“Waiting to try it on one of the half-bloods in Trianon would be better,” I said. Cécile’s expression didn’t change, but there was no missing the flash of disgust.

“We discussed that,” she said, pushing away my arm and climbing to her feet. “If I were to attempt this on a human, it would kill them as surely as a knife to the heart. We believe it would do much the same to most half-bloods, if not all.” Her arms crossed, she swiftly explained the premise of the spell. “I will very nearly have to kill him to cure him.”

“You might, in fact, kill him,” I said. “We’ll have gained nothing and lost another member of our force.”

“And what would you have gained killing him on that mountain top?”

Chris whistled through his teeth. “I’ll leave you two to this little chat.” He rose and swiftly left the fire’s circle of light. I waited until he was gone before saying, “That would’ve been mercy, Cécile. You weren’t there. You didn’t see him bleeding on the ground, his limbs scattered about him like chopped wood.”

Her intake of breath was sharp, and she closed her eyes for a moment. “He doesn’t need mercy, Tristan, he needs a victory. He couldn’t help Élise, he couldn’t stop Angoulême, and now what? Do we strap him to a horse and send him galloping into battle where in all likelihood he won’t make a damn lick of difference? This could be something. It could be the solution.”

“To what?” I demanded. “To my moral dilemma over killing my brother?”

“No,” she shouted. “To our mistake!”

I froze, not entirely believing what I was hearing.

“I was wrong,” she said. “You were right about not breaking the curse and a fool for letting me convince you otherwise. Maybe we might make it work for our lifetime if we rule with an iron fist, but what then? There will always be more Angoulêmes, and God help us, more Rolands, and what will happen with us not there to stop them? So many have already died because of the choices we made, and this might be the chance to make things as right as they can be. To save both your kind and mine.”

She scrubbed a hand across her face, leaving a smear of blood and grime. “Your kind doesn’t belong here, and with God as my witness, I’ll send every troll back. And if it’s what you want, I’ll send you along with them.” Then she turned on her heel and stormed into the darkened woods.

My boots seemed fixed to the ground as I watched her retreating form. Of all the things I’d expected to hear her say, that wasn’t one of them. Always, always, she was the optimist, and to hear her give up on our dream, to say that our fight was hopeless… It made it true.

Your kind doesn’t belong here.

If she was right, if the spell worked, then what she was offering was a solution beyond what I could ever have hoped for. Not only a way to save both our kinds and keep blood off our hands, but for me, it was a chance to see my people thrive. They’d be immortal once more, no longer afflicted with iron-wrought maladies, or fearful of what the cursed metal would do to their children.