“He will heal,” Niall said, trying the words out, testing the Hound’s reaction to his opinion.

“I hope so,” she said, even as her doubt washed over him.

Irial was motionless on the litter. The uneven rising and falling of his chest proved that he still lived, but the pinched look on his face made clear that he was suffering. His eyes were closed, and his taunting grin was absent.

The healer was finishing packing some sort of noxious-smelling plants against the wound, and Niall wasn’t sure whether it was worse to look at Irial or at the bloodied bandages on the floor.

The Hound, Gabriel’s second-in-command, lowered her voice. “The Hunt stands at your side, Niall. Gabriel has made that clear. We will fight at your side. We will not let Bananach near you.”

Niall came to stand beside Irial and asked the healer, “Well?”

“He’s as stable as can be expected.” The healer turned to face Niall. “We can make him comfortable while the poison takes him or we can end his suffer—”

“No!” Niall’s abyss-guardians flared to life in shared rage. “You will save him.”

“Bananach stabbed him with a knife carved of poison. He’s as good as d—” The rest of the words were lost under the Dark King’s roar of frustration.

Irial opened his eyes, grabbed Niall’s hand, and rasped, “Don’t kill the messenger, love.”

“Shut up, Irial,” Niall said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. With his free hand, he motioned for the waiting faeries to approach. “Be careful with him.”

Niall released Irial’s hand so that the faeries could lift the stretcher.

As they left the tattoo shop, Hounds fell into formation around Niall and the injured king, walking in front, flanking them, and following them.

The former Dark King’s eyes closed again; his chest did not appear to rise.

Niall reached out and put a hand on the injured faery’s chest. “Irial!”