Page 4

It continued for four days until she slipped into a coma under the full moon deep in Estarin’s embrace. When the Knight-Saint found her the next day, her wounds had begun to heal, and her blood rested easy once more.

“Thou art Her Blessèd Blood, borne of Evermist and starlight,” the Gods-blessed Saint spoke as she held Elarian in her arms that fateful morning.

So now she bled; the star reborn only to die again.

Every full moon.

For three hundred and thirty-seven achingly long years.

Elarian had long since run out of ways to hate it.

Bloodletting became her ritual. The sight of her bloodied hands seemed nearly as common as daisies. With each kiss of metal against her unwilling flesh, the burden of Melistra’s blessing eased; not much, but enough. The silver dagger split her skin again, this time a slice down the length of her left wrist. Her hands never wavered now. Scarring herself in the name of Melistra became as easy as breathing.

Thin streams of her silvered blood filled in the grooves and cracks of the pale rooftop. The pressure eased behind her eyes. Elarian sank to the marble bench pressed against her knees, content to listen to the steady drip, drip.

Better.

For a time.

The first rays of sunlight finally crested the eastern horizon. The flutter of a thousand moth wings carried on the gentle wind. Somewhere, the bells of the Maidentower began to ring.

One strike, calling the moon elves to their homes.

Two strikes, retiring the Night’s Wards for the Golden Guard.

Elarian breathed.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A third strike of the bells.

Elarian bolted upright, head spinning until her vision blurred.

Drip. Drip.

She needed more time. What was she going to tell Reshva? I’m sorry I couldn’t kill him, but look at my shiny new scar? Or perhaps, I told you I cannot fight him in the Evermist.

Air hissed through her clenched teeth as Elarian walked across the Moontower roof and slid through the open hatch. Her arm burned, blood still lazily falling behind her—a macabre reminder of the foulness inside her veins. It did not register through the memories drowning her senses.

Shades of gray filled her vision, broken only by flickering shadows. Smoke and burnt flesh filled her lungs. Her arms shook with effort, legs trembling as her feet slipped in mud. Around her, lightning flashed in brilliant streaks, quickly swallowed by thick shadows.

“Here we are again, Elarian.”

“Speak my name again only if you wish to offer your tongue with it, shivaem.”

“Tut tut. After all this time, am I not allowed an indulgence or two? We both know you won’t kill me tonight.”

Silver streaked through the night, burying itself where the fey creature stood only a breath ago.

“You’re right. I won’t. I rather enjoy watching things bleed.”

Reshva looked up the moment Elarian entered.

Hushed words drifted to her ears as he closed something held in his palm. “…leave soon, Arl.”

The Voice sat behind an ornately carved wooden desk, silver filigree sprawling across its smooth surface like lightning. Thin shafts of morning light cut through the chamber, illuminating one thin curl of silver in his midnight-black hair. One hand rested atop a round, milky-white orb embedded in the desk’s center. The other lay still at his throat, fingers brushing a star-shaped pendant as if in silent habit.

“My favorite Blade,” Reshva said, rising from his chair as if made of air. “You return to Estarin’s arms so little these days.”