Page 74 of The Shadowbound and the False God

“And what kind was that?” Rodney nudged when Raif fell silent.

“The best soldier there ever was—but just and fair. He never killed without reason; he never slayed an innocent. He was a master of his craft, and hard on me, as he should have been. Yet he was unfailingly kind.”

Rodney frowned, unsure of where Raif’s recollection was going. He knew what Rodney needed: darkness, hurt. Instead, he was merely praising his father and fallen commander.

“I never questioned it, not once,” Raif continued after a moment. “His path was my path, and I was honored—honored—to be given the chance to even be half the warrior he was. When Kael made me Captain of the Guard after he took the throne…I’ve never been more proud. Or more afraid.”

There—now they were getting somewhere. Rodney leaned in, turning over the dagger in his hands. “Afraid?”

“Yes, afraid. How could I possibly follow in the footsteps of a giant?” Raif scoffed as though that should have been obvious. In reality, Rodney could hardly imagine the male afraid of anything. He certainly never seemed it.

“Say more,” Rodney said. He let his eyes fall closed and his hands stilled on the dagger, allowing the dancing, drifting threads to appear around him. There was more ochre here, weaving through the midnight strands. He parted them all, searching.

“I have never—couldnever—live up to the legacy he left behind. I have failed countless times over, and I have no doubt I will continue to do so.”

“Failed how?” Rodney reached out into the space between them. He was close; he could feel it.

Raif sighed and over the hum of his magic, Rodney could hear the soldier’s teeth grinding as he worked his jaw back and forth. “My father protected his king to his dying breath. I’ve failed mine. I should have stopped him from performing that first blood ritual all those years ago. I should have stopped him from performing this one, too. We could have won without it, had I been a better captain. Araouane would have.”

There they were: pitch dark threads, sticky like tar, leeching out of Raif’s chest. They were heavy and wet and cold between Rodney’s fingers as he began to tug at them. He heard material scraping against the stone floor when Raif shifted uncomfortably but said anyway, “Keep going.”

“I’ve done my best to make him proud. I wanted to be the soldier he thought I could be. It hardly matters how hard I’ve tried, how hard I’ve trained and worked and fought. I will always come up short.”

Rodney kept pulling, easing those sickly strands closer until he could begin to weave them around the blade. Just as the ochre threads had, they melted into the metal on contact. The daggergrew heavier in his palm. Just a bit more—he needed just a bit more.

Raif drew in another deep breath, this one less even. “If he were still alive, he would be bitterly disappointed in what he’d see. He deserved a stronger son.”

That was all Raif had to give, and all Rodney needed to hear. It was enough.

Both males were breathing hard when Rodney opened his eyes again. Raif’s knuckles were blanched white as he continued to dig his fingertips into the backs of his thighs. His face had lost its color, too.

Rodney set the dagger down and raked a hand back through his mane. “You couldn’t have stopped him, you know. Not this time, at least.”

“Perhaps not,” Raif said tightly.

Having had the soldier bare himself in such a way, to expose something so private, Rodney felt like he needed to say more. It was a bad habit: his compulsion to fill uncomfortable silence. He weighed his words, then said, “Araouane never followed his king into a broken realm to bring him back from the dead. So that’s a first, anyway. You may not be following in his footsteps, but you’re creating your own now. Uncharted territory and all that.”

Raif just nodded once, then pushed himself to his feet. “Aisling next?”

“Aisling next, if you can find her. Thanks.”

While he waited, Rodney rested his head in his hands. It was spinning, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure whether it was in the chamber or in his head. Both, more than likely. The space was charged with the same sort of aggressive tension one might find in a coiled snake, waiting to strike. It was impatient and unkind.

Rodney hadn’t ever Created this way before—really, he wasn’t even sure where he got the idea or if it would work the wayhe envisioned. But seeing what he was able to draw out of Raif, feeling the heavy stickiness of the strands that he wove between his fingers and laid into the dagger, gave him some hope. The dagger certainlyfeltmore powerful. Imbued with the sort of darkness he was asking of his companions, it would be a formidable weapon. If not strong enough to kill Yalde, at the very least it would be enough to slow him down. To give them a head start.

“You ready for me?” Aisling was hovering in the doorway. Rodney gave her a smile and nodded. Before she stepped into the chamber, she nodded to the smooth furrow his slide had left on the decline. “This you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it wasn’t Raif?”

“I don’t think Raif has ever slipped in his life.” Aisling knelt across from him and settled her weight back on her heels. She glanced around then wrinkled her nose slightly. “It stinks in here.”

He hadn’t noticed until she pointed it out. The smell of spent magic was distinct, but this was even a bit more acrid than that. It smelled of petrichor and earth and damp, rotting leaves. Not in a pleasant, autumnal storm sort of way—more akin to what Rodney imagined it would smell like to be half-buried in Talamarís, surrounded by decay.

“This isn’t pretty magic we’re working with, Ash.”

Apprehension clouded her expression and she said quietly, “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Whatwe’regoing to do, together, is give something to this.” Rodney lifted the dagger and passed it to Aisling. She took it gingerly, frowning a bit when she noticed its new weight.

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