Rubi’s mouth drops open in shock, maybe even hurt.
“During the binding, Maldrak’s Arcanist added a clause tying Nalya’s life to mine. An assurance—so long as she remained alive in his dungeons, I’d obey. It was his leash, his guarantee I’d never turn on him,” I explain.
Rubi’s face shifts into a look of understanding.
Teddy doesn’t say anything, because I know he understands why I didn’t say anything. Why no one could know my ultimate weakness. And now, I havetwo.
Ronyn steps forward, eyes wide and disturbed, pushing aside the heavy moment. “Brother… where in the fucking Stars is the other one of your god metal blades?” His face slackens at the sight of my missing blade.Sick.
But my eyes fall on Elyssara and the cuff she wears at her upper arm.
She sucks in a sharp breath, tracing idly across the Sky etchings on her cuff.
“You traded it,” she realizes, eyes glassy and pained. “The man wanted your blade,” she murmurs, remembering the trade at Duskridge Hollow.
“A small price to pay for your freedom,” I declare, and I mean it. There is nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice for her to be free.To live.
I plan on getting the only other zarethite blade back from Maldrak, anyway.
I move to her, sitting on the bed, resting my hand on her hip.
Her eyes linger on my split and bruised knuckles, her voice dropping into something low and reverent. “You don’t have to keep repenting, Kael. You owe me no debt—so stop paying them with scars. You’ve sacrificed your magic, your god metal blade.You’ve killed for me,” her fingers whisper over my knuckles in worship.
“Killing is the least of things I’d do to see you safe and free,” I promise, pressing my forehead to hers.
“I forgive you,” she whispers solemnly, as if the words have finally broken free from their chains. Like she knows I need to hear it. Because I’ve agonized over the difference between love and forgiveness.Does one guarantee the other? Can one exist without the other?
“Thank you,” I rasp, throat tight.
“Ugh. I liked you two better when you hated each other,” Rubi groans, but her smile belies her. “So much more entertaining.”
She unhooks her sickle blade. “Can we go yet?”
But I shake my head.
“You’re not coming to Thornewood, Rubes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Like hell I’m not.”
“You’re the only one who understands the threvenar formula. If we fail, you’ll be the last line of defense. We need someone alive who can finish what we started. We need to remember Dravara.”
She looks ready to argue again, but the truth of it lands. “Fine,” she mutters, stabbing her blade in my direction. “But if you die, I’m getting El to heal you just so I can kill you again.”
“Noted,” I say, and her grin is pure venom.
But the levity doesn’t last?—
The door opens again, and the temperature in the room shifts.
Lesara stands in the doorway, pale and composed, her chestnut hair braided like a crown. Her gaze moves over Elyssara, over the cuff, and then lands on me.
The tether between Elyssara and me tightens—wariness, grief, something unspoken threading through it.
“We need to talk.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
KAEL
