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Eamonn lands on my shoulder, and I almost kill him for his impertinence.

“Where were you?” My voice is frigid, and he shifts his wings.

“I saw her go down and scouted ahead. I found a healer at the edge of the city. They’re expecting you.”

This appeases the worst of my fury. Wisely, Eamonn holds his silence for the next few minutes while I wrestle with my temper.

“How much do you remember?” His voice is quiet, and I turn Fox at the next fork, heading west. The mare follows several footspans behind, beginning to lag. Madinia will be pleased that the horse came with us when she recovers.

Because she will recover.

“Calpharos?”

“Do not call me that!”

Madinia lets out a low groan, and I gently stroke her ribs with my thumb, continuing to hold pressure to her chest.

Eamonn flaps his wings, and I fight the urge to shrug him from my shoulder.

Calpharosis the one responsible for this. The one who shielded himself while Madinia was unshielded. Vulnerable.

I don’t feel the need to analyze my memories. Don’t wish to focus on anything other than getting to the healer.

Already, I had silently promised Kyldare a long death filled with immense suffering. Now, the urge to find him is almost inescapable. What I will do to him will become legend. It will be whispered about for centuries, written into history.

Distantly, I realize this preoccupation is a distraction from my true task. With one grimoire found, I should be turning my attention to the next.

Still, killing the man who did this would make a pleasing reward for Madinia for her loyalty.

In my arms, she has begun to shiver.

My teeth clench until my jaw aches. Madinia agreed to help me. She braved that swamp for my needs. And in return, I allowedthis.

I may be the dark god, but even I have a conscience. I do not reward loyalty with disregard.

At my side, Eamonn is quiet. If he can sense the struggle between my twoselves, he does not comment.

I’ve been funneling every drop of my power into both horses. Fox’s hooves pound the ground and he practically flies, galloping faster than I could have imagined, while Hope follows slower, still keeping us within sight. The effort leaves me weakened, but I keep the link between us open, until black dots crawl across the edges of my vision.

Finally, the city appears in the distance. I ignore the guards at the gates, even as one of them steps forward, likely planning to ask about the woman in my arms. But no one dares approach as I ride into Nyrridor, following Eamonn’s directions to a small cottage close to the city walls.

The healer is waiting outside. She’s a short woman, but she places her hands on her hips, leveling me with a hard stare. Her presence is sharp and commanding, but when her dark eyes lock onto Madinia, a flicker of pity softens her otherwise stern features.

When I dismount, she strides toward me.

“You know this is a fatal wound.”

“She will not die.”

Her eyes meet mine, and she shakes her head at whatever she sees on my face. “Bring her inside. Your…bird gave me enough time to prepare.”

The cottage door creaks as she opens it, the scent of drying roots, fragrant herbs, and old magic washing over me. Carefully, I carry Madinia to the single bed tucked in the corner of the front room.

When I lay her down, she doesn’t so much as stir—her breathing shallow, her skin pale and clammy. My heart begins to pound.

“My name is Heava,” the healer murmurs as she bustles around the room, washing her hands and gathering supplies. She sets a bowl of steaming water on the table, along with a collection of metallic tools.

Nudging me out of the way with a boldness few would attempt, she leans over Madinia, studying her wound.