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Do not let it take me.

Finally, the magic reacts. The light hisses and retracts, resenting the poison’s touch, and then like a tempest, it rages.

The magic floods her. Like a wave, it rises and bears down, filling every bone, every vein, every cell with its light, burning the poison with its frozen touch until Dawsyn herself begins to feel expanded, too filled with its power. At any moment, her body will burst, unable to contain it anymore. The poison is swallowed down to its last lick, and Dawsyn shouts at the immense pressure – or tries to. She feels her chest rise of its own accord, the light and its burn peaking.

And then finally, mercifully, the magic releases her, curling back into itself, back into the dark to wait. Wasted. Worn.

Dawsyn opens her eyes.

“SABAR, so help me! If you shut your eyes again, I will pry them open!” Ryon shouts, his nose nearly touching hers. He leans over her, his hands placed along her throat, atop her heart. “Stay here now, do you hear me?”

She thinks she does, though his voice sounds distant. His lips move too rapidly, and it makes her squint. But she is, thankfully, free of the ache. Free of the heaviness that held her down and inward.

Ryon continues to hover, to talk, his fingers stroking her cheeks, her neck, leaving small sparks of warmth in their wake. How she wishes she could curl herself into those fingers and stay. She watches his eyes dart over her, their deep brown almost matching her own. The thick lashes, the rough jaw, the decadent silk of his eyelids, the slope of his nose. Dawsyn raises her fingers to his lip, running her thumb along its perfect edge, and he sighs with plain relief.

“Do not move,” he tells her. “The poison will spread faster. I’ve sent for a healer–”

“It is gone,” Dawsyn says, her voice hoarse.

“What? Lie still, love. Do not try to speak.”

“It is gone, Ryon. You worry too much.”

Ryon eyes her, still panicked. “What do you mean?”

“The magic… the iskra… whatever that fucking pool gave us… it cured me.”

He looks on, skeptical. “How can you be sure?”

Dawsyn cannot hazard an answer, cannot describe the feel of smoke and light smothering the poison. “You will have to take my word for it.”

He smirks, relief leaking into the huff he lets loose. “You frightened me,” he tells her.

“Who would I be if I let you steal all the sympathy?” Dawsyn murmurs, her eyes falling to his shoulders. “They look tender.”

“They are,” he remarks and presses his lips to hers.

The kiss is softer than they’ve shared. Gentle. She cannot resist the way her mouth melts to his, willing his lips to linger, to stay with hers for as long as they can. She carefully wraps her arms over the back of his neck and holds him to her, and he chuckles against her mouth.

“Aren’t females supposed to favor games of cat and mouse? Hard to get?”

“I’ve no time for those,” she murmurs back. She runs her tongue along his lip.

“How many times must you start what you cannot finish?” Ryon asks, his lips moving to her neck.

“Who says I do not intend to?”

“I do. I’m afraid I cannot tolerate the crowd of onlookers who would be all too glad to see you finish.”

Dawsyn freezes beneath him, and he chuckles once more.

“Come, girl. If you can ravage me, you can stand.”

Ryon helps her to her feet, tenderly turning her chin to see her neck, running his fingers over the place where she was bitten. He takes her to one of the shallow steps and urges her to sit with him. He places a leg either side of her body and pulls her to his chest. She lets her forehead rest beneath his throat. Beneath his bloodied tunic, the dusk of his skin, his heart beats steady, strong. A weariness beckons her, and though there are a thousand questions she ought to ask, she counts the pulse of his blood instead and wonders if she’s ever heard a sound more significant.

Beneath their feet, blood – both pure and mixed – dries upon the floor. The Izgoi shuffle around them. Some begin dragging away the bodies of Glacians.

“Have we won?” Dawsyn asks. It is perhaps all she can bear to voice.