In that fraction of a heartbeat at the southern threshold of the dark rock recess, as Ilyra turned her head to look at Seyun before plunging down the mountain chute, the entire moral stonework of the Answering Spirit vein was put to the test. Beneath Seyun’s left collarbone, Place I was the oldest mark on his body. The silver curve born in the limewashed funerary shrine on the burial road when Ilyra’s White Heron spear had first crossed his plain wood staff. Then it refined into Early Jade when they stood together against the Aperture Court.
The corrupted late masters of the Counterpoise Sect had used those three spirit vein places hundreds of years ago. Then, they had treated the marks as invisible leashes. By tightening his own central trunk, a Balance master could send a sharp, constricting tug through a sworn mark to compel his partner’s blade to remain within thirty paces and defend his flank, turning a rival’s vow into a collar no different from the bronze rings in Reth Mal’s seal court.
Even without deliberate coercion, a subtler temptation existed between two partners under mortal pressure. The silent demand of the eyes that says, If you leave this ridge while two pale blades are bearing down on our shelter, you’re abandoning me.
