Sarelle's threads lashed out, silver light cutting through the growing darkness. They should have wrapped around him, should have sliced through scale and flesh. Instead, he moved through them like smoke, if smoke could have teeth and claws. One moment he stood by Ashford's body, the next he had Sarelle by the throat, lifting her off the ground.
"You fae always think you're so superior," he said, his tone light and cordial, as though they were having tea. "But in the end you burn just like everything else.
His free hand erupted in flame. Not the orange one might expect, but white-hot, tinged with blue at the edges. Sarelle screamed, her silver threads dissolving to nothing. The third fae, Briar hadn't even seen him move, was already backing toward the stone walls.
"Run," the Drak suggested helpfully, his eyes never leaving Sarelle. "It's more fun when you run."
The fae turned and scrambled up the wall with desperate speed. The Drak watched him go, head tilted with interest, still holding Sarelle like she weighed nothing.
"Should I chase him?" he asked, and it took Briar a moment to realize he was askingher. "I do enjoy a good chase, but you're bleeding quite badly. More than before, actually. You really should work on not bleeding so much."
Sarelle clawed at his scaled hand, her perfect face turning purple. He glanced at her with mild annoyance.
"Oh, right. Still holding this." He opened his hand. Sarelle dropped, gasping, and tried to crawl away. He stepped on her back almost absently, pressing her flat. "What to do with this one…"
"Please," Briar whispered. She wasn't even sure who she was pleading with or for what.
He looked at her again, those reptilian eyes bright with interest. "Are you asking me to spare her? The one who was about to kill you? That seems poorly thought out, even for a human."
"I just—" Briar tried to push herself up, but her body wouldn't cooperate. "I don't want to watch—"
"Then close your eyes," he suggested reasonably.
Briar squeezed them shut, but she could still see the light through her eyelids, bright white-blue, hot enough that she felt the heat wash over her even from several feet away. Sarelle's scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a sound like logs cracking in a fireplace. The smell of burning flesh and something else, something sweetly acrid, filled the air.
Briar gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.
When she opened her eyes, Sarelle was still standing there. Or rather, the shape of her was. A perfectly formed sculpture of ash and char, holding its position for oneimpossible moment before the slight breeze caused it to collapse in on itself. Black flakes drifted down like snow, some still glowing at the edges.
The Drak was examining his hands, little flames still dancing between his fingers before he shook them out like someone drying their hands.
"Much cleaner than the first one," he observed with satisfaction. "Though the smell is rather unfortunate." He turned to her, and something in his expression shifted. "You're about to pass out."
She wanted to deny it, but the edges of her vision were already going dark. The last thing she saw was him moving toward her, no longer casual but quick, catching her before she hit the ground.
"Humans," she heard him mutter. "So fragile."
Then nothing.
She was back in the Star Court's garden, but everything felt wrong. The colors were muted, like looking through frosted glass, and Arion stood with his back to her, perfectly still.
"You have to be here somewhere," he said, but not to her. His voice carried that gentle determination she remembered, the voice that had promised to keep looking for answers. "The forest can't hide everything."
He turned, and she tried to call out, but no sound came. His eyes looked right through her, searching for something that wasn't there. Light gathered in his palms, that cold, beautiful radiance that had once forced Eliam's mark dormant.
The scene shifted. Now he stood at the edge of a ravine staring down into darkness.
"She fell here," someone said. "The blood trail ends."
Sian?
"Then she survived the fall." Arion's light flared brighter, illuminating the depths. "I need to—"
The dream fractured, splintering into sensations: warmth against her back, rhythmic movement, someone humming tunelessly.
Briar's eyes opened to see trees passing overhead, their branches dark against a star-filled sky. She was moving, but not under her own power. Someone was carrying her, their gait steady and unhurried. Her arms were draped over shoulders that radiated unnatural warmth, and when she turned her head slightly, she caught sight of scales glinting in the moonlight.
"—should have been more specific about direction," the Drak was saying, as if continuing a conversation. "Though I suppose precision becomes difficult when you're bleeding out."
