Chapter Forty-Three · The Venom in Her Heart

Sometime in the night, the current shifted.

By the time they woke, it was carrying them somewhere new.

The river had begun to thin. Water slipped into the sand, vanishing piece by piece, and by the time the roots let them go, the river was gone.

Only damp earth remained.

Beyond it, pale dunes stretched beneath a hard, white sun.

Lyra pushed herself up.

Real light.

But it didn’t warm her.

The air was still cold, only drier than in Drazhune.

No one was there.

Only sand, light, and wind.

Sion squinted and raised a hand against the glare.

“Finally,” she muttered. “The sun.”

Lyra stepped down from the root-boat. Her shoes sank slightly into the pale sand before settling.

She drew her sword and drove it into the sand.

A faint tremor ran through the blade.

The vibration climbed her arm.

Quieter than usual.

Safe enough.

Nothing stirred beneath the sand.

“Let’s go, Sion.”

Sion climbed down after her.

“Another strange place.”

They set off across the dunes.

After a while, Sion began to slow.

“I feel something… following me.”

Lyra glanced at the sand.

A shallow curve marked the surface, thin and pale, trailing behind Sion’s steps.

The same kind she had seen before.

“Just the wind,” she said.

Sion didn’t move.

“It’s not moving like wind.”

Lyra looked again.

She let out a slow breath.

“We keep moving.”

Sion swallowed, then nodded.

“Okay.”

They took a few more steps.

The sand dipped.

Sion screamed.

Her leg jerked back, tearing free from the sand.

Then the pain struck.

She folded, hands clamping around her ankle.

“Something bit me—”

Blood welled between her fingers.

Lyra dropped to her knees.

“Don’t move.”

Lyra pressed her hand tight just above the wound.

Two punctures marked Sion’s skin, already darkening. Thin black lines curled outward, looping once, then again, as if something coiled beneath her skin.

Lyra’s stomach went cold.

She scanned the sand.

Nothing.

She forced herself to listen—deeper, harder.

Still nothing.

No trail. No disturbance.

Her breath caught.

“What is that?”

Lyra let go, seized the hem of her tunic, and ripped off a strip.

She bound it tight above the wound.

“Slow breaths. Slow breaths.

Don’t let it reach your heart.”

In the distance, a massive black scorpion burst from the sand, then dropped back under.

Its tail stabbed down into something.

The sand churned.

A head broke the surface.

A snake.

All around them, more heads rose.

A whole nest.

Sion stared at them, fists clenched, her face drained of color.

Lyra went still.

Why didn’t I sense them?

The scorpion struck.

The sand churned.

The snakes held—then broke.

Then the air changed.

A bitter, mineral scent cut through the dunes.

The snakes turned—

not in panic, but by instinct.

They vanished beneath the sand.

Only the smell lingered.

Lyra turned.

The old woman was already waiting.

She wore a white, mottled mask made of snakeskin.

“Come with me. It’s the only way she’ll live.”

Lyra had no other choice.

She had no cure and no one to turn to here.

Without the old woman, Sion would die.

Lyra rose slowly, lifted Sion onto her back, and followed.

They crossed a few more dunes.

The town came slowly into view.

The old woman’s house stood apart from the others, set at the edge where the sand began to swallow the land.

They stepped inside.

The old woman pointed to a narrow bed.

“Lay her there.”

Lyra moved at once.

Her legs trembled from the long walk, but she didn’t falter.

She lowered Sion onto the bed.

Sion’s lips had gone pale.

Sweat poured down her face.

The old woman reached for a red glass vial among dozens of brown ones.

“Give her one.”

Lyra forced a pill between Sion’s lips.

The old woman sat at the bedside.

She spat onto the bite, then began to chant.

The black lines tightened, pulling back on themselves.

Dark blood welled and bled out.

Sion bit down hard, pain sharpening her features.

“Almost.”

The chant continued, pressing the last of the poison free.

After a moment, Sion’s body eased.

Her eyes shut, and she sank into a heavy sleep.

“It’s passed.

She’ll live.”

The old woman moved to the table and sat.

She poured tea.

She drank slowly, watching Lyra over the rim of the cup.

Lyra felt a shiver.

What was behind that mask?

She couldn’t tell.

Kindness—

or something else?

The old woman gave a short laugh.

“Girl, where do you come from?”

Lyra hesitated, just a beat.

“Thrudor.”

“Thrudor…”

“So far from home—

all the way to Sarrakha.

What for?”

Lyra held still.

She couldn’t risk the truth.

Trusting anyone here was too dangerous.

Give her something. Anything.

“We’re… trading.”

“Trading?” The old woman tilted her head.

“What do you expect to trade out here?”

Lyra had nothing—

then a memory surfaced.

In the palace, envoys from Sarrakha had brought intricate pieces, delicate and bright.

She seized on it.

“Handcrafts.”

“Ah. I see.”

She didn’t ask anything else. Instead, she stood.

“I have business outside.

Rest.

Food’s on the table.

When she wakes, give her another from the red vial.”

Then she stepped out—

and was gone.

Lyra moved through the house.

There was nothing of value.

Just a bed, a stove, and a few glass vials.

This wasn’t a place someone lived in.

Not every day.

The next day, Sion had recovered enough to stand.

Lyra helped her up.

“Let’s go.”

She set two gold coins on the table.

They stepped outside.

The old woman was there again.

The mask made them flinch.

“Leaving already?”

Lyra gave a small nod.

“Thank you for saving her.”

She turned and started off, supporting Sion.

The old woman’s voice followed them.

“She’ll live, but she’s not well.”

They stopped.

“The poison’s gone,” the old woman said. “But it left a trace.”

“What do you mean?”

“A little of it reached her heart.

On nights when the sky goes black and moonless, she’ll speak nonsense. She won’t know herself.”

A beat.

“Forty-nine days. After that, her mind will be gone.”

Lyra staggered.

Too high a price.

Her mistake.

One moment’s lapse.

Sion had nearly died.

And now it would take the rest.

The weight settled in her chest, heavy and unyielding.

Lyra stepped closer.

“Can this be undone?”

The old woman was silent for a moment.

Then she lifted a hand to her mask.

Her fingers rested there a moment longer than needed.

“Find a great serpent.

Take one of its fangs and shape it into a comb.

Comb her hair each time the fit takes hold.

It is the only way.”

Sion swallowed, her face tightening, fear threading through the worry.

“But where do we find it?”

“Go through the town.

Walk until you see water where there should be none.”

…

“You’ll know.”

They gave the old woman a small bow and took their leave.

A few steps on, Lyra stopped. Something snagged at her attention.

She turned back.

The old woman was gone.

No trace.

No footsteps.

Had she gone inside?

The door stood open.

Empty.

Only the bitter, mineral scent lingered.

Lyra’s shoulders sank.

Her resonance gave her nothing she could trust.

This place didn’t follow her rules.

Sion tugged at her sleeve.

“We should go.”