Soul craft, as little as I knew of it, was the magic that wallowed in blood somehow.

Blood craft was tangled in curses and spell casts. Used too wretchedly, it spun a mind with madness.

The last was the warning ignored by Stonegate. It was the risk of melding.

If the tales of the Wanderer were to be believed, to use meld craft in excess, the magic of it would feast upon a melder’s heart until they were a husk of what they once had been.

Like a disease feeding from the inside out.

King Damir coveted melders. He would use my craft in excess, and if the tales were true, I would wither to nothing soon enough.

I slapped the pages closed and hugged my knees to my chest. On the morrow, I would be inspected by the king. No doubt, he would require me to prove my craft and I would be tossed back into that strange, mirrored world of mists and shadows.

My palms trembled when I lifted them in front of my face.

Gods, I wished Melder Fadey still lived. The questions I would ask. What was that place? Why did the connection to bone thrust it upon me?

Who or what lived in such a world?

I shook the thought away and took up the parchment of symbols and gestures. Craft and kings could wait for now. I held to the brittle trust in Emi’s words that Kael, Hilda, and Edvin were safe. I held to the notion that Damir coveted craft and he would not want to execute three crafters.

They had to be alive, they had to be safe.

I kept reciting the words as I studied gesture after gesture of the finger speak until my eyes fluttered closed, and I drifted into murky black.

The crow of an aggravating cock blared his morning welcome well before the mists of dawn had faded.

Today was my meeting with the king. I’d been given a refuge for the night—more than I expected—but what became of me after I left this chamber?

I made certain to summon some warm pots of water for the basin and soaked in dried petals and fresh salts until my toes wrinkled.

The wardrobes were stocked in simple clothes, a few shifts and frocks, some tunics and trousers and hose. I took a simple blue dress, a size too large, thin ankle boots, and braided my damp hair down my neck, tying it off with a pale ribbon hung on a hook in the wardrobe.

I’d only fastened the knot when a knock came at the door. I was met with a man’s backside. Two Stav were pressed against the wall, and when my escort turned, my heart shot to my throat.

“Highness.” I dipped my chin, avoiding the sharp, glazed-honey eyes of Prince Thane.