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“I would not have thought a Silver Prince would take such a one to bond with,” he continues. “Yet there it was. Blood calling to blood.”

My chest tightens.

Dark blood.

Amalia is fae-touched, and if Nyctarian is right about Elionn⁠—

“Wildlings cannot be Nyt’Fall,” I deflect.

“No, wildlings cannot be Nyt’Fall.” Nyctarian considers me. “I do so dislike an inelegant answer.”

“Perhaps…” I say slowly, assembling the pieces while taking care not to reveal what I have already suspected about my fae-touched witch. “We are looking at the gift when we should be examining what’s beneath it. Not every descendant of the clan blooms into Nyt’Fall, but the anomaly can persist through generations.”

Nyctarian’s attention sharpens.

“So perhaps the magic matters less than whatever the blood carries with it,” I finish.

He dips his chin. “An elegant conclusion.”

“What are you doing to bring back your people?” I demand.

Nyctarian stops before an archway. “Everything within my power.”

“And yet they remain gone.”

“As does your brother.” His attention settles on me. “There are places even kings cannot command, Silver Flame.”

My hands clench at the memory of opalescent light refusing me passage. “Then why bring me here?”

“I thought you might appreciate what I have learned.” Nyctarian touches the archway.

Light blooms across its surface, revealing a section of the spire’s grounds that are overrun with crystalline blight. Crystal encases the trees beyond, swallowing bark and leaves beneath glittering facets. Even the flowers have been caught within it, frozen in perfect bloom.

“Every living thing contains a resonance,” Nyctarian says. “A frequency all its own. Find the correct counterpoint…”

A hum starts at the back of my head. Pressure builds behind my eardrums, sharpening into pain.

I clench my teeth. “What are you⁠—”

The clatter of crystal leaves cuts me off.

Branches shake, though there is no breeze. Then, one by one, the leaves fracture. Crystal bursts into glittering particles, raining onto the stones until green emerges beneath.

My breath catches.

Living green.

For the first time since this cursed blight appeared, hope surges through me.

“You found it.” I turn to Nyctarian. “You found a way to destroy the blight.”

He raises one hand. “Wait.”

A leaf curls in on itself.

Another follows.

Green fades to brown along their edges, racing inward until the leaves shrivel and drop from the branches. Flowers collapse next, petals falling in limp heaps. The bark splits with a dry crack.