigh, and my shoulders curl forward. All this time, all these plans. All the stolen gold hidden in the false bottom of my bag, beneath all the warm clothes I could cram in there. Beneath all of my hopes for the life I was going to build in the land of the monsters. And we aren’t going to make it.
The illusion magic protecting us flickers, then begins to fade. Someone gasps next to me, and it takes me a moment to remember who it is. Who I’d promised I could get back to the Lands Below.
A hand wraps around my shoulder. “We’ve got to move,” Phaedron whispers.
His hand drops to my arm, and he yanks me to my feet. Together, we stumble toward the relative safety of the spindly trees and bushes clinging to the edge of the canyon’s walls. Toward the horses, toward the Dragon Pass. Toward the road to the Silver City. If we can somehow make it past the guards—
Phaedron tugs me sideways. My feet slip on ashes, and I stumble as Phaedron pulls me into a stand of brush oak. I’m shaking my head even as he drags me toward the canyon wall.
“The horses,” I whisper.
My voice feels strange in the magic-choked air. Phaedron shakes his head.
“That’s the first place they’ll look,” he replies. “That’s where they’ll think you went.”
I blink up at him. He’s staring at the shadow-shrouded walls of the canyon like they’re a riddle he could solve.
“Oh, no,” I whimper.
Phaedron turns back to face me and, for the first time since I ripped his magic away from his body, he meets my eyes. There’s an expression on his face that might almost, under other circumstances, be considered a smile.
