She pushed herself halfway upright, dazed. Her hair was tangled with leaves, blood staining her arm, but she appeared unharmed.
“I am fine—” She winced. “The fall knocked the wind from me.”
A tide of relief slammed into me. I pressed a hand gently to the small of her back, grounding her. Grounding myself. And to my stunned, unguarded delight—she leaned into me.
Quinn settled against my chest, then startled upright. She gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. I followed her gaze.
Clove lay on his side, chest heaving in shallow, frantic jerks, blood pouring from a wound behind his foreleg. The horse’s hind legs kicked weakly, hooves scraping against the damp earth.
“Oh no,” Quinn whispered. Her voice cracked as she crawled toward Clove, throat tight. “I am so sorry. I am so desperately sorry.”
I started forward, but Branrir caught my arm, shaking his head. “Let her.”
Though I had no idea what the man meant, I listened.
Quinn knelt beside the horse, resting one trembling hand between Clove’s dark eyes. Her other lifted, her palm open to thesky. She took a deep inhale. The air was charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
She was summoning her magic.
Twilight.
It was…breathtaking.
Silver light shimmered over her skin, as if moonlight shone from within her. From her palms, veils of color unfurled—greens and violets and rose-gold hues, rippling and shifting like the aurora across a winter sky.
Clove stilled. His shudders slowed. Breathing eased. His glassy eyes fluttered closed—not in terror, but in quiet peace. And then, finally, the horse fell into a deep and final sleep. Painless. Gentle. The kind we all hope for.
The magic faded slowly, retreating into her like the tide. Quinn sagged forward, resting her brow against the Clove’s neck, her breath hitching once.
I’d lost all ability to speak. I’d seen temples gilded in gold, Saints memorialized in glass, hurricanes of Hearth flame, and fields harvested the same day as planting at the bidding of a Hedge.
None of it prepared me for this.
Forher.
And I was helplessly, thoroughly undone.
The forest returned to stillness. Quinn moved away from Clove’s unmoving body and sat propped against a tree. She drew her knees to her chest, hairline damp with sweat. She didn’t speak as Thistle crouched beside her and dabbed at the gash along her arm with a clean cloth.
“Head looks fine,” Thistle said, brushing aside a few stubborn strands to inspect the bump above Quinn’s temple. “You’ll be sore. But you’ll live.”
“Good,” I muttered, too low for anyone but her to hear.
Quinn glanced at me, a faint huff escaping her nose, as ifeven that small sound cost too much energy. Breathless, she said, “I need a moment to gather my strength, and then I shall walk.”
The moment the words left her mouth, something in me lurched. “No,” I said immediately. Too loud. Too fast.
Her brows lifted along with everyone else’s.
“I meant…” I cleared my throat and returned my sword to its scabbard. “You should ride. With me.”
A pause stretched.
Branrir pressed his lips together. Thistle looked between us with far too much amusement. Even Vesper, perched smugly on a low branch, cocked his head, savoring the spectacle.
I scrambled for an explanation. “Because of the tether,” I added, aiming for logic. “And it’s safer. In case anything else attacks.”
Thistle’s mouth twitched. Branrir outright grinned.
