When the light fades, the creature claws at the ground, trying to right itself. Its wings are splayed awkwardly, and one seems broken. I won’t flinch this time. It shrieks again, black eyes focusing on me as I bear down with the sword.
“Magesmith,” it growls, claws flexing.
I don’t care what else it might say, and I don’t get the chance to learn. I drive that sword right into its chest, thrusting so hard that it presses into the grass underneath. The scraver is gasping, scrabbling for the weapon, but it’s all the way through its body, and it can’t get a grip.
I don’t care. I turn and run back to Alek.
My breathing is still so loud, my heart hammering against my ribs. The vivid red of his jacket is in shreds across his chest and abdomen, and blood is everywhere.
I press my hands against his wounds, whimpering. “Please.Please.” But he’s so still, not moving. His face has gone ashen. Blood sticks to my fingers, and I wait for those sparks and stars to flare in my blood again.
Another icy wind blows across my skin, and I snap my head up.
“I already killed one of you,” I cry, and my voice breaks. “I can do it again.”
For a moment, another breeze lifts my hair . . . ?but then it’s gone.
I look back at Alek. He’s still not moving.
But the bleeding has slowed. Is that my magic? Or is he simply dying?
I shift my hands, seeking further injury. I can feel the sparks andstars again, and I take a slow breath, trying to remember how it felt when I helped to heal my little sister.
And then, bit by bit, his skin begins to knit back together.
A sob of relief breaks free of my chest—and then again, when Alek’s eyes open, and he inhales sharply.
I choke on my breath. “Hold still,” I say, and I realize I’m crying. I shift my hands. “Please—I’m not—I’m not done—”
He makes an agonized sound, then clenches his jaw, going silent. He’s breathing through his teeth, almost panting like a wounded animal.
“I’m sorry,” I say, remembering how quick the king was. He surely has a lot more practice. “I’m trying to be quick.”
When I shift my hands again, his eyes clench closed, but he doesn’t make a sound. Every muscle on his frame is tighter than a bowstring.
But then the wounds are closed, and all that’s left are the shallower scratches across his shoulder, with one along the lowest part of his jaw.
I lift my hand to reach for those, and he grabs hold of my wrist.
The motion is quick. Sharp. Almost painful. It steals my breath.
“I’m not done,” I gasp. “Let me help—”
“Youaredone.”
His voice is low and dark, almost a growl. At first I can’t figure out why. But his blue eyes are so cold, his expression full of betrayal.
And then I get it.
It’s too much, especially after everything we didbeforethe scraver arrived. I swallow and glance at his hand, still holding my wrist. “Alek—”
“Magic, Callyn?” His breathing is almost shaking. Anger? Or fear?
“You were dying! I didn’tknow—” His grip tightens, and I gasp, then jerk against his hold. “You’re hurting me.”
He lets go so suddenly that I nearly fall in the road. I rub at my wrist, but he gets to his feet, glaring down at me.
“Ihelpedyou,” I snap, climbing to my feet.
