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And then he returns.

His eyes are shadowed, his expression flat. He’s bandaged his arm, but I can see splotches of blood leaking through. He steers clear of Rythos, replying only to questions about our travels, and only with the occasional grunt.

Before I know it, before I’m truly ready, it’s time to leave. And this time, I hug each of them—even Demos. Calysian tightens Fox’s girth, nodding once at the others before turning to mount his horse.

“We’ll write,” Asinia promises.

And then they’re gone.

My eyes burn as I mount Hope, following Calysian back to the road. We ride in silence for hours, reaching the southern tip of the Lacana mountains and the border between Dracmire and Evethia. Eamonn is nowhere to be seen, although I’m sure he’s up to something. He was, after all, the one who found Asinia and the others.

When we stop to water the horses, Calysian finally speaks. “Did you know Rythos was going to attempt to snare me with his power?”

His words are a low rumble, and I have to force myself to meet his cold eyes.

“Yes.”

He stares at me for a long moment, as if expecting me to snatch the word back.

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I’m sorry. You’re a threat, Calysian. We had to know if you could be contained.”

His eyes ice over, and suddenly, I’m speaking with Calpharos.

“Contained. I’d have thought your experience with such horrors would keep you from inflicting them on others.”

I wince. “Calysian.”

“It was a good plan. Pity it didn’t work.”

“I—”

He mounts his horse, and nudges Fox into a canter. A dull throb begins in my temples, rivaling the ache in my chest.

The ground turns pitted and rocky, and we’re forced to slow our pace as we traverse the foothills. There are no signs of any temples here, but sharp ridges of stone lay across the earth, sparse patches of grass clinging to the rocky terrain, the blades yellowed and brittle.

Boulders—some larger than the horses—are scattered across the slopes, streaked with moss and lichen. The air still smells of pine and damp stone, although the trees have been replaced by twisted shrubs.

The path slopes unevenly with loose gravel. To our right, the valley sprawls into the distance, interrupted by rivers that glint like molten silver in the sunlight.

I catch Calysian’s eyes on my face, intent on my bruised cheek. He seems obsessed with the evidence of Haldrik’s duplicity, and I give him a tentative smile.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

A bitter smile curves his lips. “And still you lie to me.”

“It…throbs occasionally. That’s all.”

A sharp nod. “I’m glad you got to see your friends.”

It’s a difficult subject—especially now. But at least he’s speaking to me.

“You…you don’t have many friends, do you?”

He glances away. “I have Eamonn. And I have…associates in various kingdoms. We’ve worked together over the years.”

But they’ve always died. I can see it in the tightening of his lips, in the way his eyes glint with ancient sorrow when he turns his head.

My skin suddenly feels too tight, my stomach twisting viciously. I’ve seen how touch-starved Calysian is, how he struggles to relate to mortals, even after walking amongst us for centuries. I saw the occasional crooked smile he gave Asinia when she teased him about his true nature. The hunger in his eyes when Demos and Rythos ribbed each other good-naturedly.