Perhaps the only sliver of Ovir that was better than the cruelty of his father was his promise that no matter the price it would fetch, any Veil artifact she found was hers to keep. She could use it to pay off her debts, if she chose, but he would never take it from her.
But this dagger in her hand was more valuable than anything she’d ever stolen back. The most valuable symbol in Valisea.
Herfather’sdagger. Proof that the man—the leader of the Veil Worshippers—who wielded the blade had been brutally murdered while protecting his home. His family.
Her family.
Brela closed her eyes, calming the pulse of shadow-cursed magic that was trying desperately to escape the fortress in her mind. She knew that letting it out now would turn her eyes purple for weeks, and she didn’t have enough shadow stones to hide her appearance for that long. That dark anger was currently her vulnerability. It was violent, and that rage was absolutely glorious in the moment, but her father’s murderer didn’t deserve that fire.
No, he deserved something far worse. She would carve him with the blade he stole, torture him with her poisons and drag out his suffering, and he would see her purple glare for eternity in the afterlife.
Gerrart would face the serenity of emotionless precision that earned Brela the nickname Night Terror, because when she was through with him, no one in Rooke would sleep again.
Her fingers curled around the hilt of the Veil Scholar’s dagger, bringing it to her lips as she breathed soft and claimed the blade as her own with a name—a promise. “You are home, Night Carver.”
“Night Terror?”
Elias’s voice was barely a whisper in her head. In one ear and out the other. They’d never use their real names during a heist. They weren’t idiots.
But the nickname that once gave her such mischievous delight now felt as empty as her chest. With the dagger still clutched at her heart, she turned toward the balcony. Every step was light despite the heaviness that sank through her muscles. It was like her insides were swirling with fire and smoke and endless darkness, yet she forced herself to only show calm.
Calm as she ignored the horrified looks on her friends’s faces as she walked down the steps and tucked her father’s blade into her belt.
Calm as she found the weapons display and selected the axe and machete of Rooke’s first king.
Calm as she strode to the window.
Calm as the burn of hellthorn pricked her skin.
And then precision—violentprecision—as the axe splintered the windowsill in a single blow, just as the weapon had splintered the bones of her friends and neighbors. Grace as the seal broke and that burning pine and pepper weakened. Finesse as she left the axe and began carving deep marks in the wood with the machete that had slaughtered her people.
If Lord Gerrart was afraid of the mythical celvusa, she would give him the creature from her shadow-cursed hell.
Brela returned to the wall of weapons that carried the blood of her people. Found a mace that still smelled of death and betrayal. Used it to smash the displays before turning the bookcases and office door into splinters. Butchered the safe that had enough money to keep the children warm all winter.
With a final swing, she reared back and slammed the mace into the desk, spilling inks, ripping papers, and breaking the legs as it smashed to the ground.
She didn’t break a sweat.
She didn’t scream or cry or growl.
It was just pure destruction.
Yet none of it could bring her father back. That fact should have broken her, but there was a far worse truth that screamed at her. It shook underneath the burning shadow-cursed magic in her chest, hissed with the muffled sounds of destruction around her, and dug its claws into her barely beating heart.
She couldn’t break because she had already been broken. She had already accepted her family had died the minute she left Valisea.
Brela lifted her head to the doorway. Elias’s jaw was held tight, the muscles of his cheeks trembling as he tried to stay strong for her. Emerald eyes glistened with tears of understanding and heartbreak as he watched her, his arm stiff as the blue-eyed woman next to him gripped his bicep. Farrah’s other hand was thrown over her mouth, tears flowing down her cheeks and through her fingers.
Neither of them looked at her in fear. They should have been terrified, but they knew—kneweverythingabout her. They knew about the dagger she had at her hip. They knew what it meant to her people and toher. They knew what she needed to do because they had an unbreakable bond. She’d saved their lives too many times, and they’d done the same for her. They’d fought for the right things and seen so much that they had become more than just friends.
They were family, and now they were all she had left.
Brela took a breath. “Can we please go home?”
It was such a simple request, but the words were thick off her tongue. Her voice didn’t crack, didn’t break or fluctuate, but it didn’t feel like her voice anymore.
But they knew, and they didn’t hesitate. Farrah pulled her hand off her mouth, nodding as she reached her fingers toward Brela, Elias reaching his out at the same time.
