Page 142 of Blade of the Nightking

“The binding is Fae skin.”

I dropped it like hot coal.

“Fae skin?” I repeated, horrified.

“Best way to preserve a book,” Levinica said mildly. “Fae flesh endures. It doesn’t wither so easily.”

I nudged it away with the tip of my finger. Of course Rìan would send me a book made of skin.

Levinica sighed. “The Cells have proven fruitless, so now he's searching what survived the fire on the main levels—mostly religious texts devoted to the seven gods. Old magic. Forgotten rituals. Anything about bonds, he cross-references with my vision. It's been weeks, and still nothing.”

Weeks. And we were no closer to breaking the bond. What if the answer had already been lost? What if the very book that could have told us how to sever it had burned in Aedric’s fire? The irony was almost cruel.

“I’m glad he’s taken over your training.” She snuck a glance toward Segolayne, who crossed her arms with an unimpressed sniff. “The exercise is doing him good. And the fresh air. Otherwise he would bury himself down there all day.” She sighed heavily. “Sometimes, I think he’s trying to punish himself.”

Punish himself? Did he feel guilt for what he had done to Elantis? To the Fae?

I didn’t dare ask.

“He needs the sun,” she added, almost to herself. “He’s so pale these days.”

She was fretting over the Dark Prince of Elantis as though he were an ordinary male, not the villain who'd nearly destroyed an entire race and been cursed to the Veil for three hundred years because of it.

She turned away, tucking her kitten closer to her chest.

“Come, Titter Mouse,” she murmured, fussing over him too. “You look hungry.”

CHAPTER 29

Icouldn’t sleep.

No matter how many times I shifted beneath the blankets, I couldn’t seem to get comfortable for long. I turned onto one side, then the other, kicked the covers down only to drag them back up moments later, frustration slowly mounting as sleep continued to evade me. Beyond the glass, wind sighed faintly through the cliffs of Noctharis, the sound low and distant in the dark.

I knew dawn wasn’t far off, and already I dreaded my training with Rìan. I doubted he’d go easy on me simply because I’d spent the night tossing in bed. I tried closing my eyes again, willing myself toward sleep, but exhaustion and restlessness seemed locked in battle with one another. Every time my thoughts began to drift, my eyes opened again of their own accord, refusing to stay shut for long.

With an angry huff, I rolled onto my back and turned my head toward the nightstand.

The Book of Old Tales sat there exactly where I’d left it.

Honestly, I half wanted to throw the damned thing across the room. The fact that it was bound in Fae skin made my nose crinkle with disgust all over again. Levinica spoke of it so casually, as though it were no stranger than leather, but the thought of someone’s centuries-old skin sitting so close to where I slept made me shudder. How old was the thing? Who had made it? Worse—whose skin had it been?

I grimaced and looked away, only for my gaze to drift helplessly back.

As grotesque as the binding was, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’d never seen illustrations like those before—not even close. The detail of them, the impossible beauty, the way every creature seemed to pulse with life despite existing only in ink and faded pigment… And the stories themselves stayed with me just as stubbornly. Knowing they were real somehow made every word more wondrous. More extraordinary. Was there anything in there about the Eidrae? About Dreamwalkers?

Despite how thoroughly the thing revolted me, I pushed myself upright and lit the lantern beside the bed. Before I could dwell on what—or who—exactly I was touching, I flicked it from the nightstand onto the mattress with the tips of my fingers. Propping myself onto one elbow, I eased it open atop the blankets and began leafing through the pages, searching for any mention of the Firstborn.

The Tharuun were easily recognizable as the Keepers of Storms. Not only because I knew, from what I’d learned in Dheren, that they wielded the elements themselves, but because the illustrations left little room for doubt.

Unlike the hurried description of the Bone-Wrought, the Keepers of Storms were the subject of an entire legend—one that told of a cataclysmic flood they’d unleashed, so devastating it severed a portion of Elantis from the mainland and sent it slowly drifting out to sea. Though the tale never named the land outright, I was almost certain it told the origin of how the Dusklands had come to be.

The accompanying illustration sprawled across the page: giants, immense and leathery-skinned, their features harsh as weathered stone. Broad and ancient, they stood atop mountain peaks with their arms lifted toward the heavens as storm clouds gathered overhead.

I skipped past the account of the Keeper of Return. Just seeing the image again sent my pulse racing and I hastily turned the page, eager to skim past it as quickly as possible.

I landed on The Keepers of Self. The pictures stopped me cold. They were portrayed as impossibly beautiful women—graceful, radiant, flawless in a terrifying, almost unnatural way. Yet around them, the scenes descended into horror.

People fled screaming. Some clawed at their own skin. Others turned blades upon themselves. Cities burned in the distance while crowned rulers knelt at their feet with empty eyes, devotion warped into something grotesque.