“I invoke the blood right,” she shouted. “House Sablewing. House Drakar. I call the pact due!”
The air stilled. Magic cracked. A wind swept through the chamber from nowhere, andevery shadow bent.
Folded. Knelt. Then, from the curve of the flame where light and dark danced dangerously close, he stepped through.
Malrik. The memory-weaver. The whisper collector.
He looked the same—black hair wind-swept, crimson eyes silvered by old truths. His wings folded behind him like veils made of ink and sorrow. But there was a new weight to his stare as it landed on her, on the body cradled in her arms.
“I knew you’d call,” he said softly.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she replied, voice shaking.
His gaze dipped to Cassian.
“Youdoknow what this costs?”
She didn’t blink. “Help me.”
Malrik tilted his head, feline and cruel. “You’re invoking a rite your father buried.”
“I’m nothim.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”
A beat passed.
“You’ll kill yourself,” he warned again, quieter now.
“I don’t care,” she hissed. “My father is the reason he’s the last one left. Hekilledhis line. And yet, Cassian… He saved me. Over and over. Let me return the favor.”
Malrik stepped forward, shadows parting like silk.
“This magic is older than the Hollow. It was built on sacrifice.Memory-for-blood.If he comes back—he might not come back the same.”
“He’s not dead,” she snapped. “Not yet. I can feel him. His fire—it’s notout.It’strapped.”
Malrik studied her.
Then knelt opposite her, his fingers already weaving in the air, leaving trails of glimmering sigils suspended in the dark.
“You only get one shot,” he murmured.
She nodded once.
“I’ll need your blood,” he added.
“Take it.”
“No hesitation. Drakar to the core.”
“Malrik,” she growled.
“Fine, fine.”
He drew a knife with a blade as thin as shadow. Sliced a clean arc across her other palm. The blood spilled over Cassian’s chest, steaming against his cold skin.
Malrik began to whisper words in a language that had no vowels—onlymemory.
