“No, no, it’s not the wyrm,” she said, and crouched down in front of them so they could see she wasn’t a fire-breathing monster. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Eliana, leave them,” Dagny said. “We should go.”

“They’re terrified,” Eliana protested.

“But they’re safe,” Dagny persisted. “As safe as they can be until we find a way to close the bridge.”

“We can’t just leave them alone like this!” Eliana argued.

“Why don’t you stay with them?” Elof asked. He handed her another torch and a dagger from his belt. “Keep them safe until we come back for you.”

She took the blade tentatively, and her hair color rippled—it matched the flickering golden flame of the torch.

“You’re strong and brave,” I told her, remembering the impressive acrobatic stunts I’d seen her do in the past.

Eliana straightened up and gave me an uneasy smile. “I can do this. You go do what you need to.”

I wanted to hug her, but Dagny told me we needed to hurry, and she wasn’t wrong.

We were on the move again. Elof handed another torch to me, to light the way as we ventured deeper into the dark underground. Down another stairwell—much more narrow this time, but shorter—and the medica was right off the stairs.

When the air smelled of dry lilies and rotting fruit, I knew we were getting close. The scent of the sorgblomma permeated the häxdoktor’s office, and I saw dim light coming through the door left ajar.

Glass shattered inside the room, and I pushed open the door to see the man from my nightmares. Lemak, the häxdoktor, his long, slender frame cowering in the corner, behind the contraption that he used to steal my blood.

67

Patriarch

Bryn

Tuva convulsed on the ground beside the dead murder snail.

“What the hell’s happening to her?” Pan asked. He stood a few feet away from me, and his arms were extended back behind him, holding a stretcher. It was empty, and he carried it alone, the rear handles dragging in the dirt.

One of Pan’s sleeves was torn, there was a fresh gash across his runic clock tattoo, and mud and ashes were tangled in his curly hair. Around his waist, he wore a satchel marked with a green cross—the Trylle First Aid symbol.

“She’s dying,” I told him.

Her eyes began to bleed as she writhed and moaned, so I drove my sword through her throat, severing her brain stem with a slick crunch.

Pan winced and looked away.

“You couldn’t have saved her,” I said, and wiped my blade clean on her tunic. “Ending her pain was the only kind thing to do.”