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I throw myself forward, wedging my body between Kelaros and the incoming attack.

Pain explodes across my side as crystalline claws rip through silk and skin. Fire races along my nerves, stealing my breath. The wound burns, cold and hot at once, like being branded with ice.

The beast pulls back for another strike, but I refuse to give ground. Gritting my teeth, I slam my knife down into the joint where the third jaw meets its body. The blade sinks deep, and the creature reels with the sound of shattering glass.

“Traveler!” Kelaros shouts, throat tight with what might be concern.

“I’m fine,” I snap, though blood soaks my side. “Focus!”

The beast circles us, more cautious now. It favors its wounded side, one jaw hanging at an odd angle. Dark ichor drips in a steady stream, eating pits into the stone where it lands.

Kelaros slides in at my side, close enough that his body heat washes over me. “We need to take out all three heads at once.”

“Got it.” My brain ticks through options. “Can you get its attention while I flank it?”

His lips flatten. “Consider it done.”

He darts forward, knife flashing in patterns meant to draw the creature’s focus. The beast tracks him, all three heads locked on.

I circle, ignoring the fire in my side as blood trickles down my leg. The wound is shallow but angry, every movement tugging at torn flesh. As my magic works below the surface, ensuring I don’t die, I shove the pain away, compartmentalizing it so I can survive.

When the beast commits to Kelaros, I strike. My knife finds the back of its neck, or what passes for a neck on this nightmare, and drives deep between crystalline vertebrae. The creature arches, jaws opening in silent howls.

Kelaros doesn’t waste the moment. He dives under its guard, driving his borrowed knife up into the soft underside of its chest. The blade slides home with the sound of ice cracking on a frozen lake.

For a suspended second, the beast goes rigid, impaled between our blades. Then, with the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering at once, it dissolves into crystal shards and shadow, the pieces falling in a deadly shower before turning to crystal dust that settles around us.

It glitters across the flagstones before it melts into shadow. Its final howl lingers, a ghostly vibration that pulses through the ruins long after the sound itself fades.

My vision swims at the edges, adrenaline draining away and leaving only insistent pain radiating from the gash along my side. Blood soaks my dress, hot and sticky on my skin.

I stumble, but catch myself before my weakness becomes obvious. My free hand investigates the wound and comes away slick with blood.

Kelaros turns and goes still when he catches sight of my injury. “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.” I lean on a broken column, needing the support, though I won’t admit it.

Inside, my magic stirs, ready to pour into the wound and knit my flesh shut. But I clamp down on it with an iron will, forcing the power back, and the effort brings on a cold sweat, my body shaking with the strain of fighting my own nature.

If Kelaros realizes I can heal, it will confirm his suspicion that I’m not a wildling. And whatever game we’re playing, whatever secrets he’s hiding… I can’t give him the advantage. Not yet.

He steps closer. “Let me see.”

I shift back, keeping the column between us. “I can handle it.”

He tilts his head, his attention turning predatory. “You took the hit for me.”

“Don’t read into it.” I pull at the torn silk, assessing the damage. “I need you alive to find Elionn.”

The wound runs across my ribs on the right side, six inches long but shallow. The beast’s claws sliced clean, which means it should heal without complications, and my magic will stave off infection. The edges burn like frostbite, suggesting venom or magical contamination. Another thing my magic can deal with.

I tear strips from the bottom of my ruined skirt, silk ripping in clean lines. The dress was impractical, but at least it now serves a purpose beyond helping me to blend in with the other wildlings.

“Do you need assistance?” Kelaros hovers closer than necessary. “I have experience in tending wounds.”

“I need space.” My fingers work with practiced efficiency, folding a strip into a pad to stanch the blood flowing from my side. “And my knife back.”

Instead of returning it, he holds on to the knife while I dress the wound. “You’ve done this before.”