I pretended as though I did not hear her because she was wrong. There was nothing about my soul that wanted to know the deeper edges of Roark Ashwood.

It wasn’t until I was alone in my chambers, reading the last page of hand speak, that I admitted such thoughts might be more of a lie than truth.

24

Lyra

“Here are some more.” Emi dropped a stack of books onto the narrow table.

“Thank you.”

With a nod, Emi left the room, pausing long enough to give Roark a greeting where he stood in the corner of the library, a dark phantom.

Hilda rose from her seat, inspecting the pile. This morning she’d received her first response from Gisli since being parted. I’d missed Hilda’s smile.

She took the top book, brushing her fingers over the gold-embossed symbols. “Oh, blood spells from the common craft.”

Common craft was a phrase for those who did not have magical blood but made their own magic from runes, blood, and verbal spells. Like Selena and her tonics and protection totems.

I didn’t lift my head away from the page of gestures Roark might use if he were expressing care or concern. All day, I’d read the page like a compulsion, imagining Ashwood offering condolences or giving tender words like beautiful or love.

When I ought to be studying more about the approaching rank ceremony, I’d obsessed over studying more of Roark’s words.

We spoke little to each other, but when he thought I was not looking, I observed his interactions. Usually terse and simple unless the prince or Emi was nearby.

He spoke more freely with them.

Roark insulted the prince often, but the expressions on their faces were usually light, as though they could not help but taunt each other. To Emi, Roark spoke of her emotions, always asking if she’d heard from her home or if she was well. Part of me still wondered if they were lovers. When I’d slyly asked Kael, he seemed taken aback with the notion anyone would dare be a lover to the Sentry, and certainly not Stav Nightlark.

As days passed, I could understand why someone might find favor with a different side of the Sentry. Days when he gave up a touch of gentleness or playful taunts added a sweet kind of humanity to Roark Ashwood. In truth, I’d rather he remain heartless and cold. Indifference made him simpler to ignore.

“Soul craft often requires blood,” Hilda read, then turned the page, a frown on her face. “Draven craft is eerie. I know some see the use of bones as disgusting, but to manipulate the soul? Sounds wretched.”

If Roark heard Hilda, he made no show of it.