I knew that look. I'd worn it my whole life. Every instinct told me to help her, not hurt her.
Something glinted at her throat—a thin band of blackened metal, almost hidden beneath her hair. I crouched lower, my stomach clenching.
I held out my hand, not quite touching her.
Magic, dark and oily, slithered against my senses like something rotting. It coiled around the collar, pulsing with a sickly energy that made my skin crawl.
This wasn’t loyalty. This wasn’t service.
The harpy was a prisoner.
My blood boiled. I knew what it felt like to be trapped, to be used. And the queen had done this to this poor creature.
“Oh god,” I breathed. “She’s not serving the queen. She’s enslaved.”
I thought of Keir’s harpies—the way they’d looked at Nyx with something close to devotion. They’d chosen to serve. Chosen to be loyal. And in return, they’d been treated with respect.
This wasn't that. This was cruelty. And I couldn't walk away from it.
What would happen if we had a harpy loyal to us?
It was a long shot. Impossible probably. But impossible was supposed to be my specialty now, wasn’t it?
I had to try.
Archer appeared beside me, his boots silent on the forest floor. Before I could speak, he had another arrow nocked, the string drawn back, his aim steady on the wounded harpy.
“No!” The word tore from my throat.
He released.
Stop.
Heat swirled around my wrist—sharp and immediate. The medallion on my bracelet burned against my skin, and when I glanced down, something new was etching itself into the gold. A thin line, curving around the face of the medallion.
Like the second hand on a clock.
The arrow hung frozen in the air, inches from the harpy’s throat.
I didn't wait to marvel at it. I ran, closing the distance between us, my boots pounding against the dirt, my heart slamming against my ribs. A glance over my shoulder showed Archer fighting to follow—his movements sluggish, pushing against the edges of the frozen world.
The harpy saw me coming. She let out a weak cry and tried to skid away, her talons scraping the ground. But she barely moved an inch. Too weak. Too broken.
I dropped to my knees beside her.
Angry red lashes crisscrossed her skin—some fresh, some scarred over, layered on top of each other like a map of endless cruelty. Dried blood. Open wounds. Evidence of torture that had gone on for far longer than I wanted to imagine.
My stomach heaved. My eyes burned.
The queen had broken her.
I seized the arrow and hurled it away from the harpy’s throat. My hands were shaking. My breath came in ragged gasps.
Archer grabbed me by the arm—his grip like iron—and dragged me backward.
“No!” I twisted against him. “Let me go!”
He didn’t even slow down. His face was set, determined, as he hauled me toward the path back to Nowhere Grotto. To safety. Away from her.
