“My grandfather studied myths and sagas to near obsession,” said the king. “He won our place in these lands during old wars, but he also found a new use of melder craft. With the aid of a bone crafter, my grandfather marked the breastbone of his own father in a summons to the realm of the gods—a soul bone.”

“Like the lore of the Wanderer demanding the power of the god-queen.”

Damir lifted a brow but grinned. “Yes. My grandfather believed the god-queen marked the bones used by her husband to summon the power of the fallen. It worked, Lyra. It wasn’t only myth.”

I cracked a knuckle. “So your grandfather melded his father’s bone to him?”

Damir gave a wolfish smile. “He did. The soul bone provided wisdom, like our father-god. Strength, like the god of war. Compassion, from the goddess of the heart. Insight, health, cunning. Power flowed once again as it did when the Wanderer held the gifts of craft.”

Those gifts came from corruption and deceit in the folklore, and I was not so certain much had changed.

“Once my grandfather realized melding soul bones to living bone brought such gifts to his own abilities, he added more and more. He began using a melder to armor his warriors with the bones of those who had fallen in battle. Bones from the strongest among them. Not only did the king gain strengths, but his army became a true threat against our enemies.”

King Damir had large, rounded shoulders and thighs. His knuckles were thick and looked nearly jagged. Was it his natural figure or could it be that bones of the dead were melded onto his own?

“Melded bone becomes a conduit for the strengths of the fallen soul to flow into the living body. It becomes an armor that never leaves,” Damir explained. “For some it is so fierce not even the strike of blades would cause harm.”

All gods. He was talking of an indestructible force.

“You understand what I am saying, Lyra? My grandfather discovered how to create a true, undefeatable, Berserkir army. We have continued the tradition in Jorvandal. It keeps Myrda desperate to be our allies through marriage treaties, and it keeps Dravenmoor seething with their hatred that we have power and they do not.”

I took a step for one of the chairs, placing my hands on the fur draped over the back. “But there is a reason this angers Dravenmoor. It takes from the dead, from souls. They use soul craft, yes?”

Leave the souls. It was the plea—not a threat—of the phantom in the dark mirror land.

Was this what he meant?