Priscilla's lips parted slightly, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a cruel joke. Finding none, her brow drew together in deep skepticism. "That is impossible."
Sylas offered no counterargument. He simply sat there, watching the wind rustle the edges of the parchment.
She shifted across the mattress, coming to sit right beside him, all traces of sleep banished.
"Ishara's blood-hexes are binding until death. Azarion spent nearly a decade dragging every high priest, hedge-wizard, and alchemist from here to the Sunken Coast into his halls. He offered mountains of gold, land, titles—and every single one of them failed or died trying to unravel it. If nine years of blood magic could not break the weave, how could it simply vanish?"
"That," Sylas murmured, a slow spark returning to his pale eyes, "is precisely the question. And the answer provided here is far more fascinating than the recovery itself."
