Chapter 10
TEN
KIELYNE
Astructure rises from the Bloodscar Plains like a broken tooth—small, squat, half-swallowed by the endless grass.
I spot it from a distance, its stone walls weathered gray-brown by decades of wind and neglect. The roof has partially collapsed, leaving one end open to the sky. The wooden door hangs crooked on rusted hinges, creaking in the wind. Not much to look at. But it has walls. It has shelter.
And right now, that’s all that matters.
We’ve been riding for hours, pushing the horses hard to put distance between ourselves and Hadrin’s trackers.
The war band fans out across the plain behind us—battered, exhausted, running on fumes.
Most of them haven’t slept properly in days.
Neither have I, if I’m honest. My body still hasn’t recovered from the blood I gave to save Blorjorn, and every mile feels like ten.
Blorjorn’s arm tightens around my waist as he guides our horse toward the building.
He’s been solid and silent at my back for hours, his chest warm against my spine, his breath stirring my hair.
Neither of us has spoken since we mounted.
The silence should be awkward. Instead, it feels.
.. necessary. Like words would break something fragile.
“We’ll shelter here,” Grothak announces, riding up alongside us. His gray-green skin is pale with exhaustion, but his voice is steady. “Scouts report no pursuit within five miles. We have time to rest.”
“Time.” Blorjorn’s voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back. “A few hours, maybe. Then we move again.”
“A few hours is better than nothing.” Grothak’s gaze flicks to me—to the pallor of my skin, the way I’m slumped against Blorjorn’s chest. “The human needs rest. You both do.”
I want to argue. I’m fine. I don’t need to be coddled. But my body chooses that moment to sway in the saddle, and Blorjorn’s arm tightens again, holding me steady, and I don’t have the energy to pretend.
“Fine,” I mutter. “A few hours.”
The interior is smaller than it looked from outside.
Maybe thirty feet by twenty, with a single room dominated by partial bales of grass and the remains of rotting wood shoved against the walls.
Flagstones cover the floor, uneven and cracked, with suspicious gaps between them.
Dead leaves and animal droppings pile in the corners.
It smells of mold and damp stone and old ash from fires lit by previous travelers.
The war band spreads out through the ruins.
Some take the half-covered section, unrolling bedrolls beneath the surviving roof.
Others position themselves near the door, weapons close at hand.
Morra settles by the altar, muttering prayers in the old tongue to whatever gods still listen in places like this.
Blorjorn guides me toward the most sheltered corner—where two walls meet and the roof still holds, blocking the wind that whistles through the collapsed section. He helps me with hands that are unexpectedly gentle, steadying me when my legs threaten to buckle.
“Sit,” he orders, “before you fall.”
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because my body gives me no choice.
He settles across from me, his back against the wall, his massive frame somehow folding into the cramped space. In the dim light filtering through the broken roof, I can see the bandages across his chest—still white, no sign of fresh blood. The blight is truly gone. My blood burned it out of him.
The thought makes something twist in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
I look down at my arm instead. At the oath-mark, visible in the gray light, the angular lines harsh against my skin.
It’s healed now—no longer raw and raised, but smooth scarring that catches the light strangely.
When I’m not looking directly at it, I could swear the lines shift subtly. Move. Breathe.
“It does that.” Blorjorn’s voice is quiet. “The mark. It’s alive, in a way. Part of the magic.”
I trace the edges of the scar with one finger. “You could have mentioned that before you burned it into my skin.”
“Would it have changed your decision?”
No. It wouldn’t have. We both know it. “Why did you do it?” I ask. “Why any of it?”
“Because you saved Grothak.” The words pour out of him quietly.
“Because you looked at a dying orc and saw someone worth saving. Because I’ve spent a hundred years killing and I couldn’t—” He stops.
Draws a ragged breath. “I couldn’t watch you die.
Not after that. Not someone who sees past what I am. ”
We both become silent as Morra slowly makes her way toward us and sits. She studies the mark on my arm for a long time.
Not with awe. Not with reverence.
With calculation.
“The braid will hold,” she says finally. “For a time.”
Blorjorn’s shoulders tense. “Define a time.”
Morra doesn’t look at him. Her gaze stays on the scar etched into my skin. “Long enough to cross the plains. Not long enough to outrun an army.”
“That’s reassuring,” I mutter.
Blorjorn ignores me. “I thought the oath is lifelong unless the couple ends it on purpose.”
“Only if sealed in fire.” Morra nods once. Slow. Reluctant. “Most blood oaths are sealed not long after being made. Only once have I seen the braid fade.”
Great. This protection is only temporary unless I decide to make it permanent. Life as I know it is over.
“There is something in the Veilspire Cathedral. Or was.” She pauses. “The Sanguine Reliquary.”
The name hangs heavy in the firelight.
Blorjorn goes still. “That’s a myth.”
“So were blood-oaths, once.” Her eyes flick to mine. Assessing. “The Reliquary was forged before the first war between our kind. It does not mask a blood signature like the oath.”
My stomach tightens. “Then what does it do?”
“It rewrites it.”
Silence.
Blorjorn’s voice drops. Dangerous. “Explain.”
Morra folds her hands into her sleeves. “The sigil brands track resonance. Your signature, healer. The pattern of your blood. The Reliquary can alter that pattern. Permanently. When the mages search for you, they will find nothing that matches what they hold.”
“You’re saying it would make me someone else,” I say.
“No.” Morra’s gaze sharpens. “It would make your blood unrecognizable.”
Blorjorn looks between us. “And the cost?”
“There is always a cost.” She meets his stare without flinching. “It requires blood freely given. And it cannot be undone.”
I feel his attention shift to me. Heavy. Protective.
“The braid hides you,” Morra continues. “But it binds you to him. If the bond weakens. If he falls. Your signature will flare again. Every hunter carrying your blood will feel it.”
The fire snaps.
Blorjorn’s jaw tightens. “So the oath buys time.”
“Yes.”
“And the Reliquary ends the hunt.”
“Yes.”
Blorjorn straightens slowly. Decision settling into him like armor.
“We go to Veilspire.”
The words aren’t dramatic. They’re inevitable.
Morra’s gaze moves between us again. “If Hadrin knows of the Reliquary, he will try to claim it. Or destroy it.”
Blorjorn bares his teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Then we’d better reach it first.”
His hand finds mine.
Warm. Steady.
Bound.
I look down at the mark on my arm. At the firelight catching the raised scar.
Temporary protection.
Permanent freedom.
If the Reliquary is real.
“Veilspire,” I say quietly.
Blorjorn nods once.
“Veilspire.”
Morra climbs to her feet and shuffles away.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stare at him. At the hard lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he’s so clearly furious at himself for showing. This massive, deadly warrior before me with his walls cracked open and something raw bleeding through.
“Protection isn’t chains,” he says finally, quieter. “Keeping you alive isn’t the same as claiming you. You’re not my property, Kielyne. You’re...” He trails off. Shakes his head. “I don’t have the words.”
I don’t have words either. Don’t know what to do with his confession, with the rawness in his voice, with the way my anger is draining away despite my best efforts to hold onto it.
Neither of us apologizes. We just stand there, too close, the air thick between us, until exhaustion wins out over everything else.
I sink back down against the wall. He does the same, lowering himself across from me, close enough to touch but not touching.
The cold seeps through my clothes. I’m still weak from blood loss, still drained, and the stone walls hold the chill like a tomb. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to conserve warmth I don’t have.
Without a word, Blorjorn unclasps his cloak—the wolf-pelt one, heavy and warm—and drapes it across my shoulders.
I should refuse. Should throw it back at him and tell him I don’t need his help.
I don’t. The warmth is too welcome, and I’m too tired to fight anymore.
We sit in silence, the argument unresolved but somehow defused, until the floor beneath us erupts.