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Morozko snatched Saren, yanking her to his chest. “You know what we have to do then,” he said, his voice resigned. “You can leave, and, in fact, I wish you would.” He turned toward the group of guards that were now there. “Qorlys, grab a whip from my ice house.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He bolted through the snow, only taking a few moments to collect one before returning with an ivory whip. Eirah knew what was to happen—she’d known from his vision, had been horrified by the sound of it, but more so now that Saren would have to be a victim of it. As Morozko held Saren, she spat and screeched louder, her eyes blazing brighter, seeming to know what was to come. In those eyes, there wasn’t a single hint of Saren, only a monster. Eirah’s chest tightened at the thought of Saren never returning to her.
Morozko glanced toward Eirah, his lips pursed. “This is your last chance to walk away, Eirah. I need to whip her.”
“Whip?” her father asked, his eyes wide.
“No”—Eirah took the leather whip from the frost demon—“I will do it. She’s my friend.” Turning to her father, she said, “Trust me with this. It has to be done.” She’d always wanted to protect Saren, and she’d failed in this sense, but now she could save her.
Morozko nodded, his expression neutral, becoming the king he was born to be. “As soon as I get her on the ground, strike.”
“What if I kill her?” she said softly, tightening her hold on the whip.
“Then it would be much better than this. My visions speak truth. And I wholly believe the whip will save her.”
“I believe in you, my king,” she murmured. “I’m ready now.” Even if Saren didn’t survive, she would never want to live like this.
Morozko lowered a thrashing Saren to the snow more gently than he would’ve done anyone else, and Eirah knew he’d done it for her. As soon as he shoved himself backward, Eirah brought the whip down with an awful crack. A heinous screech tore through the air, and blue blood bathed the snow while yellow smoke wafted upward from Saren’s back. Before Saren could crawl forward, Eirah slammed the whip against her flesh once more.
Hot tears stung her cheeks, every lash burning through the muscles of her arm, the sound of each strike making her heart jolt against her rib cage as she continued to try and release Saren from this monster’s grip. With each strike, she told herself it was the demon she was hurting. Not Saren. Never Saren. And just as she was about to give up hope, a waxy form rolled out from Saren’s body, causing Eirah to halt. The demon hissed through its barely-there mouth, curling its gnarled fingers, attempting to bolt away.
Morozko lunged forward with an ice sword in his hand at the ready as he dove for the changeling. He pierced it straight through the throat, then kicked its stomach with his boot. The demon collapsed to the ground, and Morozko buried the blade into its chest, blue blood staining the snow. The frost demons surrounded the changeling with lit torches, then set the creature’s body on fire, its wretched screams piercing the air.
Eirah turned back around, dropping beside her father, who was already near Saren. Her friend’s head was tilted to the side, her lips parted as she took shallow breaths. The changeling’s wails echoed while Eirah pressed a hand to Saren’s torn dress. But beneath the strips of fabric, no wounds or blood lingered. Eirah gasped—it was as if her friend hadn’t been struck by a weapon at all.
“Saren,” Eirah said softly, her fingers lightly pressing into her upper arm. “Saren, wake up.”
A low moan escaped Saren’s mouth as she peeled open her eyes, her teeth chattering. “Why is it so cold?”
“Do you feel any pain?” Eirah’s father asked, removing his cloak and bundling Saren in it as she sat up.
Saren furrowed her brow and shook her head. “No, only cold.”
“Do you remember a demon taking over your body?” Eirah asked, wrapping an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Or do you remember attacking me just now?”
“A demon in my body? Me attacking you? Are you jesting with me, or did you fall and hit your head?” Saren laughed softly. Then, when she looked around, finding no one laughing with her, her eyes widened.
Morozko stepped beside Eirah, a deep line settled between his brow. “She doesn’t remember. It seems when the demon was exorcised, memories of her time as a changeling have been eradicated.”
Saren paled, but she didn’t curl in on herself. “Tell me precisely what happened. I can handle it.”
Morozko nodded to Eirah. “Take Saren inside and explain it to her. I located a few more within the encampment, and I’m going to take care of them now.”
Eirah handed him the whip, her fingers softly brushing his. “Be careful.”
“Stay brave.” He lifted his hand, tucking his knuckle beneath her chin. His brilliant blue eyes locked onto hers. “Remain here, and Idomean that.” His gaze flicked to Saren and her father. “They need you, and I believe you need them, too.”
As Morozko walked away, Eirah and her father helped Saren back into the ice house to warm herself by the fire.
“I’m waiting.” Saren sat up straight, polishing off her tea as though she hadn’t been nearly beaten to death. Eirah explained everything that had happened, how a changeling had slipped inside her body at some point. Most likely, it had been back in the village on the night of the attack. Then she told her about Morozko, how she was no longer a sacrifice, and how she was now a witch and immortal.
“Now that is a tale.” Saren blinked and blew out a slow breath.
“I’m going to be just outside the ice house, keeping watch,” Eirah’s father said, giving her time to talk with Saren alone.
“You seem more like yourself,” Eirah murmured once the fabric of the entrance fell behind her father. “I thought the reason you were so quiet was because you were grieving.”
“I am,” Saren sniffed, “but I haven’t lost you.” She paused as if mulling over something. “I think you’re keeping something from me, though. Why was Morozko touching your chin and beingeverso gentle?”
