“Then your cousin dies.”

“I told you, he’s already—”

“You know nothing, you imbecile. Your knowledge is that of an infant on his mother’s teat. Now get out of my way or I’ll have you removed by force.”

Loy offered a scoff. “By whom? Last I checked, you are the weakest of us.”

Faryon didn’t need to issue another command, for at that moment, two of his men who’d been approaching Loy from behind grabbed his arms and wrenched them hard before dragging him away from Jost’s body. Another moved in quickly to stuff a gag in his mouth to silence his protests. A fourth squatted beside Jost, using two dirty fingers to pry his lips and teeth apart.

While Loy continued to struggle, Faryon dribbled glowing drops onto Jost’s lifeless tongue. He watched as they disappeared down his throat, pulled by gravity. He didn’t stop until his hand was empty.

Still nothing happened, and he was about to gather another handful of liquid when—

Jost’s entire body convulsed, his muscles spasming, his throat releasing a wheezing cough.

His eyes opened, staring not at Faryon, but at the rays of sunlight poking through Lostwood’s canopy. “It’s so beautiful,” he murmured.

“Yes, it is,” Faryon said, except he was looking at the glowing pond.

“The gods have blessed us on this day,” said a man named Corren. He was the oldest of them all, a tough ol’ badger at the ripe age of sixty name days. His gray beard was down to his chest, his skin wrinkled and weathered by a life spent toiling under the harsh sun and the blast of winter’s icy wind. As they watched, he stripped off his shirt to reveal an equally wrinkly but still strong body. It was lined and etched with scars from a life hard fought. His lips formed a smile that broadened as he stumbled toward the pond, splashing into it, wading deep until he was up to his neck. He dipped his lips to the glow, drinking with a mighty slurp, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Laughter arose from him. “I feel lighter already. Less achy. Like I’m young again.” He turned, and what the men saw was summarized by their collective intake of breath, a gasp of incredulity. For the wrinkled, gray-haired man who’d entered the pond had been replaced by a taut-skinned, muscled, black-haired man who couldn’t be a name day over twenty. Corren looked down at his own body, mouth opening as he took in the smoothness of his skin—not a scar or imperfection to be found.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, and then guzzled another mouthful.