Sy held my hand—my non-iron-ring-hand—in his as we stepped gingerly back into the chalet. I felt him edging toward the living room, where the wood stove and the invaluable iron poker were waiting for us. His skin was buzzing with magic, and I caught an edge of that dangerous red-rage magic like lightning in his flesh. Still controlled, but coiled, dangerous, waiting. If Jarrah was already back, if he challenged Sy again—I knew Sy wouldn’t be able to hold back. He’d attack his own ...