The blaze in her eyes sealed her threat. She’d send herself to Salur, no doubt.
When Baldur signaled for Emi—the bone crafter who tore Darkwin apart—I gripped his shoulder, shaking my head.
Emi’s face had gone paler than it already was, and she was unsteady on her feet. Her damn craft had a bite to it. For bone crafters, the cost of manipulating in such a way caused phantom pains to burn in their own bodies.
No doubt, Emi’s limbs and ribs were lined in discomfort, but I knew her—this unsteadiness rose from something else.
When we were alone, she would spew her rage for what I’d made her do.
Baldur shook me off and shouted at a young Stav. “Seal the wound tight enough he makes it to Stonegate to face the king.”
The guard knelt beside Darkwin, wrapping clean linens over the split skin.
Already the soul bone was bolstering his broken ribs, and hischest appeared more intact. Soul bones healed and strengthened the living by absorbing pieces of the soul from the dead. The trouble was it was impossible to know if a healing body would take on the honor of the dead, or the darker desires.
When the melder shoved against Baldur’s chest, the captain yanked her hair to reclaim his control.
Unbidden, the touch of his hands on her skin, the wince of pain on her features, brought another shock of rage to my blood.
I forced my steps to a halt, gathering my damn senses. What was I planning to do? Take her from Baldur and…what? Protect her? Shield her?
The sight of me so near brought her panic to a pause. Her silver-scarred gaze locked with mine, as though she could see every vicious thought in my head. Until a flash of something darker burned through and her lips curved into a sly sort of grin.
Dammit.
I lunged to stop her, but wasn’t fast enough.
Lyra dropped as though her legs went boneless, managing to slip Baldur’s grip. Before he could take hold of her wrist, she snagged a slender knife from the side of her calf.
Baldur recoiled when she slashed at his face. Lyra scrambled to her feet, swiping the blade at any Stav who approached, then pressed the edge of the knife to her throat.
I held up a fist to stop the men approaching her from every side. The melder and I would speak in our own way.
Her eyes were wild, the scars like falling stars in the velvet night.
“Leave them,” she spat at me. “Leave my people. Take me, but you leave the rest.”
A grin—for the first time since arriving—cut over my mouth. I’d been wrong. I thought her delicate; there was nothing delicate about this one.
She would not understand my words, but I asked the question all the same.Meaning?
“Lord Ashwood asks for your clarification,” Baldur grumbled, no doubt irritable he’d been bested. “Who, exactly, are we to leave behind?”
“All the crafters.”
My grin widened.Treason has been found here and we cannot ignore it.
“Treason can’t be ignored,” Baldur translated with effort. He was too haughty to take the time to learn how to deeply communicate with me.
I was glad for it and cared to speak with him as infrequently as possible.
I tilted my head to one side.Because of the actions here, craft of this land now belongs to Stonegate.
When Baldur finished the broken reply, defiance blazed in her features, and I wanted to keep the fury she hid beneath the simplicity of her station and appearance, burning like a wildfire in the wood.
When she stepped one way, I stepped the other. We circled each other like the sun chased the moon at dawn. Lyra didn’t speak, merely pressed the knife into her skin, drawing a stream of blood that dripped down her slender throat.
I stopped my prowl, grin fading.Spill another drop,woman, and you’ll damn your people to the hells below.
