Raze and Olani lock eyes for a long time, having some kind of silent conversation. Then she nods once.

“We do,” Raze says. “So where are we?”

A sudden shiver runs over my skin, and not just because of the cool breeze on my exposed arms. Something compels me to look down at my left hand. I can see the arrow clearly in the moonlight. It points straight, unwavering, to the hollow in the cliffside.

There. Now hurry.

“We’re here,” I say simply. “And we’re trying to get there.”

Everyone’s eyes follow where I’m pointing, taking in the silhouette high over our heads. We’re here, just a short walk away from our final destination, from the treasure, from Raze’s family legacy, from everything. It should be exciting, but instead, it just makes me feel like there are weights tied to my legs, like I can’t take another step.

“We should get moving,” Isolde says, voice tight with pain. She looks ready to jump up and test the splint out, and I’m going to have to tackle her if she does. “We don’t know if your aunt’s still on our trail. A few days might be exactly what they need to catch up to us. I can walk.”

Olani is still crouched over Isolde’s ankle, trying to focus on weaving an enchantment to manage the pain. “No,” she says, cutting off Isolde’s protests. “Not if you want it to heal right and be of any use to you in the future.”

Silence falls. All eyes turn to the building in the distance.

Raze plops down on the stone with the rest of us. “Not tonight.” He looks so tired. The absence of charisma and humor leaves him looking as threadbare as I feel. “We need to rest.”

I want to argue, but I can’t. My back is on fire, and my legs are painfully numb from overuse. Once we’ve made the decision to rest, everything catches up with me all at once, and I can’t even remember putting my head down on the stone before I fall asleep.

When I wake, it’s to total darkness and the murmur of Isolde’s voice.

“...how she did it,” she says. “It’s so different, seeing her use her magic. But it suits her, somehow. Like she’s always been this way.”

It feels like there are ants in my clothes with the image of both their eyes trained on my still, small shape in the darkness. Watching me. I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to leave behind crescent-shaped marks.

Raze clears his throat. “Has she ever...” He pauses. “I mean, is that—new?”

I’m not sure what he’s asking, but after a pause, Isolde answers anyway. “Before we left home,” she says, in a voice that sounds emotionally rusty from disuse, “she never... Our parents weren’t enchanters, and we didn’t want anyone to know what she was. It happened a few times, when we were really little. Things flying across the room, stuff like that. She’d cry and cry and apologize and say she didn’t want to get taken away. Then we got older, and she just stopped using magic completely.”