Page 139 of Silvercloak

The shard was a bright poppy red from all the blood it had consumed.

LEVAN WAS DYING, AND NOBODY, NOT EVEN SAFFRON, COULDstop it.

She tugged her tunic back over her head, both sweating and cold to the bone, though her well of magic was full and shimmering once more. “Has your father been back since that first night?”

“Once,” Levan replied, still breathing unevenly. “He tried to undo it, to tear the magic out of the shard. Didn’t work. He even brought Miret along, but not a single book in that enormous library had any better ideas.”

Saffron blew air through her lips. “So there’s no way to free yourself?”

“Only one.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “But it’s terrifying.”

“What is it?” Saff asked, but judging by the clench in her guts, some part of her already knew.

He raked his free fingers through his fluffy, freshly washed hair. “I think I have to lose the hand.”

“Levan …”

“There’s no other way, is there? I’ve thought about two things on a constant loop since I’ve been here. How to survive this. And, well, you.”

The sweet ache of the second part barely registered over the horror of the first. “You can’t lose your hand.”

“The longer I wait, the more of the arm it’ll leech away, and the worse it’ll be.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to reattach it afterward?” Saffron gnawed at the inside of her cheek. “You’re rather good at that.”

He shook his head. “It’s beyond salvation. The second the shard is removed, the hand will wither and die.”

“Saints.” Such an inadequate response, and yet what else could she say?

He leaned his head against the back of the chair, letting his eyes flutter closed. “During my literature degree, we—”

“Literature degree?” Saff blinked in surprise.

He looked bashful for a moment. “I got my Knight’s Scroll at the University of Atherin. Nobody here knows. But we studied theLost Dragonbornbooks in immense detail. I wrote my dissertation on all the small ironies of Aymar’s redemption journey. And this feels like that, doesn’t it?” A bitter laugh. “The first night we met, you watched me cut off a man’s hand over and over again in the pursuit of my own interests. And now, in order to survive long enough for those interests to come to pass, I’ll have to endure the same.”

Saffron found the thought too horrendous to comprehend. “How will you do it? I rescued your wand from your room, but with the deminite shard physically inside your body …”

“You’ll have to do it for me.”

Everything in her bucked against the notion. “I can’t.”

He opened his eyes. They were bleary with exhaustion, all the sensual charge gone. “It’s that or watch me die.”

“We can ask Miret, or Segal, or Castian. Your father, even.”

Yet Segal was Risen, and Castian was a lox addict, and Miret … well. Miret’s head seemed to largely reside in the clouds.

Something vulnerable passed over Levan’s face. “I don’t trust any of them like I trust you.”

Irony, indeed.

“Not even Miret?”

“I trust his character, but not his abilities. He rarely uses magic. Only cares for books.”

“He could use a blade.”

“Not as clean. Magic seals the wound immediately.”

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