Page 296 of Blade of the Nightking

His fingers tightened around my wrists. "Trust. Yourself."

Those two little words crumbled the last walls of my defense. He wasn't asking me to trust him. He was telling me to trust that I was stronger than the magic in my veins—that terrible, limitless power that could destroy entire worlds. Somehow, he believed I could control it. Believed I wouldn't hurt him.

He was telling me to trust myself—because he already did.

I let my eyes drift closed.

Immediately, his magic moved, brushing the outermost edges of my mind with astonishing gentleness, so light I might have mistaken it for a wandering thought had every instinct in my body not recognized it instantly. Then, without the slightest hesitation, it flowed into me.

It slipped through the chambers of my mind like cool mist spilling through an open valley, ancient and fathomless, its presence somehow as recognizable and comforting as my own heartbeat. It was a power vast enough to shatter my mind without effort, to unravel every memory, every thought, every piece of who I was—and yet, somehow, impossibly, every knot of tension inside me melted away as it dragged me into that infinite darkness.

I felt my Eidra yearning for it, longing to entwine itself with the power of its mate after being denied it for so long. Yet it only watched, entranced, as his magic wandered through the mind of its host, not to dominate it—but to soothe.

Ready?

That voice that wasn’t sound but thought—the same one that had spoken to me in the void. It was like finding a familiar hand in the dark.

Yes.

The images flooded me.

CHAPTER 62

Cold air stings my cheeks as I race across the yard, my boots slipping over the packed snow while my breath bursts from my mouth in white clouds. Father waits beside the gate, something large hidden behind his back, and the moment he sees me barreling toward him, his face splits into a rare smile.

"Happy birthday, little one."

He crouches awkwardly and pulls me into a tight, one-armed hug. He smells of pipe smoke and worn leather, though today he isn't dressed for a Hunt. I try to peer over his shoulder to see what he's hiding, but he rises before I can, ruffling my hair.

"Close your eyes."

My face lights up. "Is it a present?"

"I said close your eyes, little one."

The world goes dark as I squeeze them shut, bouncing on the balls of my feet. It's been a hard year. I hadn't expected a present!

"Hold out your hands."

I do, and he settles something into them with surprising care. An impatient little sound escapes me, but I keep my eyes closed.

Father chuckles.

"Now."

I open my eyes.

The polished yew gleams honey-gold in the morning light, the leather grip wrapped neatly around its center. Every curve is smooth beneath my fingertips, nestling perfectly into my grip, as though it already knows the shape of my hands.

A bow.

A real bow.

My chin trembles.

“I made it myself.” Father's voice carries an uncertainty I've rarely heard before, as though he isn't quite sure I like it.

I turn the bow over in my hands again and again, hardly daring to believe it's real.