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He fumbled around and got his back against the trunk. The clearing of camp seemed leagues away, a tangle of writhing men and beasts; kicked fires had caught several tents, and the blaze roared high and hot, bright enough to make his eyes water. It backlit the drake that had crashed into him, stalking forward on all fours, head tucked and jaws open, fangs gold in the firelight, eyes two burning pits of sulfurous yellow.

Oliver fought to draw a breath, and brought sword and dagger before him, blades crossed, as ready as he could be. When he sent a call to Percy, he was so flooded by panic and desperation, and the impossibility of Percy’s task to fight them all, his rage and sense of impotence, that he closed off the bond between them. He must do this alone, as himself. He tried to recall all of Náli’s, and Bjorn’s, and Erik’s lessons. The tips Magnus had hurled at him while they sparred. But this was no man, and it wouldn’t fight like one.

The drake opened his jaws wide, shrieked, and charged.

From the right, a flash of silver, a wink of lightning.

The drake screamed, and its head flew upward, and, before it toppled to the side and lay dead, Oliver saw the hilt of a large knife protruding through the base of its throat, sunk in the tender, unarmored join between scales.

A man filled the drake’s place, a towering silhouette against the firelight, broad-shouldered, and narrow-waisted. Hair two long, straight sheets over his shoulders.

Oliver could have struck, as the man closed the gap between them, hands obviously empty, the knife lost to the body of the still-twitching drake. He could have run the man through with his sword, and stretched up with a quick flash of his dagger to slit his throat. But he held still, and took a deep breath, finally, because this was a silhouette he recognized.

A hand landed on the tree trunk beside his head, and a face leaned in close, and tilted, so that the firelight slid over pale, regal features, and gleamed on white hair and brows.

Impossibly, Romanus Tyrsbane stood before him, and when he gripped the tip of Oliver’s sword in two gloved fingers and moved the blade aside, Oliver allowed it.

“What – how – what are you doing here?” Oliver asked, still trying to get his breath back.

Romanus’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement, and he brushed the dagger aside as well. “Put these away, you have no need of them, and follow me.”

He stepped aside, and moved around the tree, out of sight.

Oliver stood panting a moment, gaze shifting to the drake on the ground, to the main body of camp, where men were forming up ranks, back-to-back in a circle, spears raised toward the drakes that harried them from the trees. He spotted Rune firing his bow up into the lower branches, Tessa and Estrid flanking him, swords gleaming in the firelight. There was Erik at the center, standing taller than nearly everyone, sword lifted as a signal, a beacon to draw men’s attention, to channel their panic into something useful.

Oliver sheathed his weapons, and ducked around the tree.

In the darkness, Romanus was nothing but a sense of solidity; a shape in the gloom, a silver glimmer of hair and eyes. “Did you bring men as well?” he asked, “or only drakes? Will armored soldiers come pouring out of the forest next?”

“Only the drakes.” He wasn’t imagining it: Romanus was definitely amused. The lilt of his voice threaded with laughter.

Realization dawned, and Oliver’s stomach twisted in an unfamiliar way. Part fear, part anger…part something like flattery. “They’re a distraction,” he accused. “To allow you to see me.”

“I can’t very well see you now, can I?” Something brushed his hand – he jerked – but it was only Romanus’s hand, smooth and cool, large enough to envelop his. “I’ve brought you something.”

“I don’t want it,” Oliver said, but went unresisting when Romanus turned his hand palm-up, and pressed something cold and metallic into the center of it.

“You do,” Romanus insisted. When he drew his hands back, Oliver lifted his own to his face, and squinted through the dark. There was just enough ambient glow from the fire for him to make out a delicate gold chain, and a small chunk of purple stone set in a golden medallion.

“Amethyst?”

“Yes. From the first mines of Seles. It is…an heirloom.”

Oliver searched for his gaze in the dimness, a wink of silver in the shadows. “Why give it to me? So you can track me? So you can find me when you want to do this?” He gestured to camp, its turmoil.

“No,” Romanus said. “It’s a gift.”

“Butwhy? What does itdo?” Oliver’s heart was racing; the furious thrashing of it at the base of his throat was wild enough to choke him. His hands went clammy on the chain, and he nearly threw it out through the trees.

Nearly.

The coin-flare of Romanus’s gaze slanted, as though he’d tilted his head. “It doesn’tdoanything. It’s a jewel. A decoration.”

“But…then…it’s not magical?”

“No.”

“Then why are you giving it to me?”