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Lysander dropped heavily onto the bench by the wall; his good hand braced on his thigh.

Idonea crouched in front of him, her palm still slick with blood. “Let me see.”

She peeled away his clothes, exposing the remnants of his mechanical arm still attached below his shoulder. She detached them carefully.

A long bruise already blossomed across his ribs where the Grand Templar’s blow had thrown him.

“You shouldn’t have stood in his way,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have either.”

Her throat tightened. She turned from him long enough to fetch water from the hearth bucket, soaking a strip of cloth to wipe the grime from his skin. He didn’t flinch at her touch, though his eyes never left her face.

Lysander spoke again, his voice quieter. “What of them?”

“The Templars?”

He nodded.

“They’ll live,” Idonea said.

Idonea set the cloth aside and leaned back against the opposite wall, exhaustion pulling at her bones.

“And you?” she asked.

Lysander leaned his head back, eyes half-closed. “I imagine exiled from the Order.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I’ve made my choice, witchling.”

The words should've comforted her. Instead, they sat heavy in her chest. Choices had costs. She knew that better than most.

Chapter 33

Idonea had barely slept. Rest fled from her, leaving only the raw ache of exhaustion.

When she rose, snow still drifted over the square, softening the bloodstains into rust-red blossoms. The house where the captured Templars were confined stood silent, its barred windows already rimmed in frost.

The airship hung low in the square, ropes swaying against the broken roofs. Pirates clambered along her rigging, hauling crates, while the witches huddled near the chapel.

Lysander hadn't emerged from Alcaeus’ house. His mechanical arm lay broken beyond quick repair, and though he'd not spoken of it, Idonea knew the weight of that loss pressed heavier on him than he would admit. She left him to his silence for now, turning her steps towards the hospice.

The door creaked as she neared, and Kitsa stepped out. She smiled at the sight of Idonea.

“How is he?” Idonea asked.

Kitsa glanced back from where she'd just come. “Hanging in. But he cannot last much longer.”

Idonea swallowed. “I know.”

“Then?” Kitsa pressed.

“Because I must see the relic destroyed,” Idonea said. “He understands.”

Kitsa sighed. “So, what happens now?”

Idonea’s eyes narrowed. “I think you can help.”