Shadows bend around him like armor.
I press myself against Ashwing and the foal as more wolves prowl the edge of the glade. Brimstone screams, charging into the fray. One goes flying back and doesn’t rise again. Aetherion kicks another into the stream.
And then—silence.
The last wolf collapses, and the rest flee into the trees, leaving the clearing in shocked stillness.
Ashwing breathes in slow, shallow pants. The colt lies curled at her side, his delicate wings glinting like moonlight.
Keiren’s knees give out, and he collapses with a gasp—sword slack in his grip, black veins still pulsing across his throat and chest. The raging blackness spreads over his skin like fire.
I run to him and reach to support his weight, careful not to touch his skin. His breathing is labored. Thin lines of blood trail down from his mouth and nose.
“Leave me,” he chokes out. “Take the horses and go.”
I ponder his words and glance back at Ashwing. Her foal has finally wobbled to his feet and begun nursing. If I leave Keiren, I could ride back to the keep—or perhaps even return home.
But if I do, he’ll surely die or be claimed by whatever horror the curse is inflicting on him. And as much as I long for home, for this nightmare to end, every fiber in my body refuses to leave him here to die. Not after he saved my life.
I curse under my breath and whistle for Brimstone, who turns and races over.
“Arcus!” I command, and he kneels down. With all my strength, I just barely manage to help Keiren rise enough to fling him over Brimstone’s back like a saddlebag, then hop on behind him.
“Currere!” I yell, and all four of us race for the trees, Ashwing encouraging the gangly foal along behind us.
The moment we cross the boundary, the black sickness tainting Keiren’s body recedes, and his breathing eases. We keep riding as fast as we can manage, farther into the canopy toward the stream we crossed. I order Brimstone to kneel, then drag Keiren from the saddle and roll him gently onto his back.
I gingerly touch the wound at his side where one of the wolves managed to bite him. I press the back of my hand against his forehead. It’s scalding to the touch; whatever magic caused the black veins has left him with a punishing fever.
I look around and see exactly what I need: meadowsweet,Filipendula ulmaria, commonly found in damp environments like stream banks and marshy areas. It’s a powerful pain reliever and, when combined with willow bark or moonbeam root in tea, will stop infections and cure fevers—both of which he desperately needs right now.
Working as fast as I can, I gather dry twigs to build a small fire. I crush the herbs together, mashing them into a paste I use to clean his wounds, wrapping them with torn strips of my tunic.
Hours later, the fire crackles low between us, casting flickering gold across the moss and bark around us. Keiren lies on his side, propped against a smooth stone, his breathing still uneven. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past few hours while I press a damp cloth to his fevered skin, mixing salves between checking on the colt—Moonbeam, I’ve decided to call him—and making sure Ashwing keeps drinking from the stream.
Keiren’s eyes flutter open again, hazy but focused. His voice is rough, like it’s been dragged across gravel. “Fire… are you… alright?” he finally manages.
I nod. “Yes. The foal and the mare are fine, too.” I gesture across the fire to where Ashwing and her colt are curled together. Brimstone and Aetherion stand on either side of them like sentries.
Keiren tries to sit up.
“Don’t—” I surge forward, pushing him back with both hands. “Damn it, don’t move!”
His back hits the stone again with a terse groan.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You stupid, reckless, highborn prick! It took me forever to get you to stop bleeding.”
His brow lifts in amusement, still as sardonic as ever, even through the pain. But I ignore him, instead reaching for the last clean strip of cloth.
The back of my tunic lifts with the motion—shorter now from all the places I’ve torn to make bandages—and the breeze cuts across my exposed spine.
I freeze as Keiren’s gaze sharpens, quickly covering my burn scar with one hand.
But it’s too late. He notices. Ofcoursehe notices. He doesn’t press me on it, though, just watches me with that unreadable intensity as I resume unwrapping his ribs and applying salve. The silence stretches taut as a bowstring between us.
Finally, he breaks it. “Did you just call me a prick?” he rasps.
I scowl and tighten the bandage just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. “You shouldn’t have crossed the boundary line.”
