What she said before we left still haunts me. The realization that the seven High Witches are being eaten by the Glass Tree haunts me worse, mostly because of what Crav said. Lucien’s hand, and eye—it’s similar to the High Witches. What really happens when a witch uses magic beyond their physical stamina? Does the magic truly overwhelm their body, rendering parts of it inert? Or does…does the Glass Tree eat them?

I shake my head—the High Witches’ bodies were gone. Fully and truly gone. If Lucien were being eaten in the same way, surely his affected parts would disappear entirely, too. But they haven’t. If he keeps using magic recklessly…if he doesn’t get enough rest…

“Zera.”

Lucien’s voice shakes me out of it. We’ve stopped walking, pausing on the edge of the copse and just beneath the boughs of a massive ash tree. His midnight eyes glimmer out at me, catching the light of the witchflames licking his hand harmlessly. It’s his left hand, hard to see in the black fire. Too hard. It’s a moment—just a moment, between the dancing flames, I swear his hand disappears entirely and reappears again. I rub my eyes—I must be projecting. Insinuating things that aren’t there. Worried—far too much—about him disappearing, bit by bit.

I make a smile and bounce up to him. “Yes, Your Highness?”

He’s in no mood to play, or kiss, or playfully kiss. Brows drawn tight, he motions to the tree above us. “Can you move this?”

My eyes widen, and I consider it. “This whole tree?”

“The whole tree,” he agrees. “We need to uproot it.”

“Why not just use magic?” Malachite frowns. “It’d be easier.”

“He can’t, obviously,” Fione sighs. “Or it’d be detected.”

“Pretty certain I can’t lift it all by myself,” I finally say. “Mal?”

The beneather shrugs his sword off his back, rolling his sleeves up. “Worth a shot.”

He moves to the trunk, digging his heels in and finding a good grip.

I look up at Lucien. “It’s really heavy. And all those roots…I might need the hunger.”

“If you want to Weep—” Fione steps up, fingering the white mercury dagger on her hip, the bejeweled hilt sparkling.

“Can I?”

“It’s not as if it’d be detected,” Fione says. “It isn’t magic—it defies magic. Right?”

She looks to Lucien, but he shakes his head. “I’m not sure. But if that’s what will get this tree moved, then we must do it.” He pauses and looks at me. “It’s…it’s not painful, is it?”

I smirk. “I mean, traditionally being stabbed isn’t a pleasant experience.”

He flinches. “Yes. Of course.”

“Hey,” I reach my hand out, cupping his strong cheekbone. “I’ll be fine.”