I wince as Solena jabs the needle into my skin again with a hiss of impatience. She shoves a half-empty bottle of rum toward me.“Take another drink,” she snaps. “And stay still. These runes are melting off faster than I can ink them.”
I grab the bottle, raising my head just enough to pour another burning swig down my throat. The fire of it barely registers anymore, dulled by overuse and the ache deep in my bones.“Then carve them deeper,” I growl, my voice hoarse.
“Any deeper, and I’ll be etching them into your damn bones,” she retorts.
“Good. Maybe then they’ll last.”
Solena doesn’t bother responding. She just sets her jaw and leans over me, needle in hand. The sharp sting of it punctuates her determination as she inks the sigils of the unseen into my flesh. Runes for those desperate to disappear.
I cannot afford to falter. If Gygarth finds me, he’ll drag me under his thrall, and this cursed soul will become a weapon against the ones I swore to protect.
Theos, the Archdruid, claimed these sigils were my only chance of evading Gygarth. I dragged the truth from him, inch by bloody inch, until he broke and spilled it like wine on stone. But he warned me, warned that the magic would not last, that the runes would eventually burn away. He begged for mercy. Swore he was speaking the truth, and I believed him. I told him so before I threw him from the courtyard wall, his screams lost to the rocks below.
Now, I endure this endless torment, grateful and guilty for Solena’s tireless hands. She spends more time carving into me than she does sleeping, her fingers raw and callusedfrom hours of work. She never complains, though. She understands what’s at stake. She wants Amara back as much as I do.
Still, the magic is fleeting. The runes blister and melt off my skin within days, dripping like black tar in the sun. The searing pain doesn’t matter. The sight of the mess. Ink, blood, and burned flesh pooling at my feet only steels my resolve. I demand Solena start again, each time fiercer than the last.
So far, the sigils have held. Gygarth has not found me, his influence unable to seep from the void. But if I do not find Amara soon. If the sigils fail, the contingency remains. My sister, Zyphoro, will drive her blade through my heart and finally end the claim the Father Below has held on my soul since my birth.
I hope it never comes to that.
But hope is a fragile thing, easily shattered.
The cabin door crashes open, banging against the wall, and a whirlwind of copper hair and incoherent cursing announces Lord Reon of Eyr’Drogul. He stumbles inside, barely catching himself on the doorframe.
“Fuck this boat,” he groans, bracing a hand against the wall. His hazel eyes flick to me, sharp despite the exhaustion painted across his face. “When you’re done lying around, we’ve sighted land. Ballamar City’s on the horizon.”
I glance over my shoulder at Solena, who doesn’t even look up from her work.
“Just a few more minutes,” she murmurs, her hands deftly arranging her tools.
My brow furrows as I turn back to Reon. “This detour has thrown us miles off course. Are you certain this information is credible? That Ithranor Fae have been sighted in the city?”
He leans lazily against the wall in his loose linen shirt and tan leather vest and trousers, folding his arms over his chest. “My source was very convincing.”
I take another swig of rum, feeling the slow burn settle in my chest. “When were you most convinced? While she was riding you, or in the seconds after you came?”
Reon’s smirk curls. “Things get a bit hazy around that part.”
“Done,” Solena interrupts, stepping back from the table as she tidies up.
I sit up, the sting of fresh ink flaring across my skin as I swing my legs over the edge of the table. “We’re here for a reason, Reon. To find Amara. Not to spread your seed through the lands beyond the Untold Sea.”
He exhales dramatically, the faintest pout tugging at his lips. “You exaggerate.”
I pin him with a flat stare. “I have no doubt that within a year’s time there will be an abundance of ginger-haired babes with pointy ears crawling about.”
“That’s unfair,” he counters, his smirk growing wider. “Not all will have pointy ears. Most will be only half-Fae, after all.”
I narrow my eyes, biting back a laugh despite myself. Reon is a contradiction. A warrior whose fierce loyalty and honorable blade have fought for me without hesitation and a walking scandal who somehow still holds the respect of the Fae courts. He’s a strategist and a fighter, and when we drink ourselves into oblivion, no one can make me laugh harder.
But this isn’t the time for levity.
“Listen, Reon,” I say, voice hardening. “While I would never deny you an excuse to drink and fuck yourself stupid, I need the warrior, the Fae I trust more than any other. Not the infamous rake of Eyr’Drogul. Amara’s life depends on it, and so does the vengeance I plan to reap on the bastards who took her from me.”
Reon’s smirk fades, his hazel eyes darkening. “You’ll have him when it matters,” he says quietly.
I push off the table and my boots hit the floorboards with a hollow thud, the wood groaning beneath my steps as I cross the room. Reon and I lock eyes, a charged silence stretching between us.
