The quarters were modest by noble standards:

  a narrow berth with a small writing desk bolted to the floor, a basin for washing, and a porthole that offered nothing but darkness now. Still, it was private, and privacy was a currency more valuable than gold in her current circumstances.

  Lynara sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the new scars across her forearms, usually hidden, they'd come revealed in her nightly outfit. The skin was healing, imperfectly, as Maraco had intended. No permanent damage, but enough lingering pain to serve as a constant reminder of her vulnerability.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the ship's gentle rocking beneath her. The ocean's rhythm was familiar, she had crossed these waters seventeen times in various guises over the centuries. The earliest as a merchant's daughter in 1213. Most recently as a pilgrim in 1512. Now, as Anya Brahe, diplomatic hostage.

  They've taken to calling them Envoys, I must remember.

  Outside her door, footsteps passed: the regular patrol of Caldus's knights. She had counted their rotations: every twenty-two minutes, precise as clockwork. Professional and Vigilant.

  Her mind turned to the immediate problem: replenishing her blood souls.

  There are two reliable methods of obtaining blood souls, she reflected, leaning back against the wall. Both with distinct advantages and limitations. Both requiring careful calibration of risk against reward.

  The first, and the safest, method was what she had always called "the long game." Find a suitable candidate, preferably someone desperate or alone. Establish a life with them. Create a family. Nurture bonds over decades. Then, when the time was right, gather the children one last time and consume them all. The ritual sacrifice of those bound by both blood and love yielded the most potent Bonds.

  Little Lisa never did forgive me, even so long after the event, a shame she had to be extinguished before acceptance rolled in, stupid bear traps.

  Five blood souls every thirty years, on average. Not a terrible return on investment for an immortal being.

  But the drawbacks were considerable. It required suspending her magical research for decades at a time. Knowledge gathered over centuries would fade in relevance as she played at being mortal.

  What use are a Dinasty's secrets when they get cut down to detail.

  And once completed, the method burned the identity and territory for generations. Folk tales of the mother who devoured her young spread like wildfire, making repeat performances in the same region impossible, the stuffy atmosphere it created for young couples all around was barely a treat worth sticking around for.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  Then there was always the risk of selecting an unlovable partner, a miscalculation that would waste decades of effort if the bond proved insufficient.

  The long game was off the table for now. Her position was too precarious, her need too immediate.

  Which left the second mot efficient method: the bond of battle.

  Find a fighter, someone ambitious, someone with purpose. Become their companion, their confidant, their right hand. Fight alongside them. Bleed with them. Save their life; let them save yours. Create a bond forged in fire and death rather than hearth and home.

  This bond wasn't as powerful as familial love cultivated over decades, but it served well enough. And these were desperate times indeed.

  Of course, even this type of bond was unlikely to form quickly, thankfully, she had some arcane tricks up her sleeve, should the opportunity present itself.

  She glanced toward the door, thinking of Caldus. An accomplished knight, dedicated to his order and mission. A man of principle, judging by his reputation and demeanor. Not an easy target, but perhaps the most viable one.

  The ship creaked around her as she considered the risks. The bond of battle method was unreliable at best, catastrophic at worst. If she miscalculated, she could lose her remaining soul in the attempt to gain more. If the companion died before the ritual could be completed, the opportunity would be lost forever.

  Lynara reached beneath her borrowed dress, fingers finding the small pouch sewn into the inner lining. It contained three items she had managed to conceal during her capture: a silver needle, a vial of quicksilver, and a scrap of parchment with a fragment of a ritual circle drawn in her own blood. Not enough for most workings, but sufficient for minor divinations.

  She withdrew the needle, pricking her finger without hesitation. A drop of blood welled up, and she let it fall onto the desk's wooden surface, watching as it formed a perfect circle.

  "Show me," she whispered, focusing her will into the droplet.

  The blood rippled, then split into smaller droplets that arranged themselves in a pattern. Not a proper divination, she lacked the necessary components for precision, but enough to glimpse possibilities.

  Seven droplets. Seven potential souls within her reach on this journey. More than she had anticipated.

  One larger than the others. Caldus. His soul would burn brightly if properly harvested.

  Two of medium size. Other knights, perhaps. Or members of the crew with sufficient capacity for bonding.

  Four smaller ones. Servants, possibly. Minor souls, but better than none at all.

  With a quick motion she swiped her hand across the desk, destroying the pattern. The blood smeared across the wood grain, and she reabsorbed it within her skin. No evidence. No traces. Not with knights who could sense magic just moments away from walking by.

  Outside, four beats later, the patrol passed again. Twenty-two minutes, precisely as predicted.

  Their diligence is an extraordinary weakness.

  Tomorrow would bring the first full day of opportunities. The first chance to begin laying groundwork for the bond. They would resist, naturally. Suspicion of her was both a hindrance and an advantage: earning trust from someone inherently distrustful meant that trust, once gained, would be all the more powerful.

  Lynara lay back on the narrow bed, staring at the wooden beams above her. One blood soul remaining. One life between herself and oblivion. One chance to rebuild.

  Starting with the knight commander who thought himself her jailer rather than her prey.

  She closed her eyes, her mind considering her options until consciousness faded into sleep.