Angoulême froze, then his silver eyes tracked through the smoke and darkness to land on the rock where I was hidden. Giving one passing glance to ensure Marc was engaged with Lessa, he climbed to his feet and started toward me, knife in hand. “I think you’ve played your last card, little bird.”

I scuttled backwards, the smoldering ground burning the palms of my hand.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he said with a smile. “Who do you think it was who taught Roland all his tricks?”

I whimpered, feeling my pants dampen and hating myself for it. I was supposed to be brave, was supposed to see this through, no matter what the cost. But I’d been afraid of him from the moment we’d met, and that, that hadn’t changed.

Then a roar filled the air, and fire brighter than the sun filled the sky. A massive form with wings passed over me, and I curled into a ball, closing my eyes against the heat. I felt rather than heard the thud of something landing next to me, and then Tristan was there, smothering the flames eating at my clothing. His face was carved with shadows, his clothes torn and crusted with salt. But he was alive, and he was here.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway. “Angoulême? Where is he?”

Tristan’s eyes searched our surroundings, then he shook his head. “I don’t see him.”

“His magic is bound,” I said. “Find him, and kill him.”

“But Roland–”

“Is cured,” I said. “Now go before Angoulême finds somewhere to wash off the blood.”

His eyes lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in a very long time, and he kissed me. “Be safe,” he said, then was gone.

With the exception of the crackling of the burning woods, the night had gone eerily quiet. Holding my shirt over my mouth in an attempt to block the worst of the smoke, I began to search for my friends. I found Sabine first, and Chris, who had Souris tucked into his coat. But of Marc and the twins, there was no sign.

“How did you find him?” I asked, allowing Sabine to pack snow against my blistered palms.

“I didn’t,” Chris said. “His little rat dog friend did. He was half dead under one of those skiffs and surrounded by bodies, but the damn thing has nose like a bloodhound.” He took hold of my shoulder. “But he’s burnt out, Cécile. I don’t think he could create so much as a ball of light if his life depended on it.”

And I’d just sent him after Angoulême.