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Sunrays made her blink her eyes open. Where was she? Exhausted, she sat up as the events from last night rushed back to her. Her arm was bandaged. Dawson was asleep in a chair opposite her bed. His white shirt was covered in blood. There were red stains on his gray linen trousers as well. She could see some of the scratch marks she had left on him.

She was so ashamed of it all. He had been tortured by Mercer himself and he wasn’t a crying mess, attacking those who tried to help him. Looking at his wounded arm, knowing it was her doing, made her feel sick. They were just scratches, but they symbolized how damaged she was.

She snuck out of bed, but when the wood creaked beneath her feet, he opened his eyes and instantly sat up straight, looking at her with concern. Everyone was always concerned.

“How are you feeli—” He didn’t get to finish his question before she interrupted him.

“I’m sorry about last night. Won’t happen again.” With that, she walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

28

“This isn’t necessary,” Mira protested, her feet dangling off the examination table in the healing room at his estate while Dawson changed the bandage on her arm.

His eyes concentrated on her scar. “So you’ve said.”

It wasn’t the scratches on her arm he was worried about. She had already healed them and his as well. He insisted on treating her scar. After last night’s events, she felt too weak and lightheaded to protest.

He meticulously applied different salves and potions. It was ironic how someone who was so unyielding against his enemies could be so gentle and caring.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

He cleaned up the desk, throwing her old, bloody bandage into the trash. “By necessity.”

“I don’t feel the pull of Dark Magic as much anymore.”

“Good. I was hoping it would have that effect.”

“Which one was it? The salve?”

He nodded, placing the ingredients back on their shelves. “Made it during the war. The constant pulsing of Dark Magic in my scars almost drove me insane. I’ll give you the recipe for it.”

“Do you still use it?”

He paused. “Yes, most days.”

It bothered him most days. Just like her scar did.

Dawson checked the clock on the wall and rolled down his sleeves. “He’s going to be here any minute.”

“Who?”

“Someone who can help us with the relic.”

—

The Relic of Death sat on a desk in Dawson’s study, and her eyes darted to it every so often, remembering the sensation of its power rushing through her. For a brief moment she had thought it broke her. The sheer volume of Dark Magic could easily corrupt Wielders, but in her case, it had felt even more natural, attaching itself so effortlessly to her already existing wound, festering like a disease.

Dawson stood next to the desk, studying her like an experiment gone wrong.

“Are you at least giving me a hint about who we’re meeting?” she asked.

“Haruto Tanaka. He is a Dark Magic collector.”

Before she could query how exactly this person could help them, an elderly Wielder appeared in front of them.

Tanaka bowed his head. “Thank you for inviting me.”