Page 31
Lance perched high above, a dark silhouette against the paling sky. His head turned once, eyes glinting in faint morning light, before he settled again.
She pushed herself upright, stretching sore muscles, careful not to disturb the stillness. Her gaze drifted to Lysander. He lay on his side, one arm bent beneath his head, the other resting lightly near the hilt of his blade. His face was younger in sleep.
Idonea exhaled, low and deliberate. She shouldn't be watching him. Her eyes found the dagger he’d taken from her, lying unsheathed beside his hand.
“Always on guard,” she said under her breath.
He stirred, causing Idonea to freeze.
His eye opened, sharp, immediately aware. “You’re awake early.”
“I could say the same,” she said.
He sat up, scanning the tree line before answering. “I wasn’t asleep.”
“Of course you weren’t.”
Lysander stood, stretching his shoulders. He crossed to the horses, checking their tack without looking at her, moving with silent efficiency. Once the horses were ready, he came over to help Idonea back onto the mare. His hand, gloved in weathered leather, was firm beneath her elbow. She didn’t want to take it, but she also didn’t want to fall.
“Careful,” he said, voice more of a command than concern.
She winced as her still-bruised thighs met the saddle’s hard edge. He handed her the reins.
She peered over at him. “You’re sure?”
“You have our direction,” he said. “Let’s see if you're indeed never wrong.”
Idonea let the reins settle in her hands, shoulders stiff. The mare’s steady movement beneath her bones was becoming easier to balance now. She still lacked the grace of a seasoned rider. Lysander moved with the horse instead of against it. Annoyingly effortless.
The road gave her nothing. No daemon scent, no Current distortion, and no sign Nellith had passed this way. Only cold wind and too much distance. The silence pressed against her ears, heavy and absolute, broken only by the crunch of hooves and the occasional flap of Lance’s wings above.
Each breath stung her throat. The sun hovered low behind a veil of thin cloud.
Doubt settled cold beneath her ribs. She tightened her grip on the reins hard enough to ache. What if the ritual was wrong? She glanced sideways at Lysander. His expression hadn’t changed in hours; eyes fixed forward, jaw set. She envied that stillness, even as it wore on her.
By dusk, they reached a narrow rise. A gorge gaped open to the right, the land dropping into mist and craggy stone. The air had turned sharp, laced with a metallic tang, and the swollen sky promised rain. Idonea dismounted stiffly, her legs aching.
Lysander tied the horses and knelt, drawing strange objects from his pack: gears, copper wires, coils that glinted faintly, and hexagonal plates of brass.
Curious, Idonea stepped closer. “What are those?”
“Inventions, of course,” he said, not looking up. “The future is a better place because of them.”
She scoffed. “The Templars created the very things that strip witches from their birthright. That isn’t better for them.”
Lysander remained silent, but he met her gaze. “Some inventions help. Not all of them are weapons.”
“Then how,” she asked, eyes narrowing down at him, “did they learn how to unmake us?”
He paused. “Experimentation.”
She sucked in a deep breath. She heard the truth beneath the word. Blood spilled, bones broken, screams catalogued. Her spine stiffened, hands curling into fists. Before she could reply, he tugged at the clasps of his coat and peeled back the fabric on his left arm. Idonea’s eyes widened.
Brass moved beneath the rolled sleeve. Idonea's stomach tightened instantly. Not a brace, or armour, but a replacement. The mechanisms moved smoothly enough to unsettle her.
Neither spoke for some time. The wind whistled through the gorge, tugging at their cloaks.
“Never seen a missing limb, witchling?”
