Faintly and through the pain, I see Malachite and the other mortals blur by, Lucien’s dark eyes razors of worry as he reaches out for me. The beneather shuffles him along, and I hear the screech of metal on metal again as he stops the next blade and lets them through. He’s close enough now to hear his yell.

“Your turn, Six-Eyes!”

This is the worse part—ripping free. I let my weight down, fall to my knees, the blade yanking up through my shoulder and cold air slicing through warm, screaming flesh. I duck along the wall, Lucien’s magic healing me only in slow trickles down here. Flesh knits in small increments, bones cracking back into place in slow motion. The slow healing hurts far worse than the blade’s impact. But eventually, there’s enough meat of me again to stop the next blade. My body’s ready, but my mind isn’t as prepared as I’d like—the next hit gets my spine through my stomach, bile and blood in my throat, and I black out.

But the magic won’t let me rest.

The Trees won’t let any of us rest.

…

I wake up again to Malachite’s shout, Lucien’s hand in my blood-drenched one. I can feel all of them helping me—Yorl’s paw on my back, Fione’s hand on my arm, pulling me out of the blade and into place for the next as Malachite stops the second-to-last one, his face pouring sweat and his veins glistening under paper skin.

“Last one!” Fione encourages, blood-flecked face determined. Her tender touch is so different from her fearful hyperventilating just a month ago. It gives me something to hold on to as I fling myself into the path of the last blade, marking the wall with my blood one last time.

We make it through, and they pull me out yet again. A handful of hands, helping me. I collapse on the ground, laughing blood. Lucien kneels at my side, cradling me, and I can feel him pouring all his concentration into the magic flooding into me and stitching closed my injuries.

“What’s so godsdamn funny?” he whispers down at me, the words hot but his tone cool.

“Thank you.” I smile up at him, touching his face and regretting the blood-finger marks it leaves on his golden cheekbones. “For letting me get hurt. For letting me do what I can to help.”

“Implying anyone could ever let you do anything, you stubborn wildcat.” He holds me close, my chest wounds closing against his own chest.