It really wasn’t his fault that a drop landed in his mouth, there was so much of it, and even a trace was enough.
Jakobav never flinched from what he was. His highest-ranked guards knew; the inner circle trusted it. Some even respected it. Blood-Scenting, they whispered in hushed tones when his gift was first discovered. It came with intrusive access to others’ powers along with blood memory, letting him taste truth and borrow a shadow of power, though not everything and not entire minds, only fragments carried by the blood.
The gift had caused havoc amongst Dravaryn nobility because most people believed Blood-Scenting had died with the Fae, and some royals wanted to keep it that way. But he had never been ashamed to use it, yet this time, he had hesitated.
His hesitation was not from guilt, but from the fear of invading her mind. Thoughts rarely came whole, unless they were screaming to be heard, but more often, he caught impressions, shards of fear, a flash of rage, or a memory half-formed.
Most people felt fear or despair before an execution, but she had sparked with defiance, like the last thought she carried was a vow:I will not break.It had struck him harder than any blade, and no way he was letting a guard finish her, much less lay a fucking hand on her.
He turned back toward the bed, the firelight catching on her throat as she breathed. Another impression had slammed into him while her blood was still on his tongue that was as intriguing as it was concerning. His skull was pounded with a name as if she had shouted it like a brand:I am Ella. Just Ella.
Her mind screamed it so loudly that the words had echoed in his skull for days afterward. He hadn’t meant to take it, in fact, a name was not usually what blood gave him. But hers had forced it, raw and unbidden.
She was an intrusion he couldn’t shake.
The taste of her blood was still infecting him, festering. It had been sweet, unsettlingly so, and he’d never tasted anything like it. He’d known soldiers, rebels, priests, and spies. He’d tasted steel, ash, and madness. Jakobav siphoned their magic when needed, able to wield it for minutes, sometimes hours, depending on the toll. Each person’s blood held its own taste: some bitter, some flat, but never sweet.
He lifted the basin of dirty water, watching faint red swirls cloud the surface, and his mouth turned dry. Her blood wassweet. This girl, Ella, tasted of fire and a forbidden flower, like old promises buried in bone. And gods help him, it had called to him, maybe in hunger or warning. Though he’d tasted the fire, he couldn’t wield it. The power had denied him.
A strange warning, indeed.
Suddenly, she shifted in her sleep, murmuring in a tongue he recognized, and his jaw tensed.
Maybe she wasn’t from Orchid at all.
He pushed off the window frame and crossed the room again.
Kneeling beside the bed again, he watched the candlelight reflect across her features. Her lips parted, and the words spilled out softer this time, each syllable laced with melody.
He thought back to that first night in the castle, when she’d bled across his floors and Bryn had worked over her with his endless chatter. The healer had muttered more than once that her wounds should’ve killed her, that she had no business still drawing breath.
Jakobav had stayed until dawn, silent, watching her chest rise and fall as if by her willpower alone. He could’ve sworn she’d mumbled in her sleep, words that carried a cadence unlike any tongue of the mortal realm. The sound scraped at memory, at childhood lessons whispered in secret corridors.
Jakobav had been taught the old language since boyhood, many royals had. They spoke it in secret, even those who publicly declared the Fae would never return. The four kingdoms of the mortal realm did not agree on much, but all had outlawed the tongue of the Fae.
Jakobav had never cared for laws written in fear.
He was still kneeling at her side, staring at her, studying every inch of her skin, as if it would reveal what was beneath.
But a kingdom waited for him, and the Claiming crept closer. He needed to prepare.
At last he stood and turned away before she could wake and catch him watching.
Some truths revealed themselves without asking.
Others, he would drag from her, drop by drop.
6
SCENT OF TRUTH
It was her second night in Dravaryn territory, and still she was alive, though she hardly knew how. Rising came easier this time. Her body ached but was no longer broken, the kind of strain that could be endured. She crossed the room without collapsing, fingers brushing the wall for balance, and eased the door open.
The corridor beyond was nearly empty, the air hushed in those hours before dawn. Torches guttered low in their sconces, bleeding dim light across the stone like fading embers. She passed over a stretch of floor scorched black, the remnants of some long-ago spell or battle. Of course Dravaryn wouldn’t bother to scrub scars like that away. They wore their history like a warning.
Barefoot, careful, she moved slowly, each step a small prayer to remain unseen. Yet for all her caution, she was not quick enough.
“Impressive. You almost made it down the hall without collapsing.” Jakobav’s voice rolled from the shadows. He leaned against the far wall with one boot crossed casually over the other, as if he had been waiting for her all along.
