The rebels halt in their tracks.

“Would you look at that, boys?” the portly man announces. “Some sneaky bastards are hiding.”

Before even a whisper of fear can breathe down my spine, Zevayr thunders toward them, sword poised to deliver death. The men fumble for their weapons, but he’s faster—one man drops lifeless before steel even clears their scabbards, a dagger jutting from his neck.

The clash of metal echoes through the trees. Zevayr is a violent storm, his sword a flash of lightning as he blocks and parries before delivering death blows.

Another man falls to the ground.

Four left.

Realization jolts through me—five men left.

Whoever whistled—whoever alerted the rebels—must be above us, somewhere with a clear view. I creep forward on silent steps, scanning the trees. Nothing stirs. Only a sea of leafy branches, concealing more than they reveal.

A sharp grunt of pain jerks my gaze back to the fight. Not Zevayr—thank the Tides. Another man lies dead at his feet. He could end this in an instant, call down lightning and kill them all, but he holds back. He must not want to draw more attention.

Satisfied that Zevayr is holding his own, my gaze sweeps back to the trees. Minutes drag by before I spot him—the rebel tucked into the branches, his green and brown garb melting into the foliage.

My breath catches—he has a crossbow leveled at Zevayr.

And Zevayr doesn’t see him.

My legs move, unbidden.

A distant click, a sharp twang.

Whistling death, hurtling right for him.

“Zevayr!” I shout, bolting through the underbrush. He freezes, eyes wide as they land on me. The rebels swivel their heads. One of them pivots, heading my way and—

It happens so fast.

The arrow finds its mark. Searing pain erupts in my side.

A burning punch to my ribs.

A flash of heat. Then cold.

My breath shudders out of me as I crumple to the ground.

The color drains from Zevayr’s face, his gray eyes panicked. I blink, and he’s the Dark Commander, his expression contorted with violent wrath.

He roars, and the sky rumbles in response. The man closest to him has no chance as Zevayr shoves his sword clean through him.

I don’t understand what happens next. I thought he’d summon lightning and incinerate them.

He doesn’t—but the men die anyway.

The air crackles.

One by one, the men vibrate, pained, garbled groans escaping stuttering mouths. The stench of smoke and metal wafts through the air, and the sizzling grows louder.

Their bodies jerk unnaturally, like puppets with snapping strings.

One man falls to the ground, dead.

The others follow.

There’s a loud thud—the sharpshooter falls, too, his body crashing to the ground.

I try to breathe, but my lungs won’t obey. Zevayr’s face, feral with rage, blurs out of focus before the darkness swallows me whole.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“MAYAH.”

I groan.

“Mayah.” Zevayr’s voice is insistent, close. “Wake up.”

My eyes flutter open. We’re moving. I’m cradled against his chest, and each frantic step jostles the arrow embedded in my side.

“We’re far enough,” he mutters, glancing behind him. “Let’s get that arrow out of you.”

The sun is just beginning to set, and its waning light casts long shadows in the small clearing where we’ve stopped. He gently sets me down, propping me against a thick tree trunk.

“Drink.” He presses a canteen to my mouth, and I gulp the water in deep swigs. “Easy,” he murmurs.

I wipe my mouth, panting. Tides, it hurts.

“I’m going to break the shaft before I remove the arrow. Then you can heal yourself.”

I nod, and even that slight movement has me wincing.

His fingers find the shaft near the base, bracing it against his palm.

“Hold still.”

A muted crack. White-hot pain shoots through me as he breaks the shaft cleanly. My breath escapes in rasping wheezes, and Zevayr laces our fingers together, squeezing tightly.

When I’ve caught my breath, he gently lifts my tunic over the shortened shaft, tucking it around my ribs.

“Does it look bad?” I pant. “Because it hurts like a bitch.”

“It’s only a scratch,” he says, with a small quirk of his lips. “You’re just a baby.” His tone is playful, but I know him well enough to recognize the worry tightening his mouth, the concern darkening his gaze.

He hands me the leather sheath of his dagger. It’s cool between my teeth as I clamp down on it. Long fingers ghost over my ribs before Zevayr braces his palm against my sternum, his other hand gripping the shaft.

Stormy gray eyes meet mine.

“Ready?”

“Just do it,” I mumble around leather.

He gives no warning after that.

Burning, searing, gutting pain explodes in my side as he yanks the arrow out, quickly staunching the flow of blood with his hand. The leather clamped between my teeth muffles my cries of pain, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Zevayr murmurs. There’s so much pain in his eyes, you’d think he was the one who had a giant arrow ripped out of him. He covers the wound with a piece of torn cloth, then presses my hands over it. “Hold this.”

My breathing is ragged. The pain is unbearable. But I manage to follow his instructions. He returns within minutes with a refilled canteen. Gentle hands take the leather from between my teeth. The water is cool as he tips it into my mouth, along with a few tart berries.

The sustenance will help my reserves, meager though it may be.

His hands press over mine at the wound, pulling me against his chest. He curves his body around me, a shield of warmth, holding me until my breaths fall into rhythm with his—until the sharp pain eases into a dull, steady throb.

“Thank you,” I rasp. My limbs are boneless, like packed, wet snow, and my gut churns uneasily. “I think I can heal myself now.”

I close my eyes and reach for my power.

Nothing.

I blink.

I summon it again.

No—

Panic flares.

I try again, harder. But my power stays locked behind some invisible wall.

I pull away from Zevayr’s chest and try again.

But there’s still no answer. I can feel it—my power is still there, swirling inside me, but it’s somehow blocked.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.

“My power,” I stammer. “It’s not working. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He stiffens, then lets out a low string of curses.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes, but the tremble in his hands gives him away. Zevayr walks stiffly to his pack, like movement is the only thing keeping him together.

When he returns, there’s a small tin of herbal resin in his palm.

His jaw is clenched tight, fury contorting his tanned face. The sky slowly darkens, clouds gathering overhead.

“Zevayr. Breathe,” I manage through gritted teeth.

“Iron. The arrow was coated with iron. It’s in your bloodstream, suppressing your powers. It’s why you can’t heal. Brace again.” Without warning, he presses the leather sheathe back between my teeth.

The wound burns as he rinses it with clean water. Tears stream down my cheeks anew as he seals it with strong-smelling resin. His hands are impossibly gentle as he pulls my tunic back into place.

He carries me to the blanket, cradling me to his chest like I’m something precious, settling down beside me.

“Sleep,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from my face. “The iron will be out of your system by morning.”

But his hand lingers, as if he’s not ready to let go.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN