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Reaching the bank, she shook off the stinging in her palms, the scent of her blood stronger than that of the river, and wiped the blood from her torn knees. She’d liked these leggings, damn it. Mud came away with the blood, and she clicked her tongue as she wiped her hand along the rock wall, trying to smear it away.

She realized too late that she’d smudged the blood and dirt over a carving of two serene, lute-playing Fae females. With an apologetic look to them and their long-dead carver, Bryce continued on. And on. And on.

* * *

“Your hands aren’t healing,” Azriel said from behind Bryce the next day. Or whenever it was now, considering that they’d all slept for a few hours with nothing in the darkness to indicate the passing of time. Bryce had dozed lightly, fitfully, aware of every drip of moisture and scrape of rock in the tunnel, the breathing from the warriors beside her.

She knew they’d been monitoring her every breath.

After a quick meal, they’d been on their way. And apparently, Azriel hadn’t missed the scent of her hands still leaking blood.

Nesta halted ahead, as if concerned by Azriel’s words, and when the female backtracked, hand outstretched, Bryce showed her scraped-up palms.

“Something in the water?” Nesta murmured to Azriel.

“Her knees healed,” Azriel murmured back.

Bryce didn’t want to know how he knew that. She peered at her raw, scraped hands, the smeared blood and lingering mud on them. “Maybe my magic’s weird down here. It’d explain why the star is doing its … GPS thing.”

Her tongue stumbled over the GPS pronunciation in their language, but if they had no idea what the Hel she was talking about, they didn’t let on.

Instead, Azriel asked, “How fast do you usually heal?” He reached for her hand, her starlight washing over the golden skin of his own hands … and the scars there. Covering every inch.

She’d seen them during their first encounter on that misty riverbank, but had forgotten until now. She’d never seen such extensive burn scars.

The sword and dagger, so close now, began their thrumming and tugging. Her hearing hollowed out, her gut with it.

Azriel’s wings twitched once again.

But Bryce said of her bleeding hands, blocking out the blades’ call, “I’m half-human, so I’m used to slower healing, but since making the Drop, I’ve been healing at relatively normal Vanir speeds.”

Nesta must have been filled in on the Drop as well, because she didn’t question what it was. She only said, “Maybe it has something to do with your magic needing so long to replenish, too.”

“Again,” Azriel reminded them, “her knees have healed.”

Bryce glanced at the thick scarring over his fingers. What—who—had done such a brutal thing to him? And though she knew it was dumb to open up, to show any vulnerability, she said quietly, “The male who fathered me … he used to burn my brother to punish him. The scars never healed for him, either.” Ruhn had just tattooed over them. A fact she’d only learned right before she’d come here, and knowing about the pain he’d suffered—

Azriel dropped her hand. But he said nothing as he stepped back, far enough away that the sword and dagger stopped chattering to Bryce. If they continued plaguing him, he made no sign. He only motioned them to keep moving before prowling off into the gloom, taking the lead this time. Bryce watched him for a moment before following, heart heavy in her chest for some reason she couldn’t place.

Nesta continued down the tunnel, this time staying a little closer to Bryce. The female said a shade quietly, “I’m sorry about your brother’s suffering.”

The words steadied Bryce, focused her. “I’ll make sure my sire pays for it one day.”

“Good” was all Nesta said. “Good.”

* * *

“Tell me about the Daglan.” Bryce’s voice echoed too loudly in the otherwise silent cave from where she sat against the tunnel wall, a carving of three dancing Fae females above her. The scent of her blood filled the cave, the wounds on her hands still open and bleeding. Not enough to be alarming, but a small, steady ooze every now and then.

Azriel and Nesta, sitting beside each other with the ease of familiarity, both frowned. Nesta said, “I don’t know anything about them.” She considered, then added, “I slew one of their contemporaries, though. About seven months ago.”

Bryce’s brows rose. “So not an Asteri—Daglan, I mean?”

Azriel shifted. Nesta glanced sidelong at him, marking the movement, but said to Bryce, “I don’t think so. The creature—Lanthys—was a breed unto himself. He was … horrible.”

Bryce angled her head. “How did you kill him?”

Nesta said nothing.