He felt hope blossom in his chest.
But of course, it would be no use without a weapon.
His hope shriveled up instantly and died.
Magus only shrugged. “That, Little Prince, is a question I have long carried, with no answer upon which to lay it down. I suppose...where Marin failed, maybe you, of all people, couldsucceed.”He stood, groaning as his old body cracked in far too many places. “Perhaps the monster isn’t a monster after all. Perhaps it is a test. A challenge you must win, before you can move on to the next level. Perhaps, like Marin...there is more waiting for you beyond your woods.”
Magus turned to leave, still carrying the little birds with him.
“Where are you going?” Kinlear asked.
Magus smiled. “To the future, Little Prince.”
“But...you can’t just end our lesson with that!” Kinlear called after him. “How am I supposed to win?”
The birds tweeted in response.
“You’ll figure it out,” Magus said, chuckling as he hobbled away. “After all...you’re the clever twin.”
Kinlear woke early the next day and made his way quickly to the library. His mother had a section of it reserved all for his studies, a little alcove where the open air could dance in. Where sunlight could sparkle off the gilded spines of the ancient books. It was one of the few places in Touvre he admittedly adored.
He paused when he rounded the corner. There was no Magus seated on the straight-backed chair beside the window, where the birds could easily reach him.
There was, instead...a small wooden box, and a piece of parchment. Withhis nameon it.
Kinlear’s cane clacked on the marble floor as he approached and lifted the lid. His brows raised.
Magus’ blade.
It was a small Scribe’s dagger, made of bone, that Magus had used in countless lessons as he’d pricked his finger and drew his own blood with which to inscribe a rune.
Something crinkled as Kinlear lifted the blade from the box.
It was a piece of paper, yellowing and tattered at its left edge, as if – Kinlear winced inwardly – Magus had ripped it from the pages of an old book. He’d never seen it before, but it looked ancient. Magus had underlined, in blackest ink, a sentence that turned his blood to ice:
A Veilborne’s blade, rare in formation, is to be crafted by the bones of another who has gone before. So long as it is gifted to its new master, not taken, the Veilblade can travel Beyond.
His hands shook as he dropped the page back into the box.
This was wild, this wasdangerous,this was....
“Impossible,” Kinlear breathed.
He stared at the page as if it were a poisonous snake. And then, before he thought better of it...he crumpled it up and shoved it into his pocket to destroy later. Because it had to be from aforbiddenbook. One of those on old magic: the thousands that his father had rounded up and destroyed when Kinlear was just a baby, replaced only by books that spoke of the Five and their laws.
Magus had carried this blade for as long as Kinlear had known him.
And now...
The bones of another who has gone before.
His stomach twisted as he looked at the hilt. He suspectedexactlywhose bones the blade was fashioned from.
“Marin,” he whispered, as if he were calling out to the twin Magus had lost, years ago.
A Veilblade...for a Veilborne.
It felt heavier now. Not in weight but inpurpose.
