Trust. Trusting me, after everything? Trusting me after I refused to trust him? Swallowing what feels like glass, I struggle through the snow back to the bleeding beneather and human. The Bone Tree is making a horrible noise now, a high-pitched shriek, like a crying wildcat mixed with a dying deer, and I splay my arms wide, dragging Malachite and Fione into the snow for protection.

“Luc—” Malachite starts.

“He’ll be fine!” I shout.

“But that fire won’t—”

“We have to trust him!”

Malachite stares into my six eyes, and then nods, once and with purpose. Next to me in the snow, I feel Fione slide her hand into mine and squeeze, despite how monstrous I must look.

Trust.

Here, in the silence, it’s so much easier to trust.

I could die. The explosion centering on Varia could obliterate her, and my heart. She could die. Lucien could crumble beneath the force building against him. I close my eyes and pray—to who, I’m not sure anymore. Just someone, someone who can listen. Someone who can listen to my words right now as they leak from my unheart, from my heart.

Please. Please keep us all safe.

The black witchfire wall blocks out the sky, spiraling up and up and all around us, like a protective bubble of pure fire. The snow melts at the flames, water pooling in the ground and soaking into our clothes. The white light starts to win, sucking in even the black flames of the witchfire. Lucien doesn’t move, his body stock-still and the entirety of his upper body now writhing with animate midnight, devoid of all color.

The Prince of Cavanos, the thief Whisper, the boy I fell in love with on the night of the Hunt, the witch named the Black Rose—all of them come together as I watch his shoulders, his heaving back. He lets out a jagged roar to shame even the witchfire’s noise, and the flames leap back to life, stronger than ever, dancing with newfound vigor and radiating an unholy black light.

The white light’s explosion rocks the ground. Even through the fire, the light burns on the backs of my six eyelids. I hear the mountain crack with an earth-shattering rumble, the ground crumbling away outside our fiery bubble shield. Fione shrieks, and I cover her ears and hold her close. The black fire and the white light tangle over each other, battling in midair, until every scrap of heat and energy tires out, fizzling into nothingness.

When my vision clears, the witchfire is gone.

We are in the middle of a perfect circle of earth—all that’s left of the mountain peak.

Lucien stands there, doubled over, leaning on a stitch in his side and panting uncontrollably. Malachite and I leap up immediately, sprinting to him, the muddy slush that was once deep snow splashing around our boots frantically.

“Luc!” Malachite looks him over. “Are you all right?”