Page 289 of Blade of the Nightking

“We've honored him ever since, and we will continue to do so for as long as the Bone Women endure.”

“You were there... three hundred years ago?”

She patted the pouch at her waist. “The Fae may have learned to harvest the Veins. But we learned to harvest them.”

She leaned back against the fallen log, resting her elbow along its length. She plucked at a strand of white hair. “The Dust slows our aging, but eventually our bodies stop accepting it. Each dose buys us a little less time than the last. Until, one day, it simply isn't enough anymore.” She reached over and gave Saskia's knee an affectionate pat. “Saskia will be wearing my shoes before long. I can feel it.”

Saskia grumbled beneath her breath, though her hand found the Bone Mother's for a fleeting moment before the older woman gently pulled away.

Once more, she dipped her nail into the pouch and sharply inhaled another measure of Dust. She coughed, then licked her nail clean. This time, though, a tremor ran through her as the powder settled inside her. Saskia watched in silence.

She returned her knowing gaze to me. “I don't know what it is you seek in the mortal lands, but if I know Rìan, it will have everything to do with freeing Elantis and taking vengeance on those who wronged him—wronged us all. So we will assist you, any way we can.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“No thanks are needed, Eidra. The purposes of the Bone Women have always aligned with those of the Firstborn. That has always been our way.”

She planted her hands on her knees and rose with a quiet crack of protesting joints.

“What if...” I hesitated.

She paused, brows lifting as she looked back at me.

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “What if his purpose is to destroy all the Fae?”

“A noble cause,” she replied without hesitation.

She couldn’t mean that. Surely not all the Fae were bad! “What of the powder? If every Fae dies...” My voice faltered.

The Bone Mother's smile only widened, her eyes dancing with quiet amusement. “We'll have plenty to harvest from the dead. And when it's all gone—as one day we hope it will be—we'll be glad to see the end of it. Without the Dust, our people would fall to the Fae. Protecting them—that is our calling. But perhaps one day we can simply be... human again. Live and die beside our own, with no greater purpose than to enjoy the little time we're given, as we were always meant to.”

Her gaze lingered on Saskia, warm with affection.

“That would be nice, Saskia, don’t you think?”

Saskia smiled through shining eyes.

“I think we'd all like that very much.”

CHAPTER 61

Two days since I’d last seen Rìan.

And it was eating me up inside.

The Bone Mother assured me he was recovering well. That he’d slept through most of it while his body finished healing.

I’d slept through most of it too. They’d given me a small hut at the far edge of the village, with little more than a bed of rushes and furs. Ribs, femurs, and strings of vertebrae hung from the ceiling, turning slowly like some grotesque nursery decoration. Whenever I woke, I watched them revolve above me until exhaustion pulled me under again.

But tonight, Saskia had dragged me from my hut, insisting I join them for the feast. Brinnekin meat was notoriously tough, she'd explained, and needed time to soften enough to eat. Apparently, tonight it was finally ready.

An enormous bonfire burned in the center of the village, flames rearing high, reaching into the darkness like grasping arms. Around them, sweat-slicked dancers writhed and bent with the fire, their silhouettes twisting into something almost demonic as they stamped and spun, every step sending the bones they wore clattering.

Elaborate headdresses crowned with jawbones and long, spiralling horns dipped with every movement, while carved ribs curved around torsos like jewelry. Braids rattled with every turn of the head, threaded through with finger bones and fangs. Slivers of polished bone pierced brows, noses, lips, tongues, and ears, more precious to these strange humans than gold or gemstones. Their faces had been painted into grinning skulls—not in mockery of death, but in defiance of it, of survival wrested from a world determined to devour them.

The drums beat in time with my heart, their taut hides catching the firelight with the unmistakable iridescence of faerie skin. Between each thunderous pulse came the dry hiss of gourds filled with teeth, a sound like falling rain, and the low, mournful drone of long-necked lutes strung with fae sinew.

There was something untamed about these women—not savage, but utterly unburdened by the rules that governed the rest of humankind. Here, they were not prey but predators. And they celebrated it with wild abandon.