"Jace!"
He looked like death. His cloak was torn, his face smeared with mud and clotted blood, and his right leg hung askew—tangled at a nauseous angle, the bone must be splintered. But those sea-glass eyes still shone, though pain had dimmed their luster.
"Someone get a stretcher!" I shouted.
Kael helped me slide him down from the saddle, my arms shaking from the burden of whatever rape his body had dragged itself through. Jace took hold of my forearm with unexpected strength as we placed him on the canvas stretcher.
"No time— listen to me," he panted. "They're after your mark, Lila. The cult … they know what it means."
My stomach dropped. "What do you mean they know?"
He caught his breath as he was raised and gave a hard grunt. "They're closing in. The priestess—the one that made it out of the root-vault attack—she's not dead. And she has a seer. A real one. They're tracking you through dreams."
Kael's face darkened. "Dream-scrying?"
