With three quick taps of his nail, the substance falls, settling into the narrow crevasse between my arm and Ryc’s. Too quickly it grows warm against my skin.
“I’m tempted to ask how you procured it,” I say and his grin grows as he tucks the jar away. “I’m confident I already know.”
Cenviri’s growing smile is all the confirmation needed.
He bartered with Netharis for the rare material.
Dragons were hunted to extinction long before I existed.
Netharis made sure of that.
Without ceremony or announcement, Cenviri swipes the blade across our arms and I tense with the sudden flash of pain. Silver blooms across the thin line, spilling into the crevasse to mix with the black. He repeats the motion twice more, creating a close series of three horizontal slices.
The mixture of blood and dragon’s talon becomes a congealed dark gray matter. Cenviri mutters a few quick phrases and the familiar crawl of blood magic presses against my chest. The mixture responds andracesinto the wounds, filling them—preventing them from healing.
And it burns.
With a tight inhale, I force myself to remain still, swallowing my gasp. My fist tightens, nails digging into the fleshy heel of my palm as I watch the concoction darken and solidify. At the same time, my arm no longer feels as if it’s been cut—it feels as if a tourniquet has been wrapped too tight.
“The tether is complete,” Cenviri says softly. “It’ll remain sore until we return. It will itch. Do not scratch. Do not pick. If you do, the talon will bury itself deeper. Quite an unpleasant experience.”
Striding around us, Cenviri motions with a tilt of his head for us to follow. Ryc, lifting my hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss into the heel of my palm where deep moon-shaped digs linger on my skin. He tucks my hand into the nook of his arm and follows the necromancer.
“You need to be armed,” Cenviri says, glancing over his shoulder. His waist-length silver braid swings with the motion.
“We are armed,” Ryc replies.
“Youneed to be armedeffectively,” Cenviri corrects himself as he leads us into the hall.
Unlike the majority of halls in the citadel, this hall is one of the few closed ones. No windows, no arches, no crossing breeze. Also unlike the rest of the citadel, the hall lies empty. No merchants, wandering demons, or loitering groups of people chatting. Aside from the three of us, the guards near the hall entrance are the only others present.
Cenviri doesn’t venture far. Swinging open a door on his left, bright silver light spills into the dimly lit hallway. He vanishes through the doorway, leaving it open behind him.
My feet halt before the door, frozen.
As do Ryc’s.
Towering racks of weapons crowd the room. Swords, glaives, daggers, axes and so much more, fill countless hooks and shelves. All bladed by sheer void—blades so black they absorball the silver light foolish enough to strike them.
Bloodstone.
Purebloodstone.
The massive storeroom houses enough bloodstone to outfit the entire Royal Guard of Erus with ease. Row upon row, the narrow aisles between them create a dangerous maze.
There has to be thousands of weapons here.
The reason behind Vaelyn’s hesitation to take House Cenviri by force becomescrystalclear.
“How? I thought…” My voice evaporates as I take a slow step into the room. “I thought Netharis kept all bloodstone in the hells.”
“This is but a small fraction. He kept the majority of it,” Cenviri answers from across the room. Silver hair and pale green eyes appear over the top of a dagger rack. “But it’s enough for Vaelyn to heavily consider less combative options when dealing with Cal Anore.” His wicked grin, hidden by the weapon rack, shines in his eyes.
I wander farther into the room, Ryc following, passing the rows of racks and stop at the end of the row Cenviri’s chosen. He plucks a curved dagger from the lower rungs of a rack. Gripping it tight in his left hand, the blade curls back, ending a finger’s width beforehis forearm.
It’s a beautiful, malicious-looking weapon, reminding me of a demon’s talons. But the design, it’s not meant to pierce through ribs and reach the heart—it doesn’t have to. A blood-bearing cut from a blade of bloodstone is more than enough to be a death sentence.
“And Netharis gave you this?” Ryc asks. His surprise mirrors mine.
