As I recount the events, I feel a sense of liberation in finally getting to use my voice. Llyr appears to understand too; his silence is broken only by a look of genuine horror upon learning of my nighttime adventure. Otherwise, he stays silent.
“The minister said it wasn’t human,” I say as I wrap up my story. “That we were all better off without it.” I glance at him for confirmation, to no avail. His face is expressionless. “Was he not right to kill it?”
“No,” he says. “He was not.” His voice is clipped, the words punctuated by a sharp exhale.
He leans forward in his chair again, covering his face with his hands. Whatever I discovered, it does not sit well with him.
“The minister said it was a creature . . .”
His head snaps back up. “The minister does not know what he is talking about.”
I’ve rarely seen him this upset, if ever. No, not upset. Angry. His face may be calm, but there is rage burning in his eyes.
“May the Void devour him whole, that soulless son of a bitch,” he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.
It takes me a moment to understand that he’s referring to the minister.No onetalks about the minister like that. Not unless you have a death wish.
A knock makes me turn toward the back door. The first knock is followed by another, then three more in rapid succession.
Llyr rises from his chair. “Wait here.”
I frown. “Why?”
He throws a look over his shoulder. “How you have such a hard time removing your veil and using your voice yet can’t help questioning the tiniest of requests is a puzzle. I thought properties were supposed to be submissive?” His mouth tightens into a flat line.
“I’m a poor excuse for a property, and you know it,” I grumble as he disappears through the back door. I’m more like a caged wolf, the brace my sedation.
Rising from the chair, I walk over to the many weapons Llyr has on display for customers to buy. There are all shapes and sizes, and I’ve heard more than one person say he forges the best blades in all of Bronich. I sigh. What I wouldn’t give to carry a blade.
I reach toward a petite dagger with a hilt wrapped in soft leather. Grinding my teeth, I push my hand slowly toward the hilt, allowing the pain to ripple through my body. Another inch. The pain is intensifying, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, and the familiar nausea forms in my stomach. Weary, I let my hand fall. There is no way I can touch that blade. And it is not solely because of the pain. The struggle of reaching for a weapon while wearing a brace is akin to the resistance felt when bringing two magnets with similar poles together. It’s almost impossible.
A glimmer of black at the corner of my eye catches my attention. Where did that come from? I take in the many silver weapons, the forge, and the workbench, noticing a drawer slightly ajar. There, where Llyr was standing earlier. Knowing full well I’m invading his privacy, I cast a glance toward the door he went through, and when I hear no footsteps, I pull the drawer out. That’s what he gets for leaving me here alone.
A peculiar black dagger is half hidden under his other tools. It’s a beautiful piece of work, made of one sleek piece of jet-black stone—so dark it seems to consume the light surrounding it. My brows pull together. Why is it stuck here in the tool drawer? Reaching toward it, I brace myself for the jolt of pain, but... nothing happens. Slack-jawed, I wrap my fingers around the cool stone hilt. How is this possible?
I lift the knife, letting my thumb glide across the tiny carvings covering the shaft. It’s a type of lettering—or maybe symbology is more accurate—I have never seen before. Touching the edge, I let out a hiss and almost drop it to the floor. The blade sliced clean through my glove. Sucking on my finger, I stare at the drop of blood running down the knife’s edge. That thing is lethal.
Noticing a piece of leftover felt on the floor, I snatch it and wrap it around the knife’s edge. Before I can question my reckless decision, I shove the dagger into one of the deep pockets of my skirt, then push the drawer shut and tiptoe back to my chair.
A moment later, Llyr enters through the back door.
“What was that all about?” Leaning back in my chair, I wrap both hands around my mug and take another sip of the milk—now lukewarm.
He gives me a dismissive wave, mumbling something about a deal at the back door, and disappears into the kitchen.
I follow, seething. “Will you tell me anything at all?” I fix him with a hard stare as he prepares a cup of tea, then another. I told him the whole story, yet he hasn’t clarified a single thing other than the minister being in the wrong for infanticide.
“Your milk must be cold by now.” He takes the mug I’m still clutching and replaces it with one containing some sort of herbal tea.
I place the tea down on the kitchen counter and cross my arms in front of my chest. “It’s only fair that you givemesome answers as well. Like,whywas he wrong to kill it?”
I stare at his back in disbelief as he pushes past me, back to his workshop, mug of tea in hand. Grabbing my own cup, I scurry after him. “It’s only right for magic to be eliminated, so why was he in the wrong for taking down this creature? If it had magic, I mean. People are burnedallthe time for less. Besides, if it was a creature, it’s hardly any different from taking down game in—”
He spins around, his face a mask of fury, and I stumble backward, hot tea spilling all over. “Ouch!” I stare down at my wet glove. It’lldry. He may have persuaded me to take my veil off, but there is no way he’ll convince me to remove my gloves, revealing my scarred hands.
“That’s a no, then,” I mutter, wiping my glove off on my skirt, my pulse quickening when I brush the dagger. I’d almost forgotten. “I just wish you would tell mewhy.”
“It is no more a creature than you or I, Laïna.” His voice is strained, as if he’s exerting all his effort to keep his anger in check. “That is all you need to know for now.”
