I stagger, Fione gripping my elbow for support. Touching me again, trusting me again, and my unheart in my empty chest and my real heart in Lucien’s bag shudder as one, in pain and in joy.

they hate you.

They’re relying on me.

they’re waiting for you to let your guard down.

They trust me.

how could they forgive you for what you’ve done?

I forgive myself.

The hunger disappears, clear and cold, and the world splits six times.

Between Malachite and me, we manage to uproot the tree with much swearing and straining and blood tears on my part. My claws dig deep into bark, the roots peeling up and away with angry groans and cracks, until the whole thing finally gives, and Malachite and I shove the trunk aside before it can keel over on the humans.

“Not bad, Six-Eyes.” The beneather pants, wiping mud and bark off his sweaty face. “You practice?”

I catch my breath, the Weeping peaceful and silent and easy, like slipping into an old glove now. “No. You?”

“Always.” He smirks, and then puts his hand over his nose, his eyes flashing with a red glow. “Spirits. You really smell like one of ’em.”

“One of who?” Fione asks as she walks over.

“Valkerax. She stinks like ’em.”

I sniff my armpits warily—bracing for the rotting meat stench I know so well from training Evlorasin. But even with my heightened Weeping senses, all I get is sweat and me.

“I can’t smell anything,” Lucien says, eyeing the hole in the ground where the tree used to be.

“Right, well.” Malachite straps his sword on his back again. “Who’s the one whose ancestors have been hunting them for a thousand years, huh? Not you, that’s for spiritsdamn sure. If I say she stinks, she stinks.” He looks over at me with a crooked smirk. “You stink.”

“Thank you.” I smile back at him with all my teeth.

Fione looks me up and down. “Curious indeed. I have no clue how valkerax blood promises work, but it seems this one has lasting effects.”

“For the rest of my life, Yorl said,” I agree.

“So you’re basically one of ’em,” Malachite groans. “Great.”

“It’s not like Varia can control her with the Bone Tree,” Fione snipes back.

“You don’t know that, Big-Brain,” the beneather scoffs.

“Neither do you,” she argues.

“If I get any compelling inklings to run off and start breathing fire, I’ll be sure to let you all know.” I cut the tension and look over at Lucien, who’s still riveted to the ground. “What now, Your Highness?”

“It’s beneath.” He points down at the soft earth collapsing in on itself. The last bit finally sloughs away with encouragement from his boot and reveals a perfect set of stairs.