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Nox lifted a hand to one of the horns curving out from their forehead. “The nearest spring on this side of the Chasm is the one that runs beneath the Sacred Mountain.”

“Yes,” said Ignatius. “We didn’t know that doing so meant we’d have to channel. That the runes were needed in order to make those reports, to keep tabs on the strength of the spring. Neither of us had used blood magic before, other than to make our oaths.”

Kit snorted again. “Yet you swore one to him all the same.”

Ignatius’s head snapped to her. “We hail from a tiny village on the northern edge of the Chasm, so small and so precariously positioned that having swaths of our land crumble into the great abyss is a regular occurrence. If someone came around promising your family a better life in exchange for your loyalty, would you not do the same?”

“The Chasm is expanding?” said Zephyr with a panicked gasp.

“Why wouldn’t you just leave?” asked Kit at the same time.

Cedric swallowed his own horror. He’d never heard of such things, and having grown up on the very edge of the Chasm himself, surely he would have known if the abyss was growing, if it still posed the same danger it had when it first ripped through the continent—swallowing villages, tearing families apart.

Wouldn’t he?

He shook his head. With Lord Church’s secret identity as Varyth Malchior and all those sanguinagi powers at work, there was no telling how many lies Cedric had been fed, how much he had missed.

“Like it’s so easy to up and leave,” Ignatius hissed, his eyes narrowing on the silver-and-gold wings peeking over Kit’s shoulders. “Perhaps it is—as long as you’ve those things to carry you away. Or if you’ve got gold lining your pockets. Not all of us are so lucky. Some of us have others to think about. Families.” He swallowed. “Children.”

Some unnamed emotion flashed across Kit’s face.

“So, yes, when Varyth Malchior swept through years ago, offering mana and riches and a chance to provide a better life for our loved ones, we were hardly in a position to say no,” Ignatius continued. “And when he finally returned and revealed himself to be none other than Malakar in the flesh, when he demanded we reaffirm our oaths, there was little choice but to do so.”

“Go back,” Cedric said guardedly, trying to ignore the clenching of his heart. This story was starting to feel too familiar. It was so close to what the boy from Dawnspire, Avery, had said of the village’s involvement in the attack there. “What does Malakar care about a single mana spring on the other side of the continent?”

Ignatius’s jaw worked. The muscles in his neck went taut, his face reddening. “It’s—it’s because . . .” He coughed, spat more blood, then tried again. “Malakar—he—he wants⁠—”

Cedric stilled, narrowing his eyes.

A strangled sound tore free from Ignatius. “I can’t.”

The words seemed to snag in his throat like they were caught on a hook.

Nox gave a curious tilt of their head. “He is blood-bound.”

“We knew that already, didn’t we?” said Thraigg. “All sanguinagi bastards swear an oath to the blood king, the loons.”

“And that was before they even knew he was coming back,” added Kit under her breath.

Cedric looked to Nox. “What do you mean?”

“There is clearly some sort of binding built into his oath. It prevents him from speaking on Malakar’s goals or whereabouts.” They shrugged. “I said as much before.”

“I do not believe this man is capable of revealing anything more than he already has.” Nox’s earlier words took on new meaning in Cedric’s mind, and he released a long breath.

“Ye might’ve been a wee bit clearer on that, Noxie.” Thraigg gave an exasperated shake of his head, the beads in his braid jingling. “Before Ric went and bloodied up those pretty knuckles of his.”

Nox shrugged. “The Lord Victor’s efforts were already well underway by the time I realized. And it isn’t as though I would have come to that realization without a few bruised knuckles. Besides, who am I to thwart a prince’s vengeance?”

Shaking out his fist, Cedric sighed. The furnace in his chest rolled back to a dull simmer. “It’s fine. If he physically can’t tell us anything else, there’s no point in continuing this. Untie him.”

Tristan moved toward Ignatius, but a disapproving huff from Kit had the knight’s steps faltering.

“You aren’t serious?” she said, voice rising in pitch. “You’re just going to let them go?”

Tristan’s eyes darted between Cedric and Kit, like he wasn’t sure whose instruction he was supposed to follow.

Cedric gave his friend a pat on the shoulder before stepping forward himself. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “I won’t break a man⁠—”