Roland fell, and the marsh went quiet for one terrible second. Then the witch lifted her hand to strike again.
Amalia slammed her staff to the ground. Talia threw both palms out. Alina stepped tight to Lucian’s side. Their strength met in the same breath—Amalia’s steady push, Talia’s heat, Alina’s cool, white calm—and snapped into a simple, hard wall. The witch’s next attack slid wide. Threads in the air went dull. They had a few seconds to back away.
No one realized Lucian was hurt until he dropped to one knee.
He folded forward, one hand clamped to his side, the other catching his weight in the mud. His head hung. Blood leaked between his fingers.
“Lucian!” Talia was already there. She grabbed his wrist, pressed hard into the wound, and shouted over her shoulder, “Aunt Amalia! Alina—
