“Yes!” The confession burst from me in a shock of cold regret, and I capitalized on it, clenching my fist. The water around Morgane’s feet froze to solid ice. It trapped her. “You should have valued me—you should’ve protected me—because I am the only person in this world who still loves you!”

“You are a fool,” she snarled, fire lashing from her fingertips. “And a predictable one at that.”

With the slash of her hand, the ice melted, and the ground itself desiccated in a fiery path toward me. It didn’t burn my skin, however, instead passing through it—straight to my organs. My body temperature spiked as my blood literally began to boil, as my muscles cramped and my vision spun. Crying out, Célie attempted to leap to my aid, but the blood witches held her back, recoiling from Morgane. In fear. In hatred.

With seconds to react, I seized another pattern, and the Brindelle tree nearest me withered and blackened to ash.

The lion of Auguste’s cloak began to reanimate.

I fell to my knees, smoke curling from my mouth, as its teeth sank deep into Morgane’s neck. Screaming, she whirled, pulling a knife from her sleeve, but the half-formed lion clung to her back. Tendon and muscle continued to regenerate with gruesome speed. Where sleeves had been, mighty paws rose to grip her shoulders. Its hind legs kicked at her back.

Morgane’s fiery hold dissipated as she struggled, and I fought to rise. To breathe.

When she buried her blade in the beast’s chest, it gave a final snarl before falling limp. She heaved its carcass between us. Blood poured from wounds on her neck, her shoulders, her legs, but she ignored them, clenching another fist. “Is that the best you can do?” Beneath my armor, against my skin, arose an alarming tickle. The skitter of legs. “You may call yourself La Dame des Sorcières—you may kill trees and steal rivers—but you will never know this magic as I have known it. You will never conquer its power as I once did. Just look at yourself. Already, it has weakened your feeble spirit.” She advanced in earnest now, a lethal gleam in her eyes. “The Goddess has chosen wrong, but I do not need her blessing to conquer you.”

Scrambling backward—hardly hearing her words—I pulled hastily at my armor.

Hundreds of spiders burst from the woven fabric. From their own silk. They scuttled over my body in a wave of legs, piercing my skin with their fangs. Each bite brought a prick of pain, a tingle of numbness. Shrieking instinctively, heart palpitating, I crushed all within reach, sweeping their wriggling corpses from my arms, legs, chest—