That’s the second reason she stayed around the cottage this morning. With more people traveling, she would need to be careful about her shadow magic, and especially the Veil shard in her chest. Using the small amount of illusion magic to hide the obsidian or change her features would cost her half an hour of purple eyes for every hour she extended the spell. The later she did that in the day, the more likely she’d sleep through the majority of that curse at night. Though she did want to test out her magic after last night, she’d get a chance later when they went to the inn to eavesdrop on all the travelers, which is why she shuffled around the house and tried to make herself busy.
Brela had purchased the cottage when she turned seventeen, just before she had found Farrah and just a month after Dernian had been killed. She had been saving money, but Dernian never would have let her leave his house. When Ovir took over the guild, he said if she found his father’s killer, his reward would be lifting that rule. She still belonged to him, but she could have her own space, and he knew that would motivate her to work quickly.
She found the dirty pig and delivered him to Ovir’s doorstep in less than a month. She never knew what Ovir did to that man and she didn’t ask, mostly because she had seen what he had done to their enemies in the past. Ignoring it, she dumped all of her savings into the home on the outskirts of Averlyn just so she could taste freedom… and then starved for weeks because freedom didn’t fill her stomach.
She eventually stumbled into the inn where Farrah worked, desperate for their kitchen scraps to fill her weakened body, and ended up bonding with the woman who excused herself to go and kill the man that had tortured her for years.
Now this wastheirplace, and she kept it as perfect as it had been the first time she stepped foot inside and called it home.
With every step around the furniture that now filled the space, even as part of her attention remained on the blade flipping between her fingers, Brela studied the weight of the Scholar’s dagger against her leg. She’d carried that blade so many times when she was younger, but after so many years, it felt new. It didn’t quite feel like hers, but it wasn’t foreign.
Brela had been five the first time the blade had been placed in her hands. She remembered her father’s laugh—so bright and sweet for such a hardened man—as she nearly dropped the dagger’s weight. Eventually, it became a comfort that she reached for any time she was scared. During the raids on Valisea, she and her adoptive parents would crawl into their bunker and her father would remove the blade with its sheath still locked and let her hold it against her chest to protect her.
That’s where it belonged—worn across her chest with pride, not hidden against her leg. The image of her father’s bandolier flashed through her mind, painted with the symbols of the shadow god, adorned with small Veil shards that sparkled even without the sun. As close to royalty as they could get in Valisea.
If the Scholar’s dagger was a crown, that belt was a throne.
Brela didn’t allow herself to wonder what had happened to it. She didn’t want to think that it had been sold off to someone in Anfroy, and she didn’t want to picture it bloodied, torn, or destroyed. She didn’t want to think about the body that used to wear it and what gruesome things Gerrart had done to pry the dagger from a cold hand.
She swallowed the bile that crept up her throat, bracing against the kitchen table as she focused on the gentle vibrations against her leg. She desperately wanted to hold the Scholar’s blade against her chest like she had last night, especially because that pulsing felt like her own heartbeat. And because the Veil shard under her collarbone seemed to react in the same way—cold, yet comforting.
Beat. Beat.
Hitch.
Brela spun and released the blade in her hand.
The knife embedded in the doorframe, exactly where she aimed—just a breath away from Ovir’s ear. Not a single black hair on his mop of a head trembled, his blue eyes piercing her direction as he leaned in the doorway with his arms folded.
Gods, the man’s features were unfairly handsome. Where Elias was broad and light, Ovir was narrow and dark, made only more hauntingly beautiful with the loose shirt that refused to button halfway up his chest. She forced her eyes away from the scars along his breast—some of which she had inflicted in their training sessions as children—skipping over his unshaven face as she met his stare. Those blue eyes could rival Farrah’s when the man put on a genuine smile, but she wasn’t sure it was possible for him to wear anything but evil. Brela couldn’t remember a time when his dark gaze didn’t look hungry—for killing, maiming, torturing, or worse.
His tongue flicked over his lower lip as he gestured to the knife near his head. “Little nightmare, must you do this every time I visit?”
“Must you insist on trying to sneak up on an assassin?” She dropped her stare and leaned back on the table, barely catching the slight twitch of his grin as he pulled the knife from the wood. To keep herself from watching him walk toward her, she pulled the purse from her belt and dropped it as far away from herself as she could without moving. “Your fee for the information, and my next payment of debts.”
Ovir walked closer. He walkedather, dancing her silver blade between his fingers just as she had earlier. “By the sound of that purse, you were very successful.”
Brela’s jaw clenched as his feet came into view of her lowered gaze, directly in front of her boots. “You were right about Gerrart having something from Valisea. I got my artifact and cleaned out every safe he owned.”
His free hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing over her jaw. She was thankful for the high-necked shirt she wore that hid the new scar that had sealed overnight, but more thankful his fingers didn’t search any lower. Instead, he lifted her chin—not forcefully, but not quite gentle. Blue darted back and forth between her eyes.
“No magic,” he whispered. “And you aren’t sick.” Years of training helped Brela keep her face still. That bastard had known about the hellthorn and didn’t tell her. “So, my little nightmare, how did you pull it off?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied. A dangerous game, she knew it, but she almost couldn’t help herself. She had just faced a celvusa—a creature far worse than Ovir; a man who didn’t have magic but was easily as deadly as someone who did.
“I have eyes everywhere, Brela.” Fingers pinched tighter against her skin as he smiled. “Now is not the time for games. Not after the mess you caused.”
“You know I have my team for bigger jobs like this. They get paid from my cut, not yours.” She swallowed. “The man had a Veil artifact. I let my anger get the best of me and I destroyed his office as payback since you won’t let me kill him.”
Ovir leaned closer, his smile fading. “You don’t get angry, my little nightmare. Not without reason.” In a graceful move, he stepped back and that glare was gone. Something else took over as his hand fell away from her chin. It wasn’t kindness, but it was as close as the man could ever come to that emotion. “What did he have? What did he do to release the Night Terror?”
Brela straightened, her hand drifting down to the guarded sheath at her leg. With slow and deliberate motions—remembering that Ovir still had her other blade in his grip and was just as fast as she was—she pulled Night Carver from its hiding place and rested it in her palms. The pulsing rippled up her forearms and twitched in her chest, almost like a warning, but she remained still.
Ovir couldn’t hide his sharp inhale, his eyes widening as he took in the deep purples and blacks of obsidian jewels, golden flecks reflecting in his blue gaze. His brows pinched as he studied the blade—not touching it, not lifting a finger toward the artifact, just… sadness?
Brela hid her frown as Ovir looked back at her, the surprise fading. She’d seen anger in his face before, but this was deeper. Primal, even. It should have terrified her.
“The Veil Scholar’s dagger,” he breathed. “Your father’s blade.”
