Page 58 of An Honored Vow

Hope.

Gwyn’s jaw went slack as she stared up at the shattered sword hanging on the wall. “It’s Faelin’s.” She pressed her hand against the glass case, tracing the outline of the largest pieces of the blade. “I recognize it from your book.”

I nodded. “The only other blood-bound blade we have.” I grabbed the frame and yanked it off the wall.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

I shrugged. “I’d rather ask for forgiveness.”

A mischievous smirk sprouted on Gwyn’s lips. “We could fit the smaller pieces as arrowheads. The larger may work as throwing knives.”

I grabbed an axe from the wall and wedged the blade behind the frame. The snap echoed down the hall as I wrenched the case open. I paused, expecting a rush of footsteps, but there was just silence.

“We’re not making arrows and knives.” I lifted the glass top from the case. “We’re makingoneweapon.”

“What kind?” Gwyn’s gaze never left the golden steel.

I fanned my hand above the pieces. They had sat, undisturbed, for millennia, but now they were to be reforged. I picked up the smallest piece and held it up to the faelight. “The one it was always meant to be.”

The glass creaked against the wood floor as Gwyn leaned it against one of the other display cases. I caressed the hilt of the sword. It hummed under my touch, the magic of the weapon recognizing the magic in me.

“I can feel it,” Gwyn whispered, touching one of the shattered pieces of blade. “It’s almost like it’s quivering veryveryfast.”

I grabbed my own dagger and cut my hand. The amber blood glinted with gold as I wrapped my fingers around the hilt. “I need you to cast a binding spell.”

Gwyn ran a hand through her red curls. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.” There was no doubt in my voice as I nodded to Gwyn’s chest. “You pore over those books every spare moment you have. You know the runes. Trust yourself.”

Gwyn’s cheeks flushed. “Memorizing runes isn’t the same as spell casting. Feron says that art will take me decades to master.”

My stomach clenched. We didn’t have years. No one did while the threat of Damien and theshirakloomed overhead. I tighten my grip around the hilt and it warmed under my touch. This was the right path. I knew it and so did my magic. “The Elverin believe that blood carries memories.” I set the hilt back into the case. “That magic lives through every living thing and passes through the generations—an endless cycle.”

“Giiwithara’biizan kwenar,” Gwyn interjected with an unconvinced nod. “Darythir and Rheih explained it to me.”

“The Fae of old are your ancestors as much as they are mine. So are the Elves who wrote the first spells.” I grabbed her hand. “Trust yourself. Let your instincts guide you, and you will carve the right path. Give the ancestors a chance to answer your call.”

“And if they don’t?” Gwyn’s eyes lined with tears. I didn’t know if she was worried that the ancestors would ignore her or that they didn’t exist.

My chest tightened. I had struggled with that question for so long. Life had been too hard to believe that those of the past watched over us. But after seeing my mother’s sacrifice—the Light Fae and what they had done for their kin—I couldn’t deny the truth any longer. Our ancestors were not only watching over us, but they shared in our pain. They hadn’t wanted any of this to happen either.

It only served Aemon and his son to forget that.

“They’ve always been with you, Gwyn.” I tightened my grip on her hand. “Just as they’ve always been with me. And they haven’t failed either of us yet.”

Her lips disappeared as she inhaled deeply through her nose. She let out the breath and her fingertips glowed with amber light. Gwyn closed her eyes and started carving a circle into the air. There was no pattern to her movement, but it flowed like a river cutting through a mountain.

Suddenly Gwyn’s fingertips pulsed brighter. Her face relaxed as she let the rush of the river carry her and painted the air with her magic. She combined four runes, layering them over top of one another until the circle encasing them shifted from amber to gold.

Gwyn opened her eyes and pushed the spell onto the shattered pieces with her palm. Her voice echoed as she spoke, like all her foremothers were speaking with her. “Ozithir.”

The blade responded immediately. My arm lifted with the hilt, pulled upward by some unseeable force. The magic gripped my hand, keeping me in its hold just as the seals had done each time I’d planted my dagger into the ground. One by one, the shattered pieces rose into the air too—rearranging themselves into their original order, the space between them growing closer and closer until not even a hair could fit. The spell folded around the pieces like a blanket, fusing the blade together with a flash of amber light.

There was a final pulse of magic, and the hilt burned my skin. I cursed, letting go of the blade. The metal clanked against the empty case. Gwyn gasped as I stepped back.

The gold color of the blade had faded to a common silver.

Gwyn’s brows furrowed. “Did I do something wrong?”

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