“Don’t worry, I’m not going to roast you in your sleep,” I told him.
Keres snorted. She looped a fresh sling over Amanti’s shoulder with competent gentleness and tightened the knot. Thorne stepped in to lift Amanti’s hair from the strap, fingers careful not to graze the torn edge of her wing.
“Hovering again, Varros?” Amanti asked.
“Supervising,” he said, solemn.
Amanti patted his cheek. For a heartbeat, he looked younger, and she looked ancient.
Keres pressed a tin into Amanti’s good hand. “Salve. You’re not a blacksmith’s anvil. Stop treating yourself like one.”
Amanti shot me a look that said she wanted to argue but wouldn’t.
We filed inside and ate warm bread with dried meat andsoft cheese. Thorne leaned in the doorway, watching clouds slide past like a hunter waiting for a sign of its prey. Daegel finished first and stood, muttering something to Thorne that I couldn’t hear. Then the two of them left together.
A few minutes later, Amanti excused herself to take a nap, leaving me with Keres.
Great.
We finished eating in silence, and I prepared to return to my room. Or maybe wander the shelves to see if I’d missed a book or two printed in the common language. Anything to pass the time so I wouldn’t have to think about what waited for me out there. And not just the threats either. Rydian was in my thoughts far more often than I liked.
I was determined to chase him out again.
“We can go again this afternoon if you want,” Keres said, and I looked up in surprise at the offer.
“Daegel already put my swords away,” I told her.
“No blades. We’ll work on controlling your magic.”
“You say that like it’s easy,” I muttered, tearing off another hunk of bread that practically melted in my mouth. Whoever baked it had a gift.
“It could be,” she said simply. “If you stopped fighting everything and everyone.”
For once, I had no good retort.
Twenty minutes later, in the shade where the Trolech loomed and fog laced low through the branches, Keres lifted her palm to face me. A thin filament of darkness rose from her middle finger. It arced like spider-cast silk and hung between us, impossibly fine.
“What is it?” I asked, noting how similar it looked to the threads woven into Amanti’s broken wings.
“Shadow-thread,” she said. “I can stitch flesh and armor with it. Or I can use it to cut your throat in less than the time it would take for you to reach for your sword.”
“Delightful,” I murmured.
“Meet my magic with yours,” she said.
“No way. Mine would burn you alive.”
“Not with your whole furyfire. With a thread. Like mine.”
Tentatively, I held out my hand. Heat gathered—eager, curious, deadly. I curled a fist, took a breath, then forced it open again. A thin line of black flames licked at the thread. The webbed stitching held for a heartbeat, two—then sizzled out with a sound like butter in a hot pan.
I tensed, wondering if I’d hurt her, but Keres didn’t flinch.
“Again,” she said, already spinning more threads from her hands.
My jaw ached from clenching. I tried again. The thread took more fire before failing.
“Better,” Keres said. “Again.”
