The glacier chamber beneath Eliza’s cottage had never felt so small.

Laken stood barefoot on thousand-year-old ice, arms spread, frost spiraling from her skin in frantic spirals. The air crackled with static and wintergreen. Across from her, Eliza held the original grimoire (leather bound in Astrid’s own blood, pages thin as moth wings) open to a single illuminated spread.

“Again,” Eliza commanded, voice soft but unyielding.

Laken closed her eyes.

She reached ...