The war council chamber smelled of blood, sweat, and burning herbs.
Rowan lay stretched across the obsidian table at the center of the room, his shirt cut away, his torso wrapped in glowing runic bandages. Healers moved around him in tense silence, chanting in low voices as they fought to keep the remnants of the Hunter’s Blade curse from devouring his organs.
Ivy stood at the foot of the table, her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms.
He was alive.
But not safe.
Not yet.
“The poison is retreating,” the chief healer finally said, sweat beading on his brow. “But it has not been fully purged. The blade was forged with abyssal magic. It embeds itself in the marrow.”
Rowan grimaced. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you will feel it,” the healer said. “For a long time. Possibly fo
