Page 66

S AFFRON SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY TINKERING WITH HER newly acquired golden hourglass, but no matter how many different ways she tapped its top and intoned the spell words, time remained resolutely steadfast. Without a companion weaverwick wand, it was essentially a mantelpiece ornament.

Even Rasso, who had initially delighted at the appearance of the hourglass, lost interest after several hours of fruitless work.

The whole time, she thought about Levan pinned to that table.

Why did she care, why did she care, why did she care ?

Why, when she tried to sleep at night, did she think of him reading Lost Dragonborn by candlelight as a child? Why did she think of him screaming beneath the furious heat of the scorched poker? Why did she think of him furrowing his brow as he enchanted the wooden pendant around her neck?

An hour before she was due to leave the mansion for the Jaded Saint—where she would confront Tiernan about his own scarlet rot—Saffron went to Levan’s chambers to pick up another pot of salve and his beloved copy of Lost Dragonborn.

She had the vague instinct to take it to Torquil’s Tomes to be signed by the author, but forced the childish idea deep down inside.

Don’t do that.

What?

Care.

Instead, she brewed a cup of his favorite clove tea—noting with vague surprise that the loose-leaf packet read FOR THE CURING OF ANGUISH —and went to his cell with the salve pot and weathered book tucked beneath her arm, the steaming cup in her hand.

Levan sat in the same stiff position he’d been in when she’d first brought him the salve—there weren’t many other options with a hand pinned to the table.

The bags under his eyes had darkened to a bruised purple.

His hair was stuck up at all angles, as though he’d run his free fingers through it repeatedly, and even his scarlet cloak looked disheveled.

Thick stubble covered the lower half of his face.

“Thought you could use some entertainment,” she said, resting the tea and the book on the table. “Might stop you from losing your mind.”

“Already lost.” He grimaced. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

She gestured to the book. “We never did make it to the festival.” She thought of the handmade costumes hanging in the armoire, unused, and something panged in her heart.

“Was that today?” he asked, voice bleary. “I’ve lost track.”

Saff leaned against the nearest wall, one heel kicked up.

She studied Levan, the slump of his shoulders, the sheen of sweat at his temples.

There was a twist of sadness in her chest at the thought that his own father, the man who was supposed to protect him from the world, had inflicted such horror on him.

“Have you slept at all?”

He shook his head. “Can’t.”

Because every time he did, his hand would jerk against the shard.

“Any ideas on how to free yourself?”

She knew—or she should know—that he would manage it, because the prophecy foretold as much.

He would live, only to be killed by her.

But there was a chance she’d knocked them onto a different path entirely after her timeweaving. Was their original fate still cast in curious white smoke? Or had it been unwritten the moment she remade the world to save herself?

How did fate and time intersect?

“None,” Levan replied. “I have a whole grimoire of spells in my head, and I’ve turned over every page, but not one of the usual spell-stripping enchantments would work on deminite. Still don’t understand how my father got the curse to take in the first place.”

“Maybe he’s bluffing.”

Levan shook his head. “Already tried pulling the shard the tiniest amount, and all the blood in my body rushed toward it.”

She took one look at his hand, and soon wished she hadn’t.

A gray pallor spread from the wound outward, the color of mountain ash, his veins unnaturally stark.

The deminite now had a pinkish hue from the blood it had already consumed, reminding Saffron of the ascenite cuff at her ill-fated wand pairing.

She could still feel that piercing burn in her wrist—but it was nothing compared to the massive hunk jutting through Levan’s hand.

“Has your father returned since the night he …”

“No. Aviruna’s been bringing me food. And, as you so tactfully put it, a piss bucket. But she can’t keep doing that forever.”

A fair observation. His father seemingly had no end state in mind.

He hadn’t wanted to kill his son, but he’d sentenced him to certain demise regardless.

So why keep Levan fed and watered? Was he stewing in his office, frantically trying to find a way to undo his hideous curse?

Or was his son out of sight, out of mind?

“You don’t look well,” Saff said gently, gesturing to the sweat on his forehead. “The wound you mentioned … is it still infected?”

“Charming, thank you. But no, the salve’s working.”

“What’s the wound fro—”

“Drop it,” he said shortly. “Has my father approached you since …?”

“No.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount, and it only made him look more exhausted. “Alright. Good.”

There was a knot of emotion in Saffron’s chest she couldn’t pick loose: threads of guilt and shame, yes, but also fear and desire, all interwoven with the memory of how his lips felt on hers.

The taste of clove tea, the furrow of his brow as he pored over her necklace.

The hard planes of his body, the rich unspooling deep below her navel.

Two golden robes, sewn by hand, left hanging in his armoire.

Somehow, she would fix this. She would steal Lyrian’s weaverwick wand, find a way to harness her new powers, and save Levan.

Despite everything he was—everything he would always be.

Because he wasn’t just a torturer and a killer.

Hells, she was those things too. He was also a dragon nerd, a whimsical Enchanter, a knower of ancient languages, a bereaved son and potentially a widower, a consumer of anguish tea, and a gifted writer, if his journal was anything to go by.

I cannot let desperation cloud my mind. Not when Silver has already misted the glass.

“Where’s your necklace?” he asked, gesturing to her bare clavicle, and her hand went automatically to the space where the wooden pendant should be.

“Lost.” She swallowed away the lump of emotion. “I think the chain snapped when I was in the city.”

“I’m sorry. I know what it meant to you.

” Something bright and protective flashed over his face, if only for a moment.

It reminded her of the look on Nissa’s face when she’d found out Saffron would be tortured and branded, and it touched her that he knew just how acute this loss was.

“If I somehow make it out of this situation alive, I’ll enchant another.

It won’t be the same, I know. Won’t be your childhood door, or the bodies of your parents.

But it’ll be something. A place for your hand to go when you’re feeling too much. ”

“You’ve seen me do that?” Her cheeks burned at the thought of him watching her when she wasn’t looking.

He nodded wearily. “When you stopped to help that lox-stricken mage on Lancen Place, your hand clutched the necklace like a touchstone. Like you were trying to summon your mother’s strength.

” His gaze met hers again, and something shimmered behind his blue eyes.

“I see you, Silver. For all that you are.”

Everything in Saffron’s body froze for a moment, parsing his words for a more dangerous meaning.

Was he trying to insinuate that he knew she was still a Silvercloak?

A Timeweaver?

Or was she just paranoid?

“And what am I?” she asked carefully, leaning back against the wall in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Stubborn. Smart. Sarcastic.” A curious smile. “Complicated. Brave, in a way most would consider reckless. Afraid, though you’d never admit it. Good, though you’ve started to doubt it.”

Saints. She’d always considered herself hard to read.

Yet Levan remained a book mostly closed to her.

Nissa was the same, keeping her emotions under lock and key, and the key buried beneath several tons of densely packed earth.

Was that Saffron’s thing ? Did she just enjoy the challenge of breaking them open, cracking the spines, dog-earing their pages?

“You know what’s unsettling?” she asked, determined to turn the focus back onto him.

“What’s that?”

“That you must be in horrible pain, yet there’s nothing on your face to suggest as much.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Never show what hurts. It’ll only be used against you.”

“Still, your ability to keep your face still as marble is a little frightening.”

His lips quirked. “Would you like me to cry?”

“Maybe a solitary tear. For dramatic purposes.” Saff’s gaze went to his scarred mouth. “What happened to your lip?”

His free hand touched the silvery indent. “I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Magic was in short supply where I grew up, so it didn’t heal smoothly.”

Saffron couldn’t fight the laughter. “So ordinary. I was expecting some kind of tragic backstory.”

But at the joke, his face darkened, shut down. “I’m not tragic. Don’t think of me like that.”

“My parents were murdered when I was six,” Saffron retorted. “I think I have the monopoly on tragic backstories. And you might not feel like you can show the world your pain, Levan, but you can show me. I won’t use it against you.”

His blue eyes had cooled, somewhat. “There’s no way of knowing that.”

And he was right, wasn’t he?

If she did what she came here to do, it would ruin him.

Yet she still found herself wanting to take that pain away.

And she most certainly did not want to leave.

Being around him made every inch of her feel awake, alight.

It felt like playing high-stakes polderdash, like the first sip of a blackcherry sour, something dark and rich and alluring, something you knew you shouldn’t want, but that made it all the more intoxicating.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she whispered, fighting the treacherous urge to go to him. He looked so tired.

But he just grimaced, those walls thrown up higher than ever. “Obviously fucking not, Silver.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, feeling stung, red-cheeked. “I forgot about your anti-caring policy.” She pushed her heel off the wall. “Have a lovely night, Levan.”

This time, when she went to leave, he did not try to stop her.