“The ward accepts you. Blood calls to blood—the magic recognizes something in you that resonates with its purpose.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not just repairing these wards.” He looks at me with an expression I can’t read—surprise and satisfaction and something deeper that makes my breath catch. “You’re becoming part of them. The standard is claiming you as its keeper.”
The words send a chill through me that has nothing to do with the cold tower air. Belonging suggests permanence, acceptance, a future I’m not ready to contemplate. But as I look at the repaired rune glowing with steady silver light, I can’t deny the sense of rightness that floods through me.
This work, this magic, this place—somehow it all fits together in ways I don’t understand but can’t question.
“Will the other runes respond the same way?” I flex my cut finger, studying the small wound.
“We’ll find out. But, yes, I think they will. The magic has tasted your blood now. It knows you.” He pauses, studying my face. “Are you afraid?”
I consider the question seriously. Am I afraid? The logical answer is yes—blood magic and ancient spirits and mystical wards should terrify someone who grew up mending clothes in a backwater village. But what I actually experience is excitement, anticipation, the thrill of discovering abilities I never knew I possessed.
“No. I’m not afraid. I’m curious.”
His smile is fierce and approving. “Curiosity will serve you better than fear in what’s coming.”
From somewhere deep within the fortress, a scream echoes up through the stone. Not pain—terror. Pure, mindless terror that cuts through rock and silence. The sound seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off walls and corridors until it’s impossible to tell its source.
Vlorn’s head snaps toward the sound, amber eyes blazing with sudden alertness. His hand moves to his sword hilt with automatic precision, warrior instincts taking over.
“What was that?” A chill races down my spine.
“I don’t know.” But his expression says otherwise. He knows exactly what that scream means, and it’s nothing good. “But nothing that screams in terror should be inside my fortress.”
The sound fades, leaving behind silence that presses down on us. In the distance, I hear other sounds—shouts, running footsteps, the clatter of weapons being drawn. Whatever caused that scream has set the entire fortress on alert.
I look down at my bleeding finger, then at the repaired rune on the banner. The magic pulses with steady silver light, as if I’ve awakened something that was sleeping.
“Something just woke up.” I whisper it half to myself and half to the dark fortress that seems to be listening to every word.
Vlorn’s eyes meet mine across the space between us, and I see grim determination mixed with cautious hope.
The standard trembles in the wind that howls through the tower windows, silver threads catching the light. But now it’s no longer just dying fabric. Now it’s something more—something that has accepted my blood and claimed me as its keeper, something that might be the key to saving us all.
If we can figure out how to use it before Oryx’s army arrives at our gates.
If we can identify the traitors within our walls before they strike again.
If we can survive whatever just woke up in the depths below.
The sun climbs higher, painting the mountains in shades of gold and fire, but the beauty feels ominous now. The calm before a storm that will shake the world.
I return to my work, needle flashing in the light as I continue repairing the ancient wards. But now each stitch carries weight beyond mere craft. Each thread I place might mean the difference between salvation and destruction.
Between life and death for everyone within these walls.
I am no longer just a captive or a tool or a bargaining chip.
I am the keeper of something precious and powerful and vital.
And I will not let it fall.
SEVEN
VLORN
