Dismay overtakes Patricia’s features, and suddenly the air in the cabin runs cool. “Bloodcrafters,” she whispers, fear plain on her face.

“Is—is that another word for the Legendborn?” I stammer. “The way you call aether ‘root’?”

“No, not just a word.” She wraps her hands around mine, drawing them together between our bodies. The softness of her skin is only a sheath. Underneath, her hands are unyielding steel. “Bloodcrafters don’t borrow power from their ancestors, they steal it. Bind it to their bodies for generations and generations.”

“I—I know about the bloodlines,” I sputter, a pool of dread forming in my stomach. “What they use their powers for, what they fight.”

“Then you know their sins,” Patricia says. “Bloodcraft is a curse brought to life.”

Patricia’s eyes hold every Legendborn horror I’ve heard of and witnessed, every evil I’ve imagined, and then some: the Merlin who stole my mother from me. The Merlin who took Nick’s. Sel’s ruthlessness. The Regents. Fitz’s losses. The Lieges who abused a child they called king. “They’re… It’s—”

“Colonizer magic. Magic that costs and takes. Many practitioners face demons. Many of us face evil. But from the moment their founders arrived, from the moment they stole Native homelands, the Order themselves gave the demons plenty to feed on! They reap what their magic sows.”

Suddenly, Louisa appears mere inches beside us. Patricia releases me, and we both stumble back. Then, without warning, Louisa turns her head, her eyes looking vaguely in my direction.

“I thought she couldn’t see us?” I gasp.

Patricia’s brows furrow as she watches her ancestor search the space where my head is. “She can’t.”

But Louisa’s brown eyes fasten to mine like a button snapping into place, throwing sparks on my skin. “I see you,” she whispers harshly.

Before I can say another word, Louisa wraps her hands around my elbow, and the world disappears again.

I open my eyes, gasping and choking on the tight clenching sensation around my spine. The feeling is less dizzying than the first memory walk, but I have to bend over, hands on knees to catch my breath before I can look at my surroundings.

I’m in another cabin like the first, but this one is smaller, brighter, and full of bustling Black women. Again, a woman’s wail fills the space, a single torturous note drawn out, then ending. Voices of encouragement, another low moan.

“What was that?” I turn to ask Patricia. But Patricia is not with me. There is only Louisa.

The older woman stands beside me, still in her bloody dress, and stares across the cabin without answering me. Her eyes track two women who exit through a side door carrying a heavy metal pail held between them.