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Bone craft manipulated bone into blades that were nigh unbreakable. It crafted healing tonics from bone powders, and poisons from boiled marrow. Blood craft used blood for spell casts and rune work. Soul craft took power from the dead, and was the common gift of Dravenmoor, the kingdom across the ravines.
A child whose magical craft brought three kingdoms against a small village in the knolls.
A melder’s craft was only found perhaps once a generation, and rarely in a woman’s blood. It was a collision of all three crafts—dangerous, coveted, and owned by Jorvan kings through treaties made long ago.
“Be careful, my friend. This woman will not be Fadey. I’d hate for her to bespell that dark heart of yours.” I scoffed. I’d slit her throat if she tried. I have no love for melders, and that will never change.
I was once told we never truly knew another soul until we saw the darkness they kept inside.
To claim something as his—a strike, a kill, a horn of ale—Ashwood tapped whatever he wanted three times.
The Sentry placed his palm against my cheek. I stiffened, eyes closed. But all he did was tap my face three times. Roark turned away in the next heartbeat and abandoned the hut. Pulse racing, I touched where Ashwood held his hand. Three taps—his gesture for claiming something as his. It meant mine.
To harm the living, craft mirrors the pain. To split the soul, craft sacrifices the blood. To curse the body, craft devours the mind. To bind dead and living, craft corrupts the heart.
“I’m talking about how you’ve utterly discomposed the tightly stitched Roark Ashwood. If you keep at it, I think you might be absolutely perfect.”
“You’ve done something to dig under his skin, and I must know what it was, for he is the most infallible, unruffled ass I’ve ever met.”
Annoyed as I wanted to be at the king for demanding the Sentry stand as my personal guard, I could not deny an unsettling sort of relief knowing Roark Ashwood kept watch on my back.
“Crimson in the rune of a warrior signifies the blood of those lost in the Divisive Wars. Bronze in the rune of loyalty stands for the treaties of craft between Jorvandal and Myrda. Gold in the rune of protection, a vow from these walls to always protect those who remain loyal and steadfast against our enemies.”
Lyra was skilled at masking, I’d give her that. The woman was well practiced in smiling and nodding, while slowly dimming the light in her eyes. She knew how to become faceless in a crowd, never drawing the eyes of too many. She kept drawing mine.
You are more than the scars in your eyes.
“You are more than the scars on your skin.”
“Don’t let me fall in there,” I whispered. Unlike the first time we stood beyond this doorway when Roark said nothing, he took my hand and lifted the back to his lips. I did not blink, watching until his mouth met my knuckles. When he pulled back, he traced one word against my palm. Never.
“Then why do it for me?” I lifted one hand, making certain she would see. Thane and Emi have not infected my soul like you.
“I know the symbolism of the swallowed finger, Roark. That is a damn Draven punishment to those who harm a woman already claimed by another. Take heart no one else cares to study their rituals or you would be blamed entirely.”
“You brighten the night, Melder.”
“Four pieces to make the bearer the gods’ ruler of their craft. The arm, to swing the sword as the first king. The ribs, to wear his armor. The breast, to have his warrior’s heart. And the skull, to claim his wisdom.”
“If you care for your prince and my princess, Melder, I do hope you will consider staying out of sight. The Dravens care more for your blood than the previous melder since their prince died trying to hide you, after all.”
You are no coward, Lyra. You are no monster. Your soul is too bright.
you brighten the dark.”
“You brighten the dark, and I do not want it to stop.
Skul Drek took a step closer. “You brighten the night, and I will fight to keep it.”
I kissed her, my fingers tangled in the hair at the base of her head. A dozen words I wanted to whisper against her lips danced in my mind—she brightened my heart, my damn soul. I wanted her to know now that I’d had her taste, no one would satisfy but her. Her touch was still burned on me like it had burrowed into my skin and would never leave.
Yours, body and soul.
You above everything. His words moved against my face. Burn it all if it means you still live.
“I am saying your soul is the new rope, Lyra. You are entwined with him—both sides of him—and you fractured the craft curse that keeps him half a prisoner.”
“To what depth, I can’t say,” Emi went on. “But I know you have brightened the darkness that has consumed him more than anyone before.”
Break me, I no longer care, as long as it is you who wields the destruction.
You brightened my soul and I knew. Blood thudded between my ears. “Knew what?” He held my stare for a long pause. You were mine.
