IRIS’ P.O.V
The sun climbed higher by the time I dragged myself back into the cabin. My legs felt like wet noodles. My arms felt like they belonged to someone else. Sweat clung to my skin, and every breath stung my lungs.
Irene stood by the kitchen table, sharpening a blade with slow, angry strokes. She didn’t even look up.
“You trained too long,” she said.
“I didn’t,” I answered.
“You look like a dying carrot.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
She shrugged. “I saw a carrot die once. Same energy.”
I walked past her and grabbed a bottle of water. My hands shook a little. Blake noticed, of course. He leaned against the counter with a look that suggested he was trying not to say something sarcastic.
“You need food,” he said.
“I need Illyra’s skull,” I said.
“She might give you her foot ins
