Page 106

Alcaeus cut him off. “What,” he said, “did you do to my daughter?”

The High Hierophant stiffened. “Brother Alcaeus, she attacked me—”

“No.” Alcaeus took another step forward. “You provoked her.”

Every Templar stilled. None of them moved towards Alcaeus or Lysander, and none went to seize Idonea.

Lysander shifted, adjusting Idonea so her head rested against his chest, his arm a solid bar around her back. The mechanical arm took her weight. His hand pressed gently to the pulse point under her ear, tracking her breathing, grounding her. “We’re leaving,” he whispered to her. “I’ve got you.”

The High Hierophant’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “She used Riven magic. She—”

Alcaeus’ voice sharpened. “You crossed a line.”

“That girl is dangerous. She carries a connection—”

“Enough.”

Lysander froze for half a breath.

Alcaeus stepped fully into the High Hierophant’s space, closer than decorum allowed. His voice softened. “You will never be alone with her again.”

The High Hierophant’s nostrils flared. “You dare dictate—”

“I dare protect my own.” He turned on his heel.

Lysander rose, lifting Idonea in his arms. She sagged against him, exhausted, but conscious enough to bury her face against his shoulder.

Alcaeus didn’t look back as he spoke over his shoulder. “We’re done here.”

The Templars shifted aside. Not one dared to stop them. The High Hierophant stood frozen, blood on his sleeves.

Lysander carried Idonea through the doorway. He looked back at the High Hierophant. “Touch her again,” he said, “and I will consider you an enemy.”

Fresh air caressed her cheeks.

Lysander shook her in his arms. “Stay awake, Idonea.”

Her eyelids were heavy.

“Get Kitsa,” Alcaeus called.

She woke into a body that had been wrenched apart and stitched wrong.

She groaned, forcing her eyelids open against the burning light. A horrible throb settled behind her eyes. Her stomach twisted, threatening to heave even though there was nothing left inside her.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She startled, gasping sharply. Her fingers curled into the blanket as her whole body tensed.

“Only me, witchling.”

She should’ve known it was him. His scent settled her insides before she consciously recognised him.

He crouched at the side of her bed. His eyes, steady and watchful, studied her with an intensity that made her throat tighten.

“How are you?” he whispered.

She blinked, then focused on him. “Bad.” Her voice rasped as she struggled to sit. The effort made her head spin, vision blurring at the edges.

His left hand flexed against his knee. “Alcaeus is back on the airship,” he said instead of reaching for her.