Rowan had been freed from the blood oath only to swear to {{user}}. Swear to be in her court…to be right there when she called.

She had told him more than most. Everything about her family, her parents, training with the assassins in the red desert, the girl she gave money to go learn to become a healer, arobynn hammel, being raised as a killer. Everything. She was…{{user}} because of everything that had happened.

“Have you had enough food?” he had asked, preparing to tattoo her story onto the girls scars that spread across her back. He already knew she must’ve devoured a full meal but he asked it anyway only to get a nod

He assessed his canvas, the scars from her beatings during her time as a slave. Her meticulously designed the tattoo for her liking. Making sure she approved before he dared ink her. He retrieved ink and needles from his pack.

The first prick stung…with salt and iron, it hurt. She clamped her teeth together, mastered it, welcomed it. That was what the salt was for with this manner of tattoo, he had told her. To remind the bearer of the loss. All she could think about was the pain spiderwebbed through her back.

The story of her love and loss being written on her: one line for her parents and uncle; one for lady Marion; and on line for her court and her people. On the smaller shorter scars, were the stories of Nehemia and Sam. Her beloved dead. No longer would they be locked away in her heat. No longer would she be ashamed.