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“And what happens to the person who tries?” Dawsyn asks, shutting her eyes to mask her fear.

The mage falls silent for far longer than she should, long enough that it becomes a cruelty.

“Baltisse?” Ryon presses, voice strained. “What will happen to Dawsyn?”

Baltisse breathes deeply beyond Dawsyn’s closed eyes. Once, then again.

“I’m afraid, Dawsyn… that you will not sustain this for long. Sooner or later… you will be overcome.”

“And then?” Dawsyn pushes. She needs to hear the mage say it aloud.

“It will kill you,” Baltisse says quietly, and a great, heavy silence befalls the cabin. Befalls Dawsyn. Befalls the rattling in her head that has ailed her for months.

It will kill her.

“I believe the mage magic sees the iskra as a contaminant,” Baltisse continues. “It is fighting hard to annihilate it altogether.”

“And what if it succeeds?” Ryon asks.

“It cannot succeed,” Baltisse answers. “Magic cannot be destroyed, no matter its source. If Dawsyn had butdrunkthe iskra it would simply be spent after a time. But the iskra is within her now. It cannot be felled.”

Ryon turns away from them both, his neck and shoulders a landscape of tension. He heaves one great breath, and it shudders through him. Through Dawsyn, too.

“What if I learnt to… manage them?” Dawsyn asks quietly. There is little hope in her voice.

“I…” Baltisse stumbles. “We will try.”

“But you believe I will fail.” It is not a question. The mage has never looked at Dawsyn with pity before; she would not be doing so now if her fate were not sealed.

“I believe that you have astounded me before,” Baltisse says softly. “You may stave off that war inside you a little longer yet.”

Ryon spins, his face a myriad of taut lines. “What should we do?” he asks. “Tell me what to do!”

“Nothing, Ryon,” Baltisse says ruefully. “We do nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No,” she says. “What happened in the clearing today… it will grow worse. We must try to slow its progression. We keep Dawsyn calm, keep the two sides of her magic away from each other. If the iskra does not rear its head, the mage magic should not have a reason to strangle it.”

“And if it does?” Dawsyn asks. And even now she feels the iskra creep into her palms, unbidden, attaching itself to the chaos of her thoughts, her emotions.

They all watch as it quietly spreads, lighting her hands with a cold, ethereal glint.

“Then it may strangle you with it,” Baltisse breathes.

CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR

Dawsyn leaves the cabin with limbs that do not feel her own, in skin she does not fit. Her mind is… heavy. So unbearably heavy. That, at least, is familiar.

She hears Ryon follow her out into the lingering afternoon light, but the last thing she wants is to turn and read in his eyes every revelation they heard inside that cabin.

The campsite is full. Hector, Ruby, Esra, Salem, Rivdan. She does not wish to face them either.

She turns to the forest.

“Dawsyn?” Ryon calls.

“I am all right,” she says hastily, continuing into the trees. “I need a moment.”