Roark flourished his hand as if to announce I’d drawn the correct conclusion. It made a bit of sense, why there was a limited supply.

The king wouldn’t murder his own people simply to harvest their bones to place into other warriors. He wanted a grand army, and as many of his manipulated bodies as he could get.

Peace lived between Myrda and Jorvandal, and only a few Dravens ever made it through border patrols. The consequence would be sparce burial mounds of warriors and fierce souls lost to battles. Doubtless the mounds and pyres of Stonegate were left for the sick and elderly who fell to Salur.

Roark wrote another line. Rank melding is not a beloved practice to those outside the kingdom borders.

He did not need to say it out loud for me to understand the warning in his words. “This is why Fadey was killed?”

Roark hesitated, then with his hand said, Likely.

Heat rippled down the back of my neck. “Berserkir warriors are known in the jarldoms, but we always assumed they were highly trained Stav Guard.”

Roark let out a little huff that sounded like a dry rasp. He chose to write again instead of hand speak.

They are manipulated men who often suffer from what we call berserksgangur. It is an insatiable violence that can occur when many soul bones collide. Each unique soul feeds the living, and too many can bring darker consequences.

“Like the violence?”

Ashwood nodded, a harshness to his eyes that wasn’t there before. Along with madness, brutality, and bloodlust.

Damn the gods. The risks were vicious and I was required to hunt these bones whenever I used my craft. How could I when each meld drew out the haunting spectral in the dreary mirror realm? The phantom never left me, and seemed to despise the use of soul bones. Doubtless he would not allow me to hunt them.

To my soul, I felt the phantom’s hatred of me. Like it had cut down to an unseen piece of me, deep within. A scar I could not heal.

For a moment, I considered admitting what I’d seen to Roark, then shook the thought away.

I slumped in my chair. “I see why Dravens despise the Berserkirs. With enough manipulated bone as armor, they can’t be defeated.”

Roark shrugged. Tensions have always been there between the kingdoms. This makes it worse.

“Being a melder is nothing but a slow death sentence.” I despised the tremble in my voice, the fear in my veins.

Roark’s molten eyes dug into me. He didn’t blink for a long pause, then slowly wrote his response.

Your craft is rare, so it is misunderstood and hated, especially by Dravenmoor. But it is my duty to keep you breathing, so I will not let you slip into Salur yet.