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I flick a glance to Eamonn, who lingers in a branch above us, pretending to mind his own business.

“Your pet bird wouldn’t stop squawking.”

Eamonn swoops to the ground at our feet, and in the blink of an eye, I’m staring at a jaguar. When it lets out a low snarl, I go still.

Calysian eyes him. “Where was that form when the soldiers were attacking, hmm?”

Eamonn merely yawns, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth.

But Calysian turns his attention back to me. “You should have left me. If such a thing happens again, you will run.”

I sneer at him, and he takes a step closer, his face carved into hard lines. “You will do as I say.”

Clearly, he’s feeling the leftover traces of the power he drained from me. There can be no other explanation for why he would think he can intimidate me into falling in line.

When I don’t deign to reply, he throws up his hands. “Who do I think I’m talking to? You reject any plansyouhaven’t chosen. You probably wonder to yourself ‘what would Calysian prefer for me to do,’ and then you do the exact opposite.”

I raise one eyebrow, because there’s something so fucking reassuring about seeing him hot-blooded and furious after the way he just became something soother.

“Bold of you to assume I consider you at all while making my decisions. Will these hysterics last long? We need to leave this place.”

He snarls.

More relief shudders through me. In this moment he couldn’t be further from the cruel, emotionless god I caught a glimpse of during Kyldare’s attack.

“Children.” Eamonn steps between us, his furry body pressed against my leg. “We have more important things to discuss. Such as how that bolt could take Calysian down.”

It’s a good question, the answer important enough that we spend precious minutes searching for it. It’s Calysian who eventually finds it buried low in the trunk of a tree.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t touch it,” I murmur.

Ripping his tunic from his body, he wraps it around his hand and pulls the bolt free, making the motion look easy. I carefully avoid looking at his wide shoulders. At the way his muscles shift along his back. At the expanse of smooth skin covering those muscles.

“Madinia?”

“Hmm?” He raises one eyebrow and I ignore the amused knowledge in those eyes. “What is that black oil sticking to the iron?”

Calysian holds my gaze for one more long moment, his lips curving.

“Smells like a dead body,” Eamonn says, prowling between us.

He’s right. Calysian raises the bolt between us, and I don’t need to lean forward to scent the cloying reek of rot.

“What is it?”

He shrugs, and I raise a hand, pressing against his cheek to angle his face away from me. He goes still, allowing my touch, and I force myself to focus on the scrape across his neck andnotthe prickle of scruff beneath my fingers or the hard line of his jaw.

“Your wound is still bleeding. It’s as if your body managed to cleanse the wound with your own blood, rejecting this oily substance.”

I remove my hand, and Eamonn nudges closer to Calysian. “Show me.”

Calysian sighs but lowers himself to his knees, and Eamonn sniffs at the wound, his ears twitching.

“Madinia is right. The wound is clean, but the surrounding skin is covered with that same black poison. Vicana must have created something powerful enough to kill a god.”

It makes sense. Kyldare hadn’t been prepared to come across Calpharos. But his witch was more than prepared. Whatever filth she created, the bolt had struck true. Which means we can’t rely on his wards to protect us.

And now that Kyldare knows who—and what—he’s dealing with. He’ll only be more dangerous.