Page 14 of On Broken Bonds

When I finally step back, Ivor moves toward the horse to help me mount.

His hand settles on my shoulder, stopping me before I can climb into the saddle.

“Here,” he says, passing me something wrapped in leather.

A dagger shines at me when I pull the leather aside, a metal hilt that catches the quickly setting sun over my shoulder. “Ivor,” I breathe, looking up at him, feeling the strange, exhilarating power of a weapon in my hand.

“I can only pray you don’t need it,” he says, his voice rough. “It was my father’s.”

“Ivor, no, you keep it. I’d have no idea how to use it, in any case⁠—”

He shakes his head, pushing the parcel back toward me. Carefully, he lifts the sheath and strap up, pulls it tight around my waist quickly, with deft hands. Then he takes a step back to admire his handiwork.

“Should stay put,” he says. “Should you need it, only draw and stab.”

I swallow, trying not to think about the word stab, and what, exactly, I might be burying the knife inside.

Every thought of those vampires taking my sister feeds the fire burning inside me. I hate the calm certainty with which they stole her, the terrible ease of their cruelty, the way they looked through my terror as though it meant nothing at all. They stole my sister from our doorstep and rode away believing there would be no consequence for it.

The thought alone is enough to turn my resolve to steel.

And still, I’m not sure that if those men stood before me now, I could draw the weapon and lunge for them. Not out of fear that I would make a mistake, or be bested, but out of fear that I would not. That I could drive the knife through their necks and take their lives, commit to an act that has no reversal.

Still, if I was going to try to save my sister, I have to be ready to kill for her.

“Thank you,” I say softly, wondering if Ivor can see the thoughts playing over my face. If he realizes that I’ve never been truly violent a day in my life.

After two more brief hugs, I’m mounting the horse and settling into the saddle, my worn traveling dress spilling out over the sides. The air has already started to cool, and Hilda, always thinking, hands me up a cloak to keep me warm, which I quickly put on.

The horse lets out a low, impatient noise.

At least riding is something I’m more than familiar with, I think, taking a steadying breath, trying to calm myself. Once upon a time, our family had enough horses for everyone, at least two carriages at any given time.

And now here we are, down to this one aging horse.

He might be older, but he stamps at the ground, clearly eager to get on with our three day journey. I check at my satchels, my bags, then swallow down the trepidation and turn him around, leading him down the road that leads to the capital city.

In the face of the insurmountable unknown, of the city I’ve never been to and a journey of the likes I’ve never even considered, I think only of my sister. I have to help her, have to plead with the gods, however unsavory that might be, to consider something else.

I have to get them to release her. And if not, to consider me instead.

Because that’s the thing I haven’t said. That Ivor and Hilda didn’t dare say out loud. The gods will never just let my sister go, but maybe they won’t care which of the Nocturne sisters they ruin.

“Be safe!” Hilda calls, and I raise my hand to her, knowing that if I turn to look, we’ll shatter the illusion that being safe is even remotely possible for me on this journey.

5

Thorian

Each time I come to this fucking room, I only see red.

Which is ironic, given the sheer amount of gold lining the walls, littering the tables, clinging to every sculpture and column. All honey and shine. For many who come to the palace for the first time, the amount of gold is staggering. It nearly blinds them or leaves them lightheaded. The realization that so much wealth has been amassed in this one place while the rest of the world slowly dies of illness and hunger never seems to occur to them. They only see spectacle.

There is an ugly sort of honesty to Valtor’s taste. The god has no patience for imitation. If he demands gold, it must be solid. Not gilded. Not plated. Not dressed up to appear more valuable than it is.

Gold may glitter, but it is soft, and the excess gives everything a strange sagging quality. The chairs, the sprawling decorative flourishes, even the chandelier hanging over the center of the room seem to droop beneath their own weight. The wall at my back yields slightly where I lean against it, molding itself to my body as though the palace itself is slowly collapsing under the burden of its own indulgence.

Impractical, all of it. Constructing a throne room so lavish it assaults the senses, then claiming there is no time or power enough to halt the spread of godfever.