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Sylas moved the tip of his blade against Quinn’s throat. A bead of blood formed where nightsteel met skin, followed by a glowing burn. “If you can’t finish it by morning—”
I stepped toward him against my better judgement. Willa screamed my name as Sylas’s blade cut Quinn just enough that her blood spilled down the blade. “My magic only works so fast. Nightsteel doesn’t bend to wills.”
“Neither do you, apparently.” His words were as tight as his jaw. “I will break you, Aisling. You will be an obedient bride.”
I didn’t back down. Maybe I should have. “Stronger men have tried and failed.”
“I’m no man,” Sylas warned.
“No.” My grip on the half-finished sword tightened. “You’re a demon, a monster, and a lunatic. Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.”
Anger sparked in Sylas’s eyes. For a moment, I thought he might run Quinn through because of my words. His clawed hand even squeezed the handle of his nightsteel blade. But he stopped just short of taking action, which was… strange.
With what seemed to be an immense effort, Sylas pulled the blade from Quinn’s throat and sheathed it. Even with the blade gone, Quinn’s skin burned from the nightsteel’s touch. I wanted to heal her, but didn’t move in case it provoked Sylas further.
Then he unchained Willa too.
“Finish the blade by morning without distractions,” Sylas said, his words low and tone deadly. “This is your final warning.”
He tossed Willa to two guards who caught her between them like she was just a child. Sylas then grabbed hold of Quinn himself and marched them out of the room, locking the door behind him.
I was alone. And confused.
Why didn’t he kill either of them to make a point when just this morning he’d needlessly killed so many?
I glanced down at the nightsteel blade in my hands. This wasn’t about some sword or Mrak—and it might not even have been about Dakta. At least, it didn’t feel as simple as Sylas raising the dead god.
Then what is it about?
Maybe Sylas was finally losing it completely.
