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“I don’t know,” I said. “Something about him being the author of the oath. I think if he could create it, he could change it.”

Morgana still looked unconvinced. “And what, we just wait here and do nothing? And somehow a spell he needed our bodies present for to cast and our mouths to swear will be undone without us being there? Without us saying anything?”

“I—” I sucked in a breath, my entire arm shaking from the pain.

“I know you’re the scholar, Lyr, but after my first slash, I wasn’t as ready to accept my fate as you. And I did some research on how to undo this fucking thing.” She pointed at her wrist, her face twisted in disgust.

I leaned against Meera, the pain becoming unbearable. Rhyan started to move but kept himself back as if he’d remembered his place.

I stared down at my wrist. The scar had doubled in size and was an angry red.

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“That there was no way to undo it,” she said. “You either keep your oath, or you don’t. And the price is extracted.”

“Maybe,” I gritted, “maybe you didn’t read everything there was to read about it.” Sweat was falling into my eyes. “Fuck!” I shrieked.

Meera cried out, too, and Morgana.

The pain had flared up to the point where I thought I’d pass out. My entire body spasmed, and then…it was gone.

I’d been pushed back on the bed from whatever force had stopped my pain, and I lifted my arm up as I stared at my wrist in disbelief. No red mark. No scar. I ran my finger across the skin. Meera and Morgana were feeling their own wrists in astonishment, their eyes wide.

The skin was smooth. No mark, no mutilation…just untouched skin. All that remained were my marks for my soturion oaths.

“He did it,” I said, feeling the smooth skin again and again. I felt like I could breathe in a way I hadn’t in years, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “It’s gone.” I sat back up, scooting forward on the bed.

Meera sniffled happily. She looked the most alive I’d seen her in years.

“The fuck?” Morgana cursed. “Well, I assume we’re done. I’m going to bed. I don’t even want to think about what this means.”

“Morgs,” I said. “You know we still have your back. Right? And so does Rhyan.”

She snorted. “My sisters protecting me? And my sister’s protector protecting me? Oh, yes, so very hard to believe.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m glad you’re all right, Lyr. But I’m telling you right now, whatever just happened, this was not mage magic. I researched this thoroughly. And, surprise, I went to the Museion as well. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want anyone to get suspicious of my motives. I just didn’t think I needed to be forced into a blood oath with my sisters. We share the same Godsdamned bloodline.”

“But they’re really gone,” I said. “The blood oath scars are gone.”

“I can’t argue facts,” Morgana huffed. “But I know this isn’t right. Goodnight.”

Do you need anything? For your head?

“If I did, I would have asked,” she snarled and strode from the room.

Meera got up. “I’m going to go talk to her.” She looked back to Rhyan. “Thank you again for all you’re doing for Lyr and what you did for me. I won’t forget.”

Rhyan bowed formally.

I was left alone with him. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. “It’s gone,” he said, “truly?” He cupped my chin, holding my head in his hand. “Gods. I was so worried. One day, I’ll tell you the story of the blood oath on my back. It’s now no longer needed. The author, he…he died. But since I kept the oath, I suppose I’m to wear the mark forever. This one, however,” he pointed to his forehead, to the scar cutting through his eyebrow and the top of his cheek, “this was broken instantly.”

“That was a blood oath?” I asked, realizing now how much my own scar had begun to look like Rhyan’s after it began to show itself.

“He wanted to humiliate me. Make sure I never forgot. I broke it within a minute of the mage forcing the words from my mouth.”

“It didn’t kill you?” I asked, reaching forward to run my fingers lightly over the scar. He shivered under my touch, his eyes closing, thick dark lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. I cupped his face.

“No. Worse. It killed my mother.”

“Rhyan,” I gasped. “I’m sorry.” I sat forward, still holding him, and pressed my lips down the length of his scar, to his closed eyelid and his cheek. His arms wrapped around me, our foreheads pushing against each other, lips brushing.