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And without access to more of my power, I can’t kill both the soldiers and the witch in one blow.

“You have a plan to get to the grimoire.”

She nods.

“Fine. I will allow this.”

Angling her head, she gives me a long, cool look. I know her well enough to know what that look means.

Fiercely independent Madinia is mentally barring me from her bed. She has decided I’m too much of a threat to the freedom she holds closer than any lover.

I nip at her ear. “Keep thinking such thoughts. I’ll merely fuck them out of you.”

She stiffens, but I’m already moving. “Go.”

Madinia

Calysian melts away to my left, his body moving seamlessly, silently through the mud and muck. The canopy above our head lets in only fractured, dim light, while the haze of humidity and thick tangle of roots and trees should help us stay hidden.

Since I’m nowhere near as graceful as Calysian I’m forced to move much slower.

My lungs strain for each breath, my mouth so dry I’m almost tempted to rinse it with swamp water. My sweat has turned ice-cold, and despite the suffocating humidity, I’m shivering as I slowly inch toward the swamp.

No, I didn’t tell Calysian about this part of my plan. Because the brute would have found a way to stop me.

Kyldare is still standing at the edge of the swamp with most of his men, his gaze locked on Bridin as she works desperately to get to the grimoire.

Today, Kyldare looks like he has climbed from the depths of the swamp himself. His face is unnaturally flushed, his eyes glittering as he stares possessively at the tree.

It’s the same look he would give me each time I was chained to the walls of that tower.

My stomach roils. I know Kyldare. And Vicana made a mistake sending him after the grimoire. He’s weak—not physically, but inside, where it counts. Weak men always believe they can hide their weakness by accumulating power. They can’t help themselves.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I remove my boots, leaving them next to the trunk of a warped tree, along with my sword. Slowly, I slip into the swamp, the water curling around my ankles, my thighs, my waist.

I pull the knife at my hip, my hand aching as I clench the hilt. The swamp swallows everything—sound, light—even natural instinct. Thick roots and mangroves obscure my path. They help hide me, but they make it almost impossible for me to map out a clear path toward the soldiers.

I sink deeper, the water rising to my ribs. I ruthlessly suppress the urge to slide right out of the swamp and back onto land.

Kyldare’s men shift uneasily, casting sidelong glances at the water, the tree, the thick branches above our heads. I crouch lower, letting the reeds close around me like a shield. My breaths are shallow, my heart slamming into my ribs. I have two options: Circle through the deeper water to my right, or duck under the cover of the low hanging branches closer to the soldiers.

The sickly green light is still spilling across the clearing. Bridin paces, her hands twitching. The glow flares brighter, and my heart stops. Her laugh rings out, sharp and triumphant.

Her laugh turns to a choked scream, and she drops to her knees, clutching at her chest.

Calysian.

“They’re here!” Kyldare roars.

The soldiers instinctively recoil from Calysian. Likely, they’ve heard what he can do. They back toward the swamp, and the water laps hungrily at their boots.

Still, I wait.

And wait.

My muscles scream from the strain, my chest aching for more air.

There.