Everly brings her horse beside mine. Mildred flanks me on the other side. None of us say a word. We probably couldn’t speak, even if we wished to.
A shout pierces the air, sending shivers along my spine.
Praxis.
Cenric crouches near him and tries to pry Briley and the baby from Praxis’ trembling hands.
Everly gasps and raises a shaky hand to her throat. I swallow through the bile, the disgust, the anger heating my veins. It keeps coming, roiling over me like a tidal wave.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Slowly, I inhale and exhale, drawing calm to me instead of the threatening shadows.
Cenric rises with the baby in his arms. He turns to me, and my chest tenses into thick, painful knots.
“Sol,” he says, his voice carrying to where I sit. “He’s still alive, but just barely. You will heal him.”
Desperation shines in Praxis’ eyes as he rises beside his brother.
Hope stirs inside me as I slip from Hale and hurry to get to Cenric. The old woman’s eyes follow me, but she neither dismounts, nor speaks. I ignore her and take Edvard into my arms, press my fingers to his tiny neck, and feel a faint hint of life.
I draw on my Kyanite magic and say those ancient healing verses—chanting in the dialect only the Kyanites speak when they cast spells. Louder and louder, I raise my voice, drawing healing, life, beauty—plucking from the earth and giving back to this baby.
Surely, Olah will hear me and answer my pleas.After all, Edvard is only a baby. He doesn’t deserve this. Nobody deserves this.
I keep chanting, moving past the creeping dark Bloodstone magic—those shadows that clutch at my mind. Today, I need light, healing, goodness.
Pain pierces my serpent mark and travels up my hand, my fingertips. Still, I keep repeating those words. Over and over, I chant them until the baby opens his eyes and inhales, the color returning to his cheeks.
Thank you, Olah.
Praxis, who has been hovering over me, barely breathing himself, exhales and drops to his knees, as though his legs can no longer hold him upright. His shoulders droop as he bows his head. Emotions stir in Cenric’s eyes as he puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
The touch seems to revive Praxis. He bolts up, meets my eyes with tears shining in his. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. I give him a small smile and nod my head. He turns and strides away from the group, and Cenric follows him.
“You did it, Sol,” Every says, her voice full of awe as she caresses the baby’s head.
Hero, who had stood behind me as I healed Edvard, backs up, giving us space. His jaw clenches as his eyes lock on the scorched buildings.
A long shuddering breath escapes me as I clutch Edvard closer and try to not worry about Hector. He still hasn’t returned.
“He’ll be all right,” Everly says.
I assume she’s talking about the baby, but when I look up, she’s staring to the right. I follow her gaze. Praxis is doubled over—his hands on his knees. Cenric squats in front of Praxis, says something to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder again.
Edvard moves slightly in my arms. Though his eyes are closed, I know he’s only resting. His cheeks have never been rosier. I press my fingers against his neck, still needing to feel that proof. A smile stretches across my lips at the throbbing beneath my fingertips.
I helped his mother bring him into this world, and I just gave him a second chance. A powerful urge to protect him sweeps over me. The need to ensure no harm comes to him.
I look for Hale and find that he hasn’t moved from his spot beside Mildred. I tell Everly to follow me. When we reach the gelding, Mildred hands Hale’s reins to me. She dips her head ever so slightly.
Everly holds the baby as I mount Hale. The moment I’m settled against the horse’s back, she hands Edvard to me, and I bring him close. I want to take the baby away from this place before more evil can touch him. For a moment, I contemplate riding off, slipping past Hero and making my escape with Edvard in my arms. But the baby wouldn’t survive long in these conditions with no milk. And I refuse to leave without him—not until I’m sure he’ll be all right.
A headache throbs behind my eyes as my attention shifts to Hector as he returns with Luc. My breath catches at the sight of him striding across the scorched street. Fierceness smolders behind his eyes, but they soften when he meets my gaze.
The Bloodstone warriors build pyres, preparing to send their people to the afterlife. It shouldn’t be this way between the six Tarrobane tribes. There should be harmony—the kind of harmony Everly spoke of.
