7. Sapphire

Sapphire

The cave feels heavier at night, like the darkness is pressing in closer now that Riven and Ghost have left to gather the ingredients.

I sit near the entrance, clutching my dagger, trying to stay focused on keeping watch. But my mind keeps spinning in circles.

The blood-soaked bandage on Zoey’s arm. The sweat clinging to her skin. The potion that Riven and I have to make. The dove I’ll have to kill. The spell I’ll have to cast on it.

I wrap my arms around myself, the warmth of Riven’s amulet a small comfort against the chill.

Finally, the frost ivy parts, and Ghost strides in.

Riven follows close behind, the small pouches attached to his weapons belt hopefully carrying all the ingredients he went out to gather.

“Did you miss me?” he asks lightly, but his eyes are sharp, scanning the cave and zeroing in on Zoey.

Is it just me, or does he look relieved she’s still alive?

Of course he does.

Without her, he loses some of the leverage he has on me.

“Not even a little.” I stand, forcing a calmness into my voice that I definitely don’t feel. “Did you get everything?”

“As promised.” He spreads the materials across the table. “Soulberries, starlight moss, moonlit fern, and twilight thistle. All accounted for.”

The soulberries glisten like glass, the moonlit fern pulses with a gentle glow, and the twilight thistle shimmers like the last moments of sunset. As for the starlight moss, it looks like there are real stars twinkling inside it.

I stare at them in amazement, wanting to touch them, but unwilling to risk doing anything that might mess up the spell.

“Now comes the real test,” he says, motioning for me to join him. “Ready?”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Crush the soulberries into juice, then mix them with water,” he says, picking up a bowl and placing a handful of berries inside.

“How do I crush them?” I ask.

“With passion.” His eyes glimmer with mischief. “Channeling the same amount of passion you had while kissing me should be enough.”

“You’re insufferable.” I glare at him, pick up the pestle, and get to it.

“Not bad,” he says, his gaze locked on my hands as I work the pestle over the berries. “You have good rhythm.”

I narrow my eyes at him, stopping my crushing. “Are you complimenting me, or insinuating something else?”

“Maybe both.” He grins, a glint of silver mischief in his eyes. “Though if you’re this good with berries, I can only imagine how?—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I cut him off, my cheeks burning. “I swear, Riven. Do you ever just… not?”

“Not what?” he asks, leaning closer. “Fluster you? Annoy you? Make you smile when you’re trying so hard not to?”

“I’m not smiling.” I grip the pestle tighter, trying to ignore the way his words curl around me, stirring something I don’t have the time to deal with.

“You’re definitely smiling.” His voice lowers, teasing but edged with something darker. “And blushing. Though that could be from all the pounding.”

I glance up sharply, glaring. “Do you actually want this potion to turn out right, or is this just an excuse for you to flirt?”

“I’m supervising,” he corrects me, clearly getting a rise out of this. “Making sure you’re thorough.”

“Then supervise from over there,” I motion to a few feet away from me. “After all, you’re not helping me by distracting me.”

He frowns, but does as asked, although his eyes remain fixed on me as I continue to work.

Once the berries are crushed, he has me add a precise amount of water and swirl the mixture until it hums with magic.

“Now, the moss,” he says, handing me a few soft, glowing strands. “Tear it into small pieces and add it slowly.”

I do as he says, my hands trembling slightly.

“Easy there,” he says. “Don’t rush. It’s all about taking your time—feeling the texture, knowing when to press, and knowing when to let go.”

“Do you have to make everything sound so suggestive?” I snap.

“I’m just teaching you proper technique.” His smirk returns, and he leans casually against the table.

“Proper technique?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“You have to admit,” he says, stepping closer again, his voice dropping into that infuriatingly intimate range, “I’m very good at technique.”

It takes all my self-control to not rip the moss in half to show him exactly how I feel about his technique.

But I don’t. For Zoey.

As we continue, the fact that her life is in my hands right now is the only thing stopping me from losing control.

“You have good instincts,” he says as I stir. “You can feel how the ingredients want to come together.”

I glare at him for that one.

At the same time, he’s right. It’s like the ingredients are singing to each other, and I’m simply helping them find harmony.

“There.” I hold up the finished potion, now a deep violet liquid that catches and holds the light. “Is this right?”

He examines it closely. “Perfect,” he says softly, all traces of teasing gone as he pours it into a satchel. “Better than I could have done. Now, all that’s left is the dove blood.”

He holds it out to me, and the satchel’s weight feels like more than just a potion—it’s the weight of Zoey’s life in my hands.

“Ready to hunt a dove?” he asks calmly, as though we’re heading out on a stroll and not preparing for what feels like the most important moment of my life.

I glance at Zoey, her shallow breaths rattling in the quiet of the cave.

Ghost is curled up beside her, his massive form a comforting barrier against anything that might try to get through.

I don’t want to leave her.

But I want to save her life. I can’t do that if I don’t trust that Ghost will keep her safe.

Plus, I can’t project, so one version of myself stays here, and the other goes with Riven. My real body would be a sitting duck if anything entered the cave. And I suspect that if my real self dies, my projected self will die, too.

As I remind myself all this, Ghost’s intelligent eyes remain fixed on me, like he’s promising he’ll keep Zoey safe.

“Watch out for her,” I tell him, and then I turn back to Riven, trying to stop myself from shaking. “Let’s do this.”

He nods, and together, we step through the frost ivy and into the night.

Stars scatter the sky, illuminating the forest in a way that feels both serene and ominous. And while the cold air bites my skin, the amulet of warmth wards off the worst of it.

I have control over air, I realize. Shouldn’t I be able to control the temperature of it around me?

Maybe. It’s worth a try.

Later.

When Riven’s not around to possibly see.

“Doves like edges,” he says as we walk. “Forests, water sources, shrubs. There’s a stream not far from here. We should be able to find one there.”

“For a prince, you sure know a lot about tracking birds,” I say, not seeing even a single sign of one of them nearby.

“Let’s just say I’m well-versed in handling delicate creatures,” he counters, and I can’t help feeling comforted by his teasing.

“I wouldn’t call myself delicate,” I reply. “Unless we’re counting your ego—because I’m handling that just fine.”

“Oh, you’re handling something all right,” he says. “But I wouldn’t call it my ego.”

We continue like that for the next few minutes, following what seems like an endless stretch of trees. But no matter how hard I try focusing on Riven’s banter, my mind circles back to Zoey. Every second feels like another step closer to losing her.

That’s when I hear it.

A crunch in the snow.

Heavy. Deliberate.

Riven tenses beside me. “Don’t move,” he whispers.

Another snap, closer now.

“What is it?” I ask, my magic stirring beneath my skin.

“Be quiet, and stay close,” he says, and a shadow emerges from the trees—a hulking, humanoid figure that’s almost nine feet tall, with frost-covered skin and eyes that glow like embers.

“A Stalo,” Riven says, drawing his sword. “They die if you stab them in the heart. The trick is getting close enough to do it. And whatever happens—don’t run.”

Before I can reply, the Stalo looks at us, charges, and the forest explodes into chaos.