She only had a few seconds to think, if she could call it thinking when her mind was already blurring.
Before she let that fog overwhelm her, she drew the water stone out of the pouch at her wrist and crushed it in her palm, mimicking the hand movements Farrah had taught her. Breath puffed through the fabric of her mask, the ice magic prickling her skin and settling on her bones. Brela fought the tightening of her body, shoving that magic out of her veins and toward the hellthorn.
Farrah’s water magic was more precise, since that was her earth-blessed affinity, but Brela controlled it well enough. She watched the red and orange leaves of the hellthorn plant disappear under a thick layer of ice, browning as the magic overtook it.
Almost immediately, the dizzying tug of her mind snapped to clarity. With the poison frozen, she shifted the remainder of her borrowed magic toward the lock, digging into the mechanism before warmth coursed through her body and severed the connection to ice.
Brela flexed her fingers and shook out the tingling. The water stone was purposely small, meant for a short burst of magic, but ice took more energy and evaporated that reserve quickly. The lock hadn’t quite broken, but it would remain frozen for a few hours.
Not that she needed it frozen for much longer. She flashed an obscene gesture at the hellthorn plant as if it could see her and jammed the tip of her blade into the lock of the safe, digging and wiggling deeper as she heard the ice cracking inside. Finally, the metal shattered from the cold and Brela grinned.
“Time to see what has you so scared,” she whispered, using her knife to open the safe in case more hellthorn was inside. The door swung clear to reveal a single object.
Her heart clenched, and shaking overwhelmed her body, forcing her to drop the throwing knife in her hand. She stumbled back against the opposite bookshelf, one hand tearing her mask away as she gasped for air while the other sought the familiar feel of the Veil shard against her chest.
Even underneath her clothes, she could feel the chill of the obsidian that clung to her skin. It felt as if it pulsed against her, as fresh and strong as it had been in those first few years she lived near the wall.
Brela fought the sob that built in her chest, yet she still couldn’t swallow the burning that squeezed her throat. Her eyes stung as she blinked, trying to erase the fears that spun wildly through her mind.
Inside sat the dagger of their leader… the Veil Scholar.
Maybe it was a trick. Maybe it was a fake.
Trembling, she stepped forward. Reached.
Withdrew her hand and squeezed her fist. Fought the bile that coated her throat.
And finally she snatched the blade from the back of the safe.
A cry threatened to burst out of her at the familiar feel. The weight, the chill of the purple and black obsidian Veil shards that decorated the hilt, the etchings framed with gold.
It was real. It couldn’t be real, but it was.
Gerrart didn’t have just any artifact from her home—he had the dagger of the Veil Scholar. The weapon of the leader of the Veil Worshippers.
There was only one way Gerrart could have this dagger, because there was only one way the Scholar would ever part with something so sacred to Brela’s people.
A trophy. The prize for killing the Veil Scholar.
For killing her father.
2
Night Carver
The trembling ceased as a cool calm took over, freezing the boiling rage that had momentarily clenched her gut.
Anger had lost its ability to consume her long ago—she’d had it beaten out of her repeatedly by Ovir’s father, Dernian. He had rescued her during one of the more deadly raids against Valisea, just as he’d helped so many children escape that night. He’d spent time finding them homes as far away from Valisea and Anfroy as he could get them. The majority ended up in Dycorus, since the island was isolated, and most wouldn’t remember Valisea or their families—either because they were too young or the memories were too painful that they shut them out.
She hoped, for their sakes, they forgot.
But Brela wouldn’t forget. She held onto every memory of her home and she relived those horrors every night in her dreams. She felt that pain every time she touched the Veil shard in her chest or grazed the scar burned into her scalp. And she vowed to make those men suffer for what they had done.
Perhaps that’s why Dernian had taken a liking to her. She was the only child to remain in Rooke, despite the danger of her infected shadow magic. Instead of shipping her away with strangers, he had brought her in and raised her with Ovir who was just three years older. He trained them to fight. He broke them into nothing so they could be molded into weapons themselves. Assassins. Thieves. Whatever he needed them to be to survive.
Brela took on the debts for his training. For the roof over her head and the food in her stomach. For the clothes on her back and the secrets he kept about who and what she was. She allowed herself to fall deeper and deeper in debt with him because he promised her revenge one day, but by the time she was old enough to understand she’d never be free of his hold, it was too late.
When the man died, her debts transferred to Ovir, and he still expected her to pay them back. But at least he had given her the option of freedom after. And he always gave her the jobs against anyone who supported the King of Anfroy.
