He had never felt the sting of an enchanted weapon. And he never wanted to, especially after witnessing Torin’s most recent wounds. But if his father had this blade made for him . . . Jack needed to know what enchantment it possessed. His hands trembled as he stood up from his desk and walked to the fire that burned in his hearth, deliberating.

A small cut, he decided, remembering how swiftly these sorts of wounds healed. A shallow slice on the forearm.

Jack drew in a breath as he traced a cut, just above his wrist. The dirk was sharp; it gleamed as it bit his skin, and his blood welled in the mark, bright as summer wine.

He waited to see which enchantment would greet him, his blood dripping onto the hearth stone between his boots. He waited, and yet nothing happened. He didn’t feel compelled to flee, he wasn’t afraid, he didn’t lose his voice. He didn’t feel despair, nor did he feel anything taken from him, like memories or peace or confidence.

Jack stared at the cut and his blood, full of wonder and irritation.

That was when a knock sounded on the hidden door.

“Jack?” Adaira’s voice melted through the wood. “Jack, may I enter?”

He froze, torn between telling her no and telling her yes. He hid his hands and dirk behind his back. “Come in.”

Adaira opened the door and stepped into his chamber. She had changed since their meeting with Innes. Her hair was loose, untamed waves drifting past her shoulders, and she wore a simple black gown. She noticed his stiff posture, his hesitation. How his hands were clasped out of sight.

She drew closer to him. “Are you hiding something from me?”

And that was when he discovered the enchantment of his father’s dirk. Jack wanted to respond one way, to give her an evasive reply. But he was compelled to speak truth, and it spilled from his mouth.

“Yes. An enchanted blade.”

If Adaira was surprised by his stilted reply, she gave no evidence of it. She reached out to touch his arm, light but confident, and her fingers traced downwards, where the weapon was clenched in his fingers. She brought his stubborn hand forward and studied the dirk’s gleam, the bloody edge of the steel.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

Once again, he was compelled to respond with the truth, and he ground out, “Like a fool, I cut myself to discover which enchantment it holds.”

Adaira reached for his other hand and drew forth his bleeding forearm. “A truth blade then?” she mused. Her gaze united with his, and he saw the mirth gathering within her. “You know that while your blood runs from this blade, you are compelled to answer anything I ask you with brutal honesty.”

“I know that all too well.”