I snapped back into the room with a jolt.
The sudden quiet was too loud. I staggered, my hand clenched around the orb, breath sawing in my lungs as if I’d been the one fighting, bleeding, on that battlefield.
Varyth stood across from me, unmoving, but watching with that measured gaze of his. His ashen hair caught the firelight, his posture perfectly composed. But his eyes…
Gods, his eyes.
They were tired. A quiet understanding that came from having lived through too much, seen too much. The weight of history pressed behind that expression, and it was so at odds with the commander I had seen.
This version of him, thisVaryth, was different.
Older. Quieter. Maybe even sadder.
I loosened my grip on the orb, setting it back into the cradle. My fingers trembled as I withdrew them.
“Gods,” I whispered. “That—none of the books?—”
“They wouldn’t.”
“You… you let them die.”
“I let them fight.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret?” he echoed, soft, distant. “Regret is a story you tell yourself when you think you still have time.” He exhaled slowly. “I did what I thought was necessary. That is the only truth history allows.”
I studied him, searching for some hint of the truth beneath his composed words. “That’s not an answer.”
The whisper of a smile touched his lips. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”
The air between us hummed with the memory of that battlefield. When Varyth finally spoke, his voice was low enough to preserve the hush of the library.
“I have something else for you.”
My fingers tightened on the edge of the shelf. Wariness flared bright in my chest. “What?”
From the pocket of his tunic he drew a slim object. Metal gleamed faintly in the firelight, shaped like a fountain pen but heavier, older, something with purpose carved into its bones. He turned it once in his hand, then looked at me.
“I told you the magic you hold might be powerful,” he said, calm as ever, though the words pressed hard against me. “Powerful enough your form might struggle to contain it. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to give you something that will help you control it.”
Every muscle in me tensed. “And what exactly would that be?”
“A mark,” he replied smoothly. He stepped closer, lifting his hand, and his fingertip brushed lightly behind my ear. The smallest touch, but it sparked across my nerves like lightning. “Here. Subtle. But it will help you keep control when the power manifests.”
Suspicion curled in my throat. “And how do I know this isn’t some fae mind-control trick?”
He laughed—quiet, rich, and utterly maddening. “You don’t, I suppose. But if I wanted to control your mind, there are easier ways to do it. And I probably would have done it sooner.”
My mouth twisted. “How comforting.” Amusement flickered in his features as I muttered, “Fine. Only so I don’t die from whatever supposed magic you’re worried about.”
He inclined his head, that faint mocking curve to his lips. “So gracious.”
And then he leaned in. Close enough that his breath skimmed across my cheek as he lifted the pen-like tool. I held myself perfectly still as he drew against my skin, the press precise, almost reverent.
The mark burned as it sank in, heat lancing through me, gone as quickly as it came, leaving only a faint sting.
“There,” he said, satisfied. “Done.”
