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But nothing happens.

“Open your eyes now, Sabar.”

Dawsyn sighs. She opens them. She expects to see Baltisse frowning. Instead, a flickering catches her eye. In her palm is a small flame, no bigger than that of a candle, moving languidly in the still air.

A stuttered breath leaves her. The flame is hot but doesn’t burn. It came from her. Itisher. She looks back to Baltisse, who smiles knowingly.

“Dawsyn?” comes a voice.

Into the clearing steps Ryon, his eyes wide.

For a moment, Dawsyn and Ryon only stare at one another. Ryon’s eyes shift between her hand and her face, and when their eyes meet, Dawsyn can’t help but smile widely. Awed. Triumphant.Look,she wants to say.Look what I made.

Ryon’s eyes soften. A grin creeps into his cheeks. His laughter is a soft huff of astonishment.

Dawsyn’s hand trembles, but it isn’t the fire. The magic beneath her palm isn’t a cause of strain or discomfort. What makes her shake is the man ahead of her, who looks at her with that unflinching wonder, despite all she’s done.

It only lasts a moment, that glowing pride. That wonderful weightlessness.

A breeze tumbles through the clearing and the flame sways and flickers wearily.

Then Dawsyn yells, collapses, and the flame extinguishes altogether.

As though a hand had gripped her stomach, there is an almighty pull within her, and she goes down. Her shoulder hits the earth first and her breath is forced from her. Something is crushing her organs from within. Something is squeezing, twisting, and she cries out with each pull.

“Dawsyn!” she hears.

Ryon, she thinks.

CHAPTERFORTY-TWO

“Dawsyn?” Ryon calls again, his hands on her shoulders. But Dawsyn only writhes on the ground, her face the picture of pain, her body curled into a ball.

“Baltisse!” he shouts, but the mage is already there, already kneeling over Dawsyn’s form. “What’s wrong with her?” he demands.

“The iskra.”

“FIX IT!”

“Ican’t!” Baltisse’s eyes beseech him, just as desperate as he is. In his panic, he wants to demand that she try something. He wants to find the iskra inside of her and cut it out. Dawsyn cries out again and he almost does it. Her face turns slowly redder, and he cannot just sit here, he can’t just watch her twist and scream and do nothing.

His blood cools and his wings appear. He’ll carry her somewhere, anywhere. He has no plan in mind, just the desperate need to do something. But just as he’s about to collect her from the ground, she stills. As though something had her in its clutches, she is released. She goes limp. Her eyes open, a lighter brown here in the sun, and her breaths drag through her teeth a little slower.

Ryon feels his wings sag as relief sets in. “Dawsyn?”

She only breathes in rattling gasps. Sweat dampens her brow, her hair, but she nods her head. She can hear him.

Ryon pushes the strands of loose hair back behind her ear and lowers his forehead to her side for a moment, calming himself. He takes one breath, then another.

She’s all right,he thinks, soothing the race of his pulse.

It is Baltisse who continues to look on with dread. Her eyes, always so tumultuous, are now morbidly still, and she looks upon Dawsyn as though she were facing the gallows. As though death hung over her head.

Just as quick, Ryon’s panic returns.What is it?he thinks, knowing the mage will hear.

Baltisse doesn’t look at him, doesn’t deign to answer him. For a moment, she only watches Dawsyn. The mage’s jaw works back and forth, her teeth grinding with the storm of her thoughts. Finally, she turns to Ryon.

“Help me bring her back to camp,” Baltisse says calmly. “She’ll need to rest a while.”