Chapter 48. The Ledger of Blood

I woke to the taste of iron and thyme.

Orla had left a sprig on my tongue and a note on my chest: Don’t spit. Spitting is for quitters. A second line, smaller: Tonight you’ll forget your name for three breaths. Don’t reach for anything sharp until the fourth.

The city exhaled rain into the morning. Veilgrove does that when it wants to clean itself without apologizing. In the courtyard below, Syra ran drills in a square of wet stone. Boots slapped in disciplined rhythm; steel spoke fluently. Above, the cliffs wore nets of rope and iron like scars we chose.

Kael slept on the bench against my window with his arms crossed and his chin dropped forward, the posture of a man who tried to stay upright and only remembered he was mortal after dawn. The bruise at his collarbone had gone yellow at the edges. Mavienne’s bitter poultice sat half-used beside him, a smear like a failed painting.

Leaf hopped onto the bed, nose cold, paws muddy, eyes old. He pres