Soren gave a fond look to the haunting Ischray, which now pinned Barclay’s arms behind his back. Barclay squirmed in its grip and opened his mouth to yell at Soren, but it was no use. Until Soren snapped his fingers and Barclay regained his voice.

“If something happens to me, if I don’t come back—” Barclay started.

“Everyone will assume you died. You’re just an Elsie, after all. One very much in over his head.”

Soren nodded at the Ischray, which unfastened Barclay’s heavy coat. It fell into the snow, leaving him shivering in only his sweater. Soren placed the scalpel against Barclay’s shoulder, prepared to cut through the wool.

“Viola will tell her father. He’s the—”

“Grand Keeper, yes,” Soren said dismissively. “Something tells me the Grand Keeper will be much more concerned about his only child wandering in the Woods alone without her Master. She’s not here to spectate the Exhibition. She’s here to hide.”

If that was true, maybe Viola couldn’t help him at all.

“Why are you doing this?” Barclay asked him. “Is it for Tadg?”

Soren’s eyebrows raised. “Tadg hardly needs my help. Do you know how hard Mythic Beasts are to find? No? Well, I’ll tell you—they are far easier to take.” Soren grinned maliciously. “My real interest lies in the Legendary Beasts, and once I have my apprentices… Well, the opportunity to claim a Mythic Beast was still too good to pass up.”

“They can’t be that hard to find! I mean, I didn’t even mean to bond with—”

“Do you think it’s easy?” Soren spat. “A powerful summoning trap or not, a Mythic Beast will nearly always attack the Keeper who summoned it. It’s a wonder you even survived.”

His words reminded Barclay of what Conley Murdock had written in his book. How a Mythic Beast sometimes chose its Keeper.

“How lucky I am to have found someone like you,” Soren continued, licking his lips. “You have no one watching out for you. No home. No idea what you could be capable of.”

The scalpel was ice against Barclay’s skin.

Come out! Come out! Barclay desperately called into his mind.

Soren paid little concern to the wind that swept across the forest, to the figure of the Lufthund as Root appeared behind him.

“Its class might be powerful,” said Soren, unlocking the chains that bound Barclay to the mountain lion, “but even my Nitney can handle one so young.”

Soren was right. When Root pounced, the Nitney quickly pinned him to the snow. He writhed and barked as the Nitney raked its claws at his side.

“You’re hurting him!” Barclay growled.

Soren smirked. “Beasts heal faster than humans. You should be more concerned about yourself.”

And with that, he sliced through Barclay’s skin.

A week ago Barclay might have been happy to give Soren his Beast. Take it, he’d have told him, without a fight. But Barclay did care about Root. It wasn’t just that they’d run together, that Barclay understood him better—it was that Root had chosen him when no one else ever had, even if Barclay didn’t know why.