My control slipped for a second. My normally ironclad shadows moved without me realizing it, puddling on the floor at my feet. Leaving me exposed.
I tighten them around me now, exercising a firm grip.
This is why she’s dangerous. She makes me lose control of my feelings, of my abilities, ofmyself.
I portal away, promising myself I won’t return again.
HER
The scar is getting worse.
It used to tear open every few decades. Now, it’s every few days.
I couldn’t even watch the witch sleep if I wanted to. Nearly every night, I’m bent over the scar, bleeding myself of my worst feelings and emotions. Causing myself pain so that it can be siphoned into power. Draining myself until I nearly pass out.
I’m too exhausted to think of her. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why I inch closer and closer to the edge, to that bottom of my pit of power that, if reached, would kill me. I’m so filled with agony, I can’t think of her at all.
Even my endless pain is not enough. I won’t be able to hold it off much longer. Not even my army can help. Nothing but limited metal pierces their hides. Nothing but me can turn them into ash.
Nothing but the sword can stop them for good.
It’s been decades since I searched for it. There was another reason, beyond skill, that my general—Isla’s father—was helping me find it.
His flair. His immunity to curses. Cronan’s sword was cursed centuries ago, by a powerful Nightshade who knew its power, and feared it falling back in his hands. She cursed the sword never to be claimed by Cronan’s blood.
Which includes his descendants.
My general was supposed to break that curse, using his flair. It would have taken a significant portion of his power. It would have killed anyone else who didn’t have his centuries of mastery and control.
My people might follow me out of fear, but I know it’s often not their greatest motivator. It took a while of studying my general’s limited emotions to finally settle on his.
He hated the role he was born into as much as I hate my own. He was as skilled a killer as I ever met, but he hated it. He hatedhimself.
It was something we had in common.
Then, I realized we also had the same dream.Escape. So, I promised him what I could never have: freedom, in exchange for finding the sword, and breaking its curse so I could wield it. His role was inherited, and he would never abandon it—or so I thought. With our promise, he would finally be free from his duty.
The oath made him search for the sword like a madman. It became an obsession. It led to his death. Or again,so I thought.
Fear was a better motivator, in hindsight. I should have threatened to kill his entire family if he didn’t find the sword and break its curse. Maybe then he wouldn’t have betrayed me.
I need help finding the sword. But it’s proven too risky to again entrust the responsibility to anyone in my court.
An idea forms instantly.
Her. I can useher.
But she doesn’t have control of her powers ... I suspect she doesn’t evenknowabout them. Cronan’s sword is unmatched. If she tried to bond to it, to fully claim it, the powers within her would burst forth. Her flair would break its curse.
It would kill her, most likely. That rush of power, called forward by the sword and its own ability ... she wouldn’t survive it. Not without decades of training—time we don’t have. The thought of her death makes me strangely uneasy. Perhaps that’s exactly why I should do it.
I shove the idea away. She hates me, just like I intended. She would never trust me. Never work with me to find the sword. Never unlock it willingly.
I’ll find another way to stop the dreks.
A few weeks later, there is a disturbance in the market.
“Deal with it,” I tell one of my guards. Astria is at the scar, monitoring its seam for any weak points. The others are completely useless without her guidance.
