Page 30 of Storm of Ink and Blood

After pulling out a pen from her bag, she dipped the tip into the ink and scratched a string of random letters onto the surface of the rock. She then called up her sixth anchor and touched it to the ink, rooting around for weaknesses in its makeup. Her working theory was that she could possibly pull the ink apart or simply dissolve it from the skin.

She closed her eyes as her magic slid over the ink. Slowly and with careful concentration, she felt the individual molecules that made up the dye and, more importantly, the dark magic they contained. It was hard to describe the sensation, but it was akin to vibrations or a low resonance. It hummed gently, and she wondered if other forms of magic had a similar footprint or if this feeling was unique to her sixth anchor.

She filtered in another sliver of darkness, forcing the particles to vibrate with increasing vigor. This felt like the right direction. She continued making them quiver, feeling them lift and shift against one another. With another sliver of magic, she tried to slide it in between the tiny hairline spaces they were forming. It took a few tries to get the angle and position right—like threading the end of a fine needle—but then she felt it slip between and exhaled a small grunt. The sensation was awkward at first, like she’d tried to shove a square peg into a too-tight hole, but the molecules eventually adjusted to its presence, expanding to accommodate the intrusion.

She dug into it and tried to peel the pieces apart, teasing away the edge of a letter. Then, in fascination, she watched as it lifted away from the stone before dissolving in the air and scattering into nothing.

Zarya pulled her magic back, staring at the spot where the ink had been a moment ago. She wanted to jump up and squeal for joy. Had she just done it? Had she just broken the mark? This wasn’t the same as the vanshaj mark—this had just been written and not embedded into skin—but this had to be a start.

She tried again with the next letter, using the same combination of vibrations and sliding between each note of the ink’s magic. It took her an hour to erase each of the letters, and by the time she was done, she was covered in sweat and panting heavily. A pain throbbed behind her eye from the strength of her concentration, but this was something.

She will be the one to free them all.

It had to mean something.

Over the next few days, Zarya returned to the clearing, attempting to lift the ink off various surfaces: wood, metal, and paper. The paper and wood proved harder to shift due to their porousness, where the ink embedded deeper.

This was closer to human skin, but it was still a far cry from the real thing, which was why she found herself standing in a butcher shop where she acquired several pieces of meat.

“Skin on,” she said when she asked for a ham hock. The butcher gave her a quizzical look, but it wasn’t such an unusual request. Was it?

She then repeated the process with the ink using bits of bone, flesh, and skin. The skin was the hardest, but she succeeded with each variation. Still, she was worried that this wasn’t tattooed on but simply drawn.

At some point, she’d need a human test subject—one with a tattoo—and the very idea made her stomach twist with fear and worry and a sick sense of wrongness.

The other issue was that she was rapidly running out of ink, and there was no possible way to get more before the royal family began acting on their threats. So, she practiced every day, coming home exhausted and covered in sweat before she’d collapse on her bed into a dreamless sleep.

Upon her return home one rainy day, Yasen sat at her bedside, stroking her hair. “How’d it go today?” he asked, and she could only manage an exhausted grunt.

“You’re killing yourself,” he said. “I think you need to take a break.”

“I’m so close,” she said. “Just a few more days, and I think I’ll have it.”

“Zee,” he said, a thread of reproach in his tone.

“I’m almost out of ink, anyway,” she said. “Either I figure this out soon or not. Either way, I’m almost done.”

“Okay,” he said. “But be careful. You don’t want to burn yourself out.”

She sighed and rolled over onto her back, tucking her arm behind her. Yasen lay down next to her, their heads touching as they stared up at the ceiling.

“Are you planning to tell them?” Yasen asked her.

He didn’t elaborate on what or who, but she knew that he was referring to Farida, the Chandras, and her sixth and forbidden strain of magic.

“I have a suspicion about the Jadugara,” she said. “I think they must be lying about the sixth anchor, and they have it, too.”

Yasen was quiet for a moment. “That would make sense.”

“Why are they lying about it, though?” she asked. “Why pretend it’s this secret thing when it’s obvious more than a few people have it?”

“My guess would be power,” Yasen said. “They want to keep it all to themselves.”

“So they know,” she said. “And the vanshaj must have the darkness, too. Like Meera, who also saw the ghost army.”

“That would also make sense,” he said.

“So, why weren’t the members of the Jadugara also collared?”