“This is what she’s been building. I don’t know how long it’s taken, and I don’t know if it’s stable or if it gives her the power she hoped for when she first thought of it. I don’t think adding your name—an actual True Word, a word imbued with eternity—is going to help us in any way. But it won’t hurt her.”

“So stabbing it is better?”

“I’d be willing to bet on it.”

“You’re willing to bet on anything. Fine. Go ahead.”

Kaylin drove her dagger into the invisible fault line, praying that the structure didn’t scream in response.

Praying never worked.

The screaming wasn’t the worst thing—it sounded like the voice of a terrified crowd, one that anticipated pain and death. No, the worst thing was the blood. As if this small patch of the outlands was actually alive, Kaylin’s dagger pierced skin; as she withdrew the blade, liquid followed.

It was a pale liquid, golden in color, and it reminded Kaylin of the pool in Tara’s Tower, of the ancient mirror in the heart of the Imperial Palace. Of the blood of the Ancients, spilled so long ago, its true purpose lost to time. She almost dropped the knife, the impulse to reach—to treat—the wound she had caused was so visceral.

Her marks flared to life, gold as the blood that continued to spill from the wound.

What has she done? Hope said, his voice unnaturally soft, as if shock had robbed it of volume.

It was a rhetorical question; Kaylin made no attempt to answer it. Nor did she answer Terrano’s sharp “What are you doing?” when she placed both hands against the cut.

“Can you see the blood?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s golden,” Terrano replied. Spike was silent. “But you made that cut for a reason.”

It didn’t seem like a good reason now. Kaylin couldn’t explain and didn’t try. As the marks of the Chosen continued to glow she used the only power they’d granted her that she could deliberately invoke: she attempted to heal the damage she’d done.

The wound wasn’t wide; it was deep. She felt that as she began to push her awareness into the foreign body, seeking the damage, and seeking the damaged blood vessels that were shedding so much liquid. The wound, however, was far deeper than she’d realized. She knew better than to act in anger; the cause for that anger seemed petty now. If Azoria had built this place, it wasn’t Azoria she’d stabbed.