Page 32 of An Honored Vow

Her yellow eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Someone set a curfew on the entire city. With my harvest hours cut in half, I can’t be available for every frivolity you see fit to entertain us with.”

She clucked her tongue and my hand turned to a fist along the armrest.

“I didn’t realize you found me entertaining,” I deadpanned.

Rheih sighed and adjusted the smock on top of her robes. “That’s the true sadness. I don’t.”

Feron stood before I could lose everyone’s respect for smacking an elderly Mage in the mouth.

“We all agree to keep what is shared in this room private until we come to a consensus?” Feron made a slow circular glance about the room.

Everyone nodded except for one of the hooded figures. I didn’t need to see her red curls to know it was Gwyn.

I cleared my throat.

“I swear it,” Gwyn chimed in a bored voice.

Feron sat and nodded at Gerarda and Elaran. They both stepped to the side, allowing Fyrel and Gwyn to approach the circular table.

Gwyn pulled back her hood. Then she lifted her hand to expose her glowing fingers and the unmistakable amber color of her eyes.

“Shit.” Myrrah leaned forward in her wheelchair for a better view.

Rheih stood from her chair, though it barely added any height to her vantage point. She mumbled under her breath and walked over to the girls to examine Gwyn more closely.

“I thought this was a bore,” I quipped at her from across the table. The Mage grunted and grabbed Gwyn’s wrist. I turned to the others. “As you can see, something more than an attack happened in those woods.”

Syrra’s rigid body loosened just enough for her to turn her head to Gwyn. Her unfocused gaze cleared as she watched the girl leave amber streaks of light in the air.

Darythir signed something too quick for me to fully catch. But the quick pulse of her hand in front of her chest was unmistakable.

Blood.

“I wonder too,” Rheih answered her. She reached deep into the pockets of her smock and pulled out a needle. Gwyn held out her palm without protest. The Mage pricked the meaty part of her hand and gasped as the amber and gold blood pooled along Gwyn’s skin.

Gwyn didn’t flinch; she just watched as her blood flooded the crater of her palm. She held it higher for the others to gawk at.

“Extraordinary,” Myrrah whispered, stretching in her chair to touch the blood for herself. She rubbed it along her fingertips as if she would be able to feel some physical difference from all the blood she had ever spilled.

I formed a sphere of water from the carafe on the table. Myrrah dipped her fingers into it absentmindedly, the magical blood washing away in thin swirls. She looked to Feron. “There are no stories that speak of such a thing?”

Feron shook his head, interpreting the question for Darythir, who slashed the air once with a flat, tight palm.

Signed Elvish forno.

Myrrah’s awed expression sprouted into a grin. “This is excellent.” She turned to me. “Think of the advantage.” Her icy blue eyes glinted as new plans of attack formed behind them.

“Think of the bloodshed.” My words were sharp and raw like the feeling in my throat. Not the physical burn of craving, but the habit, the desire. That same guilt I had spent decades dodging was curling its fingers around the end of my braid and with one good tug would drown me with it.

Syrra noticed the flex in my neck. She looked down at her hands, both bulging at the knuckles from how tightly she fisted them. She was standing strong against her desires too.

Elaran perched herself on the armrest of an empty chair. “No matter how or when we attack the capital, there will be bloodshed, Keera.” She twisted the end of one of her curls until the slack went straight. “The more Fae soldiers we have, the less there will be.”

Gerarda’s jaw pulsed behind her lover, but she stood with her arms tucked behind her back. Silent.

“Do you think Gwyn’s eyes being amber are a coincidence?” I scoffed, knowing that Elaran was much too smart for that. “It isn’t as simple as turning any willing Elverin into Fae. I would be turning Halflings.Me.Not you. And the moment their eyes turn amber, I would be carving a target onto their chest.”

Fyrel straightened, panic-stricken. “What do you mean?”

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