I can’t move.

My vision is going blurry, fading out.

I see Isolde and thank Fate that she’s still breathing, though a trickle of blood runs from her temple down her cheek. Everything else is fuzzy. The pain is so bad that I’m ready to be swallowed by the blackness in the edges of my vision.

Flashes of gray sky, of rain falling down on me, of the tall grass surrounding my limp body.

A big, blurred shape a little farther off separating into smaller shapes—one dark, one pale.

A smudge of copper red against the clouds, a boot digging into my aching shoulder, a voice pulled taut by anger and exhaustion.

“I believe you have something that belongs to me, changeling.”

PART TWO

chapter eleven

There’s a long blur in my memory after that. Consciousness slips in and out of my grip, until finally I grit my teeth, seize onto it, and force myself to take in my surroundings.

I’m still alive, which seems like a good sign.

Then the aching kicks in, and I’m not so sure. The lightning strike made every single muscle in my body convulse uncontrollably, and they’re all complaining about it now. My head feels light and fuzzy, buzzing like it’s full of bees.

“I told you...we’re not...any way...” Isolde’s voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away, her words slipping just out of my understanding. The pain behind my eyes intensifies, and I groan. “Seelie?” The voice sounds a little closer, and suddenly she’s right here, shaking my shoulder and repeating my name.

“Ow,” I croak, barely moving my lips.

“Seelie!” She crushes me in a hug, which makes everything hurt worse, but I can’t really be mad.

It’s still pouring rain, and the cool water clears my head a little. I crack one eye open.

I have no idea how much time has passed since I blacked out. Over Isolde’s shoulder, two tall, hazy shapes loom over us.

Curses. I’d hoped I had dreamed that part.

“All right, that’s enough,” Olani says. She kneels, examining my arms with a surprisingly light touch. “The burns aren’t too bad. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Get...get...get off me.” I manage to prop myself into a sitting position, speaking through a sore, scorched throat. Why is she touching me? Why is Isolde letting her? Why isn’t everyone fighting? Even though it doesn’t make sense, it’s a relief to not be trying to kill each other. I have nothing left to fight with, nothing left in me to fight. “I’m f-fine.”

“Of course you are,” Raze says sarcastically. Everything is slowly coming into focus. He stands a few feet away, arms crossed and shiny boots splattered with mud. Blinking, I look down at myself.

Oh.

My sleeves and dress are shredded and burned, like they’d been attacked by a beast with fiery claws. I can see glimpses of my undershirt, which is luckily still intact where it really counts but also looks the worse for wear. And then it gets really bad: all down my arms, the skin left exposed by the missing fabric is etched in raised red marks. They almost look like ferns, branched and delicate and extending tentatively over my skin.