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Lysander moved with the economical precision of someone accustomed to violence. Nothing wasted, not even stillness. He brushed the mare down with care, unstrapping saddlebags with quick, practised fingers.

She limped towards the bags he’d dropped, lowering herself onto the ground with a grunt. Stretching her legs flat, she let her head fall back, eyes closed. Her body was wrecked.

“I know something has been following us,” Lysander said as he approached her position.

Her eyes snapped open. “How long?”

He crouched beside her, gaze scanning the tree line, his hand resting lightly on the hilt at his hip. “Long enough.”

The sky had sunk into bruised indigo, stars veiled behind cloud banks. Her eyes surveyed above, heart beating fast. Lance glided nearby, a muted ripple of movement.

“What is it?” Lysander asked.

“Lance.” Idonea raised her arm.

The Iaculus dove, landing with a sharp chuff beside her, wings spread wide in warning. His forked tongue tasted the air. He hissed directly at Lysander, throat puffing with the threat.

She smirked. “He won’t hurt you. But keep your guard up.”

Lance flicked his tongue again, one eye locked on Lysander, the other on the shadows behind them. At least Lance found the Severant more irritating than her.

Lysander gave her a sideways glance. “Is that … an Iaculus?”

Idonea nodded, seeing no point in denying it. “Last of the dragonkin.”

“Didn’t think they still existed,” he murmured. “He’s not tame.”

“No,” she said. “He’s loyal.” Or so she hoped.

Lance shot into the air and coiled onto a low branch, still glowering down at Lysander. Idonea hugged her knees against the ache in her thighs, her mind drifting. Not to her pains, but to Nellith, the daemon, and the trail she'd to follow.

Lysander moved away to start a fire, but his shoulders remained tense. Before he struck the flint, he drew a silver object from an inside pocket of his coat. He sipped from it briefly, his back to her, and tucked it away before turning around. She thought, in that moment, that it was probably a liquor flask. He carried himself like a man who needed one.

She pulled out her dagger, its weight feeling right in her hand. With the fire lit, Lysander now stood at the horses, giving them both water and feed.

Idonea gathered the equipment needed for her ritual. She used her waterskin to pour water into the bowl. The needle gleamed faintly in the firelight before she pricked her finger. A drop of blood struck the surface, spreading in ripples, while her pupils thinned to slits.

She whispered Nellith’s name as she wrapped the black thread around her ring.

Current churned at the edge of thought. The water pulled towards a direction; a sharp tug tore at her chest. Heat surged through her skull. Her breath hitched. The bowl spilled over.

Her eyes snapped open, and Lysander stood directly over her.

“Your eyes.”

She blinked, vision straining to adjust. She slipped Nellith’s ring back on her thumb. “It’s nothing.”

“What were you doing?” He crouched down, reaching out towards her hand, her finger still beading with blood.

She pulled her hand close to her chest. “Gaining us a direction.”

“And did you?” He held out a clay bowl filled with stew.

“Yes.” She took it from him. “We’ll go north-west.”

His face remained blank. “You’re sure?”

Idonea nodded. “I’m never wrong.”