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“Right.” Another breath, more clarity.

The cots were set up in rows, dozens of Sorcerit bustling to and fro as they readied for the inevitable influx. From her portion of the ether, Lunara hauled out a small crate filled with half of the silver flasks.

“Brand’s offerings to me,” she said, tucking one into each pocket and handing Amal two more to do the same.

The ajma hid them away. “And the rest?”

“To be stashed there.” She pointed to a chest against the canvas wall behind her station and the lid opened on her command—a gift from Lyriat to her and Brand, made with the same magic as the Dominion of Demons and their chamber door. “No one else but those in our core group are allowed to open it. May I have your hand, and do I have permission to draw your blood?”

The blood magic of the Demons was a wholly different thing to whatever Araxis and the Council had gotten themselves into—an invisible key, and nothing more, thank the moons.

Amal didn’t hesitate, presenting her palm. “You do.”

The tiniest prick on her finger and a burgundy drop welled. Lunara pressed it to the carved knot on the front. It bled into the cracks, a flicker of golden sunlight flashing, and was absorbed.

“Wait until I’m half dead, Amal,” Lunara murmured, squeezing her hand and healing the small wound. “Until you’re convinced I can’t possibly go on without it. We need to reserve it as long as we can because everyone needs their strength. Feeding from all of you is a last resort.”

“How will I know when it’s time?”

“Trust me, I’m very good at masking my condition. If you can see for yourself that it’s bad…” Lunara loosed a rueful chuckle. “It’s bad and I need it.”

Foggy, familiar power swelled. Araxis appeared with an unconscious, naked Wolflord in his arms. “This one will be fine with another healer. More are coming that need you specifically,” he rushed out, depositing the creature onto a nearby bed and misting away.

A final breath, Lunara preparing her mind to enter that place where time wasn’t real. Where flesh knit and bones were mended. Where power was exchanged for pain over minutes and hours and days.

Where she broke, so others could heal.

Lunara opened her eyes just as Araxis returned and embraced the chaos.

Gritting his teeth, Brand called to the earth and commanded it upwards to seize yet another bloody Forgotten within a box of stone.

It went against everything he believed to spare them, but Luna insisted.

Two nearby Sorcerit wrapped the small prison in luminescent power and lumped the shrieking creature in with all the others. Araxis would be by soon to transport them to the border, where they would eventually push the mass into the Ghostwood.

Brand didn’t give a single fuck how they got themselves free. They were lucky to still be pulling air into their wretched bodies.

Their latest push was nearing its end, Solyrian dipping behind the distant, eastern horizon. He didn’t doubt that the night watches would encounter their own troubles, as they had for the last few days, but he’d done his part. His body was utterly drained, ready to collapse from his efforts.

The air was not fulfilling in Thodelebor anymore. Every breath was thin, something foul attached that coated the back of his tongue, too reminiscent of Night for comfort. He found himself gasping more often than not, Pet and Amun no better.

Brand suspected whatever was brokenly rippling across the sky had something to do with it. He’d never seen its like, but the colors reminded him of Luna’s moonlit shield in some ways, its rainbow iridescence singular. Cosmic. Probably to do with the bloody Sisters somehow.

Still, it had been too easy. The monsters they faced seemed to meet them halfheartedly, and Brand couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that he might be the reason for it.

Reports from the north and south painted a very different picture than what he and his brothers were experiencing. The violence in some sections was devastating. Meanwhile, he had yet to see a single dreadbeast with his own eyes after three days, which was utterly ridiculous. He, Magnus, and Amun should’ve been the first to face them, not the only ones escaping their ire.

“Brand!” Magnus called from across the field, pulling a robe on as he closed the distance. “We’re stopping here to rest for the night.”

Faldir was right on his heels, axe blades covered in more gore than they technically should’ve been, but Brand didn’t care. “There’s a nasty swamp patch up ahead that we can’t navigate in the dark.”

“A swamp that wasn’t fucking there a few months ago,” Mag said, eyes on the distance.

Brand accepted a waterskin from Driana the Orespinner. The towering Sorcerit was a most capable warrior if ever there was one—undoubtedly being wasted here where there was hardly anything to fight.

“We need to rethink how we’re doing this,” he said, taking a sip and handing it down to Mag. “I suppose it’s going well enough, but…”

Stars above, it just wasn’t right.