Before I can think or react, he whips a knife from his belt, cuts his own hand, staining the blade with purple blood. Then he flings the knife. It whistles past my skirts, sticks to the ground just at Ivor’s feet. Ivor’s gaze fixes on that quivering hilt for the space of five breaths. Then slowly he looks up. His golden complexion turns pale. The Prince smiles. It’s such a charming, deadly expression. “By the blood in my veins,” he says softly. “In the name of my father and his father and his father before him, I, Castien Lodírith, Prince of Vespre, demand the Rite of the Thorn.”
