Lain sat by the fire. The untouched cup of tea on the table had long gone cold.
Sena blinked at her, then grinned. “You’re awake!”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Sena wobbled toward her, stopping just long enough to unfasten her cloak. “The townsfolk insisted I dance,” she said, waving one hand. “And then someone brought a fiddle, and then someone brought more ale, and –” she stopped mid-sentence, tilting her head. “You look like you’ve eaten a whole cup of licorice.”
Lain blinked. “I what?”
“It’s a saying. You know – all wound up and bitter.” Sena squinted. “What’s wrong, my sweet?”
Lain tried to smile, but failed. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Oh no,” Sena said gravely, swaying slightly before collapsing into Lain’s lap. “You’re leaving me for another woman. I can tell. Don’t lie.”
Lain startled, then half-laughed despite herself. “No, it’s not –”
“Because if you are,” Sena continued, her eyes wide with mock solemnity, “that’s fine. I’m very open-minded. I kissed the barmaid once. Or maybe twice.”
“You what?”
“She had dimples!” Sena said defensively, then giggled. “Oh wait – are we not supposed to do that? Because if we’re not supposed to, then I didn’t. But if we are supposed to, then I definitely did.”
Lain buried her face in her hands, laughing helplessly now. “Sena…”
Sena nestled closer, looping her arms aron Lain’s neck. “See? You’re smiling again. That’s better.”
Her warmth was immediate, her scent of rosewater filling the small room. When she tilted her head to look up, her eyes had gone soft. “Now, tell me what’s really wrong.”
Lain hesitated, caught between amusement and heartbreak. “It’s just – everything feels wrong. I don’t know what I’m becoming.”
Sena hummed, resting her face against Lain’s chest. “Then let’s figure it out together. One saint at a time.”
Lain smoothed a hand over Sena’s hair, fingers combing through the tousled waves. “You shouldn’t be so kind to me,” she murmured.
Sena made a quiet sound of protest. “That’s a terrible thing to say to someone who brought you cake just two days ago.”
Lain smiled. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Sena shifted, standing, then spun her way to the bed, where she fell heavily and patted the space beside her. Lain stood and leaned back against the headboard. Sena propped a chin on Lain’s knee, her expression sobering in the flickering firelight. “Now tell me what happened. What fear has Lord Balithir put in your heart?”
Lain stared into the embers. “He told me things – I didn’t want to hear. But I think they were true. About the Dagorlind, about the Underserpent. About me.”
Sena tilted her head, studying her with those golden eyes. “Was he harsh?”
“No.” Lain rubbed her arms as if the warmth of the fire couldn’t reach her. “He’s not what I expected. He’s gentle, sometimes. And lonely. Like something left outside of time.”
Sena wrinkled her nose. “He’s a man who commands armies, Lain. Gentle isn’t the first word I’d pick.”
Lain laughed softly, though the sound caught in her throat. “Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.”
“Maybe,” Sena said, and her voice was kind, not accusing. She reached up to touch the back of Lain’s hand. “But that doesn’t make it foolish. We all want someone to believe in.”
Lain’s throat tightened. “He said he doesn’t want my worship.”
Sena blinked, snorted. “That’s exactly the sort of thing a man says when he wants your worship.”
Lain covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. “Sena –”
“What? I’m serious! I’ve heard similar lines, usually right before someone asks you to sing their praises.” She leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or join their bed.”
Lain’s laughter broke free, warm and helpless, echoing through the little room. When it faded, the silence left behind had relaxed into comfort.
Sena smiled, her voice gentling. “I believe in Lord Balthir. I’m certain he wouldn’t lie to you. But he’s still a man. I just don’t want him to take anything from you you don’t mean to give.”
Lain looked down at her, heart twisting. “How do you always seem to know the right thing to say?”
Sena gave a small shrug, her eyes sleepy but bright. “I think he’s a man who knows what he wants. Can’t blame him if he wants his very own saint.”
The fire snapped, throwing shadows up the wall. She wanted to talk about the feathers. But it wasn’t the time.
Sena sighed and shifted up, curling against her shoulder. “We should sleep,” she said. “You’ll save the world better with your eyes open.”
Lain let out a faint, tired laugh and wrapped her arms around her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Sena said, already half asleep, her tail flicking lazily against Lain’s leg. “Because I plan to tell people I bedded Saint Lain, the ringer of the bell. Don’t make a liar out of me, now.”
Lain smiled into the dim light, brushing a hand through her hair until Sena’s breathing deepened into sleep.
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Outside, the wind shifted. Somewhere beneath the frozen earth, a pulse answered faintly. A wyrm, perhaps. How many miracles lived beneath the soil of the world? How many miracles lived above it?
Morgan’s study was colder by daylight, the warmth of last night’s hearth replaced by the austere gleam of metal instruments and maps pinned with red thread. He stood at the far table, his hands braced on the edge as he studied a chart drawn across the parchment.
“You slept?” he asked without looking up.
“For a few hours,” she said.
He smiled. “That’s more than I managed.” He motioned her closer. The parchment was covered in the looping topography of valleys, rivers, and a network of sigils. “This,” he said, “is the chain that binds the Underserpent. The Dagorlind forged it with blood and song in equal measure – your blood, Lain. Your kind’s. The Kelthi were used to keep it subdued.”
Her stomach twisted.
“The chains are not metal,” he continued. “They’re hymns. Spells locked into the body of the world.” He straightened, turning toward her. “They block the Underveins like dams. That’s where you come in. You can unmake them.”
She stared at him. “You mean my voice.”
His tone softened. “Your song. Reversing the hymn you sang for the ceremony, drinking starbloom brewed in daylight.”
He meant for her to drink the starbloom again.
She knew what that meant.
If she had succeeded the first time, she would have died. Perhaps she would succeed this time, securing her place as martyr – but a true believer in the Underserpent. One who wanted to set the world free. “So when you call me a saint… you mean for me to die.”
Morgan frowned. “No. I mean for you to lead.”
“You know what happens to the Bellborn when she drinks the Starbloom brew. The starbloom passes through, taking our life with it, to be transmitted to the wyrm. I only survived because I failed.”
“That’s because you were alone. The Starbloom burns through mortal flesh. That was the Dagorlind’s intent – to make saints into martyrs. But the Starbloom itself isn’t cruel. The danger is in the way they’ve taught you to use it.”
He moved closer, his expression grave but kind. “When we brew it in daylight, as the Kelthi once did, it awakens both Singer and the wyrm. It ties them to the living pulse of the world.”
Lain’s heart stuttered. “What if I fail?”
He held her gaze. “Then it kills you.”
She went very still. Freeze.
“But I won’t let that happen,” Morgan said. “Not if we share the burden. My blood can bear part of it. You would sing; I would anchor the song. The magic would flow between us – through you, through me – and the chain would break before it burns you.”
He stepped back, giving her space to breathe. “I’ve run the rites. Alone, I can’t free it. Only a Tuned can do that – a Glinnel. With you –” He paused, and the faintest awe crept into his voice. “With you, it answers. Even when given the mixed starbloom, it answered. It’s as if it’s been waiting for you.”
Lain’s voice came out small. “You think this is fate, that you found me for this.”
“I don’t think,” he said gently. “I know.”
She looked down at the map, the lines looping like veins across the parchment, and felt her pulse echo in time with them. “And the place we’re going?”
“Where the chains converge.” He touched one point on the map, a narrow canyon where several rivers met. “My allies are already gathering there. Old faiths, old blood. They’ll guard the ritual. We’ll need a circle of witnesses – human and Kelthi both – to balance the energy. But, Lain. This will require something special. Something I would not ask of you unless I saw it as vital.”
“What is it?”
“I will need you to bind yourself to me. This bond must share both of our ways of bonding. You must become Veinwritten, and I must be Kelthi bound.”
Lain’s heart sank.
She should have known.
“But it’s not the way you’ve heard,” Morgan went on. “There’s no subjugation in it. The ritual isn’t about command, it’s about protection.”
Her pulse quickened. “Protection from what?”
“The Starbloom,” he said quietly. “If you drink it, its power will surge through every vein, every note of your song. Even I might not be strong enough to pull it back alone. The bond would let me carry the overflow. The pain, the risk. So you might live.”
Lain swallowed hard. “Can I refuse?”
“Of course you can. Nothing changes.” he put a finger to her chin, to raise her eyes to his. “I would never take from you what you don’t give freely.” He reached for her hand, not to grasp it, but to brush his fingers along her knuckles. “You have been controlled all your life, Lain. I will not be another hand on your leash.”
No one had ever said such words to her. The gentleness of them opened inside her. “You’d still help me,” she whispered.
“I would die for you,” he said, simply. “But I would rather live beside you.”
The way he said it left her dizzy, an invocation of something greater. The ember of her heat flared under her ribs, the molten ache half desire and half fear.
“When will we do this ritual?”
“How much longer does your season last?”
“Days, only.”
“Then it must be tonight,” Morgan said. “When we arrive at our final stop.” He smiled, seeing the question forming in her eyes. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“What does it feel like?” she asked.
His gaze held hers, quiet and unwavering. “Like being known.”
She couldn’t look away.
“By tonight’s end, we’ll reach the city of Doreth Vale, the last before Ivath. My allies will meet us there. Every one of them has waited a lifetime for this. And for you.”
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, the touch light as breath. Lain looked at him, this immortal man with feathers hidden beneath his sleeves, this creature of blood and sorrow and impossible purpose, and felt the pull of his strangeness. What was left of her Heat trembled under her skin. This one, it seemed to say. The banked ember of it stirred.
Morgan’s hand lingered on her jaw.
“Morgan –”
Her name on his tongue stopped her. “Lain.” It came out like a prayer, like a secret he’d been holding too long. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the breath of him at her temple. “You’ve no idea what it’s like to stand in silence for centuries only to find a singer once more in your presence.”
Her lips parted before she could think, her hand curling into his shirt. He kissed her.
At first it wasn’t urgent, but slow and testing, his hand sliding to cradle the back of her neck. He was careful but certain, the way a man might touch a relic or a wound. Her Tuning reached for him instinctively, meeting nothing, but the Heat felt it all, and purred against his hand.
When he drew back, his forehead rested at her own, his voice unsteady. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
Lain’s breath faltered. “You don’t need forgiveness.”
He smiled, his eyes luminous with something deeper; reverence, yearning.
She thought he’d ask for more – she wanted it, would have given it – but then he stepped back, his composure sliding gently into place.
“You should have breakfast,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength.”
But she didn’t move. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to share blood with him – to feel him in her, as something deeper than the Tuning, elemental. How different it might be from the bond she’d shared with Mallow.
When she finally left his study, she rubbed her damp palms on her robes, her pulse a drumbeat.
Outside, the wind had shifted south. By dusk, they would be bound. She wouldn’t stumble into it, ignorant the way she was with Mallow. Morgan wanted this. Wanted her. Wanted to change the world the way Lain longed for.
She thought she wasn’t ready.
But she’d have to be. She was out of time.