Maria.
I hadn't even fully recovered from the sudden loss of warmth where Vincent's hand had been intertwined with mine when Aidan's voice cut through the air, sharp and merciless, ordering him to uproot the thorns.
For a moment, my mind refused to process the words.
Thorns.
My gaze snapped to where he was pointing, and my breath caught painfully in my throat.
They were thick. Jagged. Wild shrubs with long, cruel spikes that glinted faintly in the light. Even from where I stood, I could tell how unforgiving they were. I had seen servants bleed from far smaller ones. No one—no one—used bare hands to uproot them.
Yet Vincent didn't argue.
He only bowed his head and obeyed.
The realization slammed into me like a blow.
He's really going to do it.
My heart lurched violently as he crouched and wrapped his fingers around the first cluster. The moment he pulled, his body flinched. I heard the sharp hiss of pain he tried—and failed—to suppress.
I froze.
