A riptide of Trystan’s magic blasts through me as he pulls me over the rune skiff’s railing. Emotion blazes in his gaze as we keep tight hold of each other, time suspended as a massive knot of anguish I didn’t even realize I was carrying inside me bursts open and I have to stifle the sob.

Trystan’s expression morphs from shock to resolve, and I sense him forcibly reining his power in. “Get down,” he orders, pointing to the skiff’s floor.

I cast my gaze about, a jolt of relief bursting through me when I spot Nym’ellia, Tibryl, and Emberlyyn being helped aboard one of the blue-light-washed crafts. With urgency, I drop to the skiff’s rain-slicked floor, feeling for the Wand wedged into my boot and finding it blessedly secured.

“Hide your face and pretend to be injured,” Trystan says in a tight whisper. “You’re gray, but you still resemble Her. There are wanted postings of your face all over Noilaan.”

I press my cheek to the wood, its ebony source tree’s crown forming in my mind as the golden sparks of Wyvernfire abruptly clear from my vision and the last tendrils of the incoming flame aura snap away.

Yvan, I breathlessly mouth, my pulse surging, don’t lose me.

My fire aura lashes northeast, desperate to restore the connection as a rune skiff soars up beside us. A heavily armed Vu Trin soldier stands at its helm, a Kelt family slumped down on her craft. I take her in through my fingers, anxiety tightening every muscle.

“Is everything all right?” she calls to Trystan in Noi. Her eyes narrow on me, triggering a dart of fright.

“She’s badly wounded, Oura Vil,” Trystan calls back, calm as a sheltered lake, but I can feel the defensive lightning spitting through his lines. “I’m bringing her to the border medic. I’ll meet Vothe back here.”

The soldier assesses me, seeming both conflicted and concerned. I take in her charged rune blades, praying she doesn’t guess it’s the Black Witch lying before her.

About to infiltrate her country.

The woman gives Trystan a succinct nod, then flies off.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as my brother moves toward a board made of linked runes that spans the skiff’s prow. He rotates a rune with his wand’s tip and the skiff abruptly rises into the air. I grasp hold of one of the boat’s metal cleats, the river’s choppy surface rapidly falling away, a rush of vertigo tightening my gut.

“Vogel can destroy Noi runes,” I urgently tell Trystan the moment we’re out of earshot.

His head whips toward me. “What do you mean?”