Page 136 of Silvercloak

He gestured to the ground. “Castian brought me soapy water to wash, but I can’t undress with my hand pinned. I’ve managed my hair and face, and my bottom half, but … can you cut this sleeve off?”

Saff removed her hands from his shoulders, pinching the cuff of his cloak between her thumb and forefinger. Pulling out her wand, she drew upon her near-empty well, hoping there would be a final dreg, a shallow scrap, to produce this simple magic.

“Sen incisuren.”

A small, unconvincing tear appeared at the cuff.

Saffron discarded the wand and carefully ripped the fabric with the grain, all the way up to his shoulder, then across the chest, so that the cloak—and his black tunic—fell away from his arm.

At the sight of what lay beneath, Saffron gasped sharply.

Carved in a neat tally line were dozens—if not hundreds—of equally spaced scars. Some were fresher than others, the skin around the top five raw and inflamed.

“Levan, what the hell are those?”

But some part of her already knew.

“My kills,” he replied gruffly, not meeting her eye.

The freshest cuts, red and gnarly, had to be the mistaken-identity Brewer, the three Whitewing assailants, and Tenea.

“That’s why you needed the salve,” she said flatly. She didn’t knowwhyshe felt so angry at him, only that she did. A kind of protective, emotionally charged anger. “Why do this to yourself?”

He shrugged, but it was far from nonchalant.

“I always thought you didn’t feel anything about the bad things you do. You told me your emotions are essentially scar tissue.”

He made apfftnoise, puffing the air through his lips. “I feel everything at full and terrible force. I just keep it inside, where it belongs.”

Levan shrugged the cloak and tunic off the rest of his upper half, dropping them to the ground. Gingerly, to protect his impaled hand, he dipped the washcloth back into the citrus-oiled water, squeezed out the excess liquid, then washed himself.

Saff found it almost impossible not to watch.

His body was a map of the person he was. It was lean and toned from his running and combat training, knots of muscle in his arms and shoulders and chest. His stomach was more concave than she suspected it usually was, with two hollow grooves either side of his belly button, the sharpVof his hips disappearing into his waistband.

And there, right over his heart, was the unmistakable pink-silver of a burn scar. Old, but undeniable.

“So you do have a brand.”

He stopped for the briefest moment, tense, but said nothing.

“When did it happen?”

“I was ten.”

“Your father?” Saff was almost afraid of the answer, because there was a very good chance she’d want to murder Lyrian if so.

“Vogolan held the poker, but my father gave the order.”

His tone betrayed no bitterness or anger, but he must have been writhing with it.

“How could he do that to his own son?” The thought of Joran giving her so much as a paper cut was unfathomable.

Levan’s jaw clenched, but he did not reply.

There was also a betrothal tattoo where his rib cage kissed in the middle of his chest. A traditional sprig of holly, with two leaves and two berries.

Alucia.