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“He is shaming Fillip,” Emi whispered. “Draven folk hold a great deal of respect for the dead. They honor their souls and will often paint belongings in blood for their souls to visit loved ones.”
“He is washing himself?”
“It is a sign of disrespect. To bathe in the blood of the fallen shows you revel in their death, you spurn any hope they will find peace. You invite their soul to you so you might torment them even as they dine in Salur. He is marking Fillip as his enemy for what he did to you.”
Roark finished coating his skin in Fillip’s blood and brazenly walked over the body, stepping on his remains like he was nothing but a fallen tree.
Gods, why must he be so grotesquely wonderful? He’d killed a man on my behalf in Stonegate; now he’d done it again.
I did not know if Roark’s brutality would fill the cracks of mistrust in my heart entirely. But for a moment, I stepped nearer to him, stood straighter. A show of support for a man who killed without mercy.
My ally. My protector. My villain.
He raised his hands, still grinning, and spoke to the warriors. Vishon made me. You all made me. But tell me, Ofan, will you kill me? Perhaps you have already killed a prince.
Emi blinked a few times before finishing the translation. Elisabet shot a glance at Ofan.
The man faltered, his eyes narrowed at Roark. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Roark laughed. Raw, breathy, his voiceless laugh. Let us hope that is true.
Ofan’s disdain fell back to me. “I’m merely saying what we’re all thinking. The deledan rite was done to rid the land of melders, now we’re embracing one. Fillip was loyal. Merely doing what you didn’t have the damn stones to do.”
He didn’t wait for Roark to respond before shoving his way back into the crowd of the Dark Watch.
Elisabet blew out a rough breath. Near her side she cracked one knuckle, but after a moment, the queen stepped forward. “We keep going. All these…disputes will be dealt with in our courts.”
She flashed a single glance at where Fillip’s corpse remained and pushed to the front of the line.
Emi let her shoulders slump. “Remember how I told you I missed the wildness of Dravenmoor?”
I nodded, unable to tear my attention from Roark’s profile.
“Well.” Emi shouldered her satchel. “I think I spoke too soon.”
Roark wheeled around to us. I will be called to answer for this when we reach the gates. You two are never to be parted, understand?
Emi shook her head. “You know he’ll be searching for me the instant we return.”
And his position does not surpass mine.
I could only assume they spoke of Emi’s father.
“Listen.” Gunter approached, one hand rubbing his chin as he cautiously peered at Fillip’s body. “I know you don’t think much of us anymore, and I’m trying not to be offended and such, but I’d like it if half the clan didn’t end up slaughtered by your blades.”
Roark glared at Gunter, waiting in dark silence for the man to continue.
“I’m only saying, when you’re called into the úlfur to be reprimanded, I’ll see to it they’re both secure until you return.”
“What is the úlfur?” I whispered to Emi.
“Draven council. Brutal warriors who live by their rituals and laws. They are the councilmen who oversaw Roark’s soul rend to create the deledan—Skul Drek, I mean.”
Liquid heat burned under my skin. I despised the lot of them without even meeting any.
“Believe it or not, my prince,” Gunter went on, “some of us didn’t stand for what was done to you.”
Emi scoffed as though she didn’t believe a word.
