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“Dawsyn,” Ryon says, and she feels his hand curl over her wrist, an edge of panic in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“I have both mage and iskra magic within me,” she continues, ignoring the tightening grip of Ryon’s hand. “Iskra that I absorbed from the pool.”

Some of the mages back away. They speak rapidly to one another beneath their breath. It does not escape Dawsyn that any one of them could debilitate her in an instant.

Ryon stands beside her now, his wings extending to their full scale. Even weaponless, the sight is menacing. “Don’t,” he says to a mage who raises their hand and his voice curdles blood. It ignites flames down her spine.

“Yes. Let us hear the whole of it,” Roznier says, her predatory stare widening. “I thought I smelt something strange about you,” she says. “Iskra, you say?”

Dawsyn does not dare look away. “It coincides with the mage magic. Baltisse taught me to hold them both.”

“Prove it,” Roznier says.

Dawsyn does not lower her eyes as she calls the iskra to her fingertips and lets it coat her skin. It was already there, waiting, begging to be released. It mists over her hands and burns her knuckles, and she sees its glow reflected in Roznier’s eyes. She can only hold onto it for a moment before it recedes, too weakened to do any more than that.

Roznier lets loose a breath. “So, it is true,” she says on a whisper, and then she turns away. After a pause, she says, “You stole it from them? The Glacians?”

“I did.”

“And the mage magic did not reject it? Try to oust it?”

“It was a challenge to begin with,” Dawsyn admits, remembering the times she was struck down. “Now it is natural. I can use them both.”

More permeating silence. The only sound comes from Samskia, who hops from foot to foot, giggling quietly.

“Tell me, Roznier, creator of the pool–”

“One offour.”

“–has there ever been another like me?”

Ryon bristles. Dawsyn can feel his reproach pouring from him. He scolds her without speaking, wary of this pact she’s making. What will he say, once he knows it all?

“You believe you can hold the pool’s power?” Roznier asks, but this time it is without snide. Without derision. Her face is softer, unsure.

“I do not know,” Dawsyn says. “But if there is someone who might…”

“And you would willingly take the risk, knowing what failure could bring?”

Dawsyn’s eyes dart to Ryon’s once and then away. She braces. “I do not need to hold it for long.”

“The release of that much power will obliterate all within its circumference, Dawsyn, and you do not know how far the ripple travels.”

“There is a place it can be contained,” Dawsyn says, though the flatness of her voice has alerted Ryon once more and he comes closer.

“Dawsyn, wait–”

“If I cannot keep my grip on it, then I will fold myself into the Chasm. Into Yerdos’ pit.”

Dawsyn wishes the resulting shockwave did not ring so mightily, maybe then she wouldn’t feel the finality of it sink into her bones. But the mages gasp and grip each other’s shoulders. Yerdos’ name is whispered amongst them, and Roznier looks moments from ripping free of her skin. She swells where she stands, her hope too big for her body. “But how could you fold to a place you have not been?”

Hysterical laughter suddenly resounds through the forests, shaking the snow from the surrounding treetops. The mage called Samskia spins in a circle, her eyes gleeful. “Sur menska oi vesh! Yerdos ve nay dieski!”

Dawsyn looks to Ryon. “What did she say?”

“‘But they have been to the pit,’” Ryon translates. “‘And Yerdos set them free.’”

Roznier does not question Samskia further. She stares at the strange, dancing mage, and seems to take her words as they are. Then, she clasps her hands and the roots that hold Rivdan and Tasheem fall away, slithering back into the earth from whence they came. Neither move, too weak to react.