Page 124 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

Tensions are so taut, Talon passes on the order from Wolf that I’m not to go searching the halls on my own. I would defy him—if I didn’t value my own neck.

If Talon isn’t with me, I don’t leave my room.

I don’t even try to find Cash. The gardai are on alert, searching every bag and shipment that enters the castle and ordering nobles wearing hoods to pull them down while they study their faces.

On the third day—the day to celebrate nearing the end of the Assay—I wake with slivers burning in my palms. The pain seems to worsen at different times, the flares of stress definitely provoking the worst of it. It’s worse when I train or use my hands all day, and a little better during the hours I spend reading through the book Wolf gave me on the Assay or talking with Talon. But all day, I fight through the lingering damage of the poison.

By nightfall, I can barely see straight past the nerve pain, and the tiny vial of blue powder that helps stares at me from the table at the edge of my bed.

There’s only one pinch of the antidote left.

Talon is the one who walks in on me, wrestling with the bandages in a futile attempt to bind them tight enough to cut off the blistering needles stabbing through my hands and wrists.

“What would you tell Finn if she was the one hurting?” they ask softly, putting down the basket in their arms and taking the bandages from my hands.

I grimace, a sharp stab lancing down my fingers. I don’t answer, because I think they already know. I’d tell her to take whatever might give her an advantage in a fight.

Talon arches a brow knowingly and plucks the vial of blue powder from the table. They press the antidote right into my hands, fixing their eyes on mine. “Take your own advice.”

I don’t give myself a chance to doubt.

Yes, the pain might come back tomorrow for the Test of Strength. That won’t matter, though, if I’m not well enough to protect myself at thecelebrationtonight.

Every noble daughter will be out for me, especially after Cash had me on his arm the other night.

I tip the vial back into my mouth, grimacing at the bitter tingle of the blue powder, holding it under my tongue the way Wolf told me to in Saraid’s carriage.

The relief is almost instant. It starts to push back at the pain moments after it dissolves in my mouth, and I swallow it all down.

Only then does Talon toe the basket toward me with their boot. “For you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sentimental.” I lift my brow. “A parting gift?”

They scoff, but their eyes soften as they find mine. “Not quite. I’ll be waiting outside your door. We can head down after you…” They nod to the basket, then slip back out the door, closing it carefully behind them.

Flames snap and crackle in the hearth, throwing out a heat that sends my mind back to when Wolf stood right here with me, just feet away.

Get any closer, and that heat’s enough to burn.

The familiar scent of him fills my lungs at the memory.

This feeling flaring behind my ribs… it’s the sharp edge of wanting to know he’s okay.

Without a word, I pull back the dark cover of the basket Talon left on the ground and gasp. The covering isn’t a blanket but a gown. And inside…

Inside is a gleaming blue steel short sword, complete with a sheath of supple leather stitched with delicate triple knots all along the top of its rim. Symbols of the Old Ones, the three ancient goddesses who gave their magic to the first mages, who created the Wells. My fingers trail over the buttery leather up the hilt of the short sword. It’s exactly like the one Finn wears, except with better steel. The blue waves are the same as the swirls under the surface of every Málmar steel blade Wolf has given me, and exhilaration sings in my blood.

I draw the blade out, my breath catching.

The hilt fits my hand perfectly, and the sword is almost weightless.

My chest swells, a grin spreading over my face.

The sheath fits at the curve of my waist like it was made for me. And I should know better, but I can’t resist—I test the edge of the blade on my hand and hiss.

One featherlight touch and my blood stains the swirling blue steel.

I reach for the napkin to staunch the bleeding, and a scrap of paper flutters out. My blood races, and I slide the sword into the sheath as easily as I would loop a thumb into my pocket—that’s how right it feels on me.