The corner of his mouth pulled into the barest smile. As if he hadn’t registered the shift in language, he slurred in accented but perfect Danubian, “I know you.”

Surely he didn’t recognize her from the one time she’d seen him on the front line. Perhaps he’d seen her portrait before, but given she’d been excluded from the line of succession, she doubted he had reason to remember her name or face. Wren knew better than to humor people in the throes of delusion, but her curiosity won out. “Do you now?”

“You’re here to end this.” Wren was almost disappointed. Of course he didn’t recognize her. He was delirious—he looked at her and saw the Crone.

“No.” Carefully, she brushed his hair off his forehead, surprising herself with the tenderness of the gesture. It was strangely beautiful, even plastered to his face with sweat. Black and glossy as a raven’s feather. Beneath her fingertips, his skin burned dangerously hot. “You won’t get off so easy.”

His expression was a snuffed candle, utterly defeated. Was he really so eager to die?

His eyes grew unfocused, heavier, as she watched him struggle for lucidity. Wren waited until his breathing evened out into shallow slumber. What a relief, not to have to speak to him anymore. And deep down, she didn’t want to see the gleam of his eyes in the dark again.

Some said his power was unholy, unnatural—that he was no mortal but Vesria’s god made flesh. Wren believed none of it. No matter how terrifying he was, it was only magic. Complex but explainable magic. Rationalization, however, did little to calm her churning stomach. He looked human enough, but if she cut him open, what would she find nestled in his rib cage? A beating heart or something burning black as coal?

“Are you awake?”

Mercifully, he remained still and silent.

This would be fine. Routine, even. He was like any other patient. First, she would record his vitals. Then, she would proceed to diagnostic tests. Drawing in a steadying breath, Wren unfastened his nightshirt from clavicle to sternum, efficiently as opening a surgical incision. As soon as she drank in the sight of him half bared, she felt disembodied and almost hysterical.

Goddess above, I’m undressing Hal Cavendish. Her eyes watered at the absurdity her life had taken on in the past twenty-four hours.

She laid her hands on his chest, warmed by the feverish heat. As she poured magic into his system, she closed her eyes and read the faint images of her energy mapping out his body. Highly activated sodium channels, ventricular arrhythmias, hypotension. Her mouth formed the shape of the words as she lost herself in the whispering of her magic.