The pain in Liya's legs had subsided into a wrenching throb; she'd avoided looking at the burns, the odd angle of her shin as she had pulled herself away from the fire. The darkness swam out of pain or sheer fright.

Emry coughed and she heard blood bubbling in his throat. She swallowed down her nausea and put a hand on his chest; he lay flat on his back in the grass, a chunk torn out of his neck, somehow otherwise unharmed.

"No, no, look at me," she pleaded. "It's all right. It's all right."

A deep cold started in her brain, spread down her spine, flushing the nerves in her hand with a bright light. It sank deep into Emry's chest, pushing through his arteries; specks of light shone through the wound in his throat, marking the ends of broken vessels.

She pushed, trying desperately to force the blood to clot, the veins to rebuild themselves. Emry could not breathe; his eyes were dull, rolling back in his head.

"It's not working," Liya whispered, heart plummeting. The chill in her head was a different one now. "It's..."

With all the effort he had, Emry lifted a hand and grabbed Liya's shoulder. Very slowly he pulled himself up to hug her.

The fire roared. Liya held onto Emry tightly, afraid to see his face. He was suddenly incredibly heavy, incredibly still, in her arms.