I let out a strangled cry-laugh through my gritted teeth. It’s a sweet attempt at putting my fears to rest, and I want to trust it. I want to trust him, and Lucien, but I’ve felt the Bone Tree. It’s doing unimaginable things to me—things it’s not supposed to be able to.

“Sleep? It’s feeding off Varia,” I pant. “Getting stronger. Don’t—don’t put me to sleep. She’ll see me again, control me. The dreams…dreams are how they talk—”

“How who talks?” Malachite frowns.

“If we put you under strongly enough, you won’t dream,” Fione assures me.

“But—”

“Hush,” Lucien murmurs into my hair, lips pressed to my head in a kiss. “You’ve done your part. Rest now.”

Yorl holds the vial to my chapped lips, and I can’t think. My teeth are so many, my claws growing strange and white and long. I have to down it. It’s this or rampage as a valkerax, with the valkerax. It’s this or hurt the people in this room, maybe.

And I promised I’d never do that again.

I promised I’d never lose control and hurt someone again.

you were meant to hurt, the hunger laughs gleefully. you were born to hurt others.

The fourteen graves, bells and ribbon swaying in the mountaintop breeze—

I gulp greedily and a wave of magic slides through me, the warmth of the sedative harmonizing with it to weave a deep, dark, utterly inescapable slumber. The panic still buzzes to the last—they need me. They need me to fight with them. They’re mortal. I’m not. I’m going to be nothing but dead weight, unable to help like I want to, like I have to. I’m the only one who can survive if I die. I’m the only one who can protect them, protect him, Lucien—

“Lucien,” I whisper. His blurry smile beams down at me, golden and soft, his murmur slowed and drawn-out by the looming sleep.

“Let us protect you, this time.”

The sedative is strong—of course it’s strong. It’s Yorl’s. The magic, too, is strong.

Of course it is; it’s Lucien’s.

Their attempts to put me under are so strong. But the Bone Tree is strong, too. Varia is weaker, but the Tree has only grown. It flutters my eyes open in momentary bursts, sound and light and sensation coming through. Someone carrying me in their arms—the smell of honey. Lucien. The swhick sounds of Fione’s crossbow cane firing heavy bolts, Malachite’s ferocious battle cries, and the air-shredding bellows of valkerax in return. The sound of stone crumbling, the feel of wet droplets on my face, half of them salted sweat and the other half metallic blood.