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Witch-light gathers around Rowan’s fingers, pale and thin, sinking into Eira’s lips, her throat, the pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin. The light turns blue. Then silver. Then an ugly bruised violet that makes Rowan’s expression harden. ‘This is not a simple concealment.’

‘I can see that.’

‘No, Valentin. You can’t.’ Rowan’s voice sharpens. ‘This potion is a kind of veil, yes. But it’s also a binding. A gag. A failsafe anchored under the tongue and inside the blood. It prevents her from spilling something Selphine Rousseau considers essential enough to protect with pain.’

Eira’s lashes flutter.

I lean closer. ‘What?’ I snap.

Rowan does not answer quickly enough.

My voice, viciously primal and carnage-filled, tears out of me. ‘Tell me! What the fuck is going on?’

The Heartshard Glass screams again.

This time, the sound carries language inside it. Too many voices. Too old. My own name spoken backwards by something buried in blood crystal. Morrighan’s laughter coils through one shard, soft and delighted, then disappears behind Eira’s reflection.

The mark crawls higher against my throat.

Rowan looks at it, then at Eira. ‘Somehow her body is acting as the sealed door. Your mark is battering against it.’

‘How is this possible? She is human.’

‘A human who has been spelled for a long time for reasons only known to a cruel witch.’

The words fall quietly but Eira hears them. I see it in the faint tightening around her eyes. And she denies nothing as more blood slicks her lips instead.

And… Gods, the sight drives the room red around the edges.

Rowan continues, colder now, more clinical because witches use facts the way assassins use blades. ‘Every attempt to confess whatever has been locked inside her triggers punishment. The more important the truth, the more brutal the response.’

My claws dig deeper into my palm, gouging my skin. ‘What. Fucking. Truth?’

‘I cannot read it yet.’

Another primal rumble builds in my chest. ‘Then cut the spell out. Heal her. Fucking do something!’

‘If I cut recklessly, I may sever something tied into her voice, memory or blood signature. Possibly all three.’

‘Then find another way.’

‘I will keep working on the poison pattern and the gag. There are rituals⁠—’

‘No.’ I straighten so quickly the bedframe cracks beneath one hand. ‘We find the Rousseau witch. I tear out her throat, drink her fucking blood, and rip the answer from the source. That will be the quickest way to rid us all of this curse.’

Rowan’s eyes flash. ‘If Selphine built this properly, killing her may collapse the structure inward.’

‘Then she should have built less insult into her work.’

‘You are ranting.’

‘I am threatening carnage and Netheris-fucking-fire.’

‘You’re wasting the minutes she’s bleeding.’

The words strike with surgical precision. I look down.

Eira’s skin has gone too pale. Her eyes are half-open, unfocused. Blood stains her mouth, throat and sheets. The sight hollows me with terror so abrupt I nearly reach for the bond I sealed between us simply to feel her answer. Hear her voice.