Chapter 46: The Carving

I FOUND HER by accident.

I hadn’t been looking—hadn’t even known she was back in Imre. But there she was, sitting on a bench near the fountain where we’d shared our first real conversation, her face turned toward the sky.

“Denna.”

She flinched at my voice. Actually flinched, like I’d raised a hand to strike her.

“Kvothe.” Her voice was careful. Controlled. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I didn’t expect to find you.” I sat beside her, maintaining a careful distance. “You’ve been gone for weeks. No one knew where.”

“I was with my patron.” The words came out flat. Rehearsed. “Working on the song.”

“The song about Lanre.”

“Yes.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “It’s almost finished.”

Something was wrong. I could see it in the way she held herself—rigid, careful, as if any sudden movement might cause her pain. I could hear it in her voice—that flatness that wasn’t Denna at all.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“Denna—”

“I said I’m fine.” She turned to face me, and for just a moment, I saw something in her eyes. Fear. Desperation. A silent plea that contradicted everything she was saying.

Then it was gone, hidden behind the mask she’d learned to wear.

“I should go,” she said. “My patron is expecting me.”

She stood. Her sleeve slipped.

And I saw the marks.

At first, I thought they were bruises.

Dark lines across her forearm, visible for just a moment before she pulled her sleeve down. The kind of marks you’d expect from a beating—from someone who used a walking stick or a cane to—

But they weren’t random.

The pattern was too precise. Too deliberate. The lines curved and spiraled in ways that bruises don’t, forming shapes that tickled something in the back of my mind.

“Wait.” I caught her wrist before she could pull away. “What is this?”

“Nothing. Let go.”

“Denna, those marks—”

“I said let go!” She yanked her arm back, but I held on. Gently, but firmly.

And I pushed up her sleeve.

The marks covered her forearm from wrist to elbow.

Not bruises. Not cuts. Something else entirely—raised lines of scar tissue, arranged in intricate patterns that I recognized immediately.

Yllish knots.

Written magic, carved into her flesh.

“He’s not beating you,” I breathed. The words came out before I could stop them, horror and understanding crashing together in my mind. “He’s not beating you, Denna. He’s writing on you.”

She went pale.

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly.” I traced one of the patterns with my finger, careful not to touch her skin. “This knot means obedience. This one is about loyalty. And this—” I stopped at a complex spiral near her elbow. “This is a command structure. A way of controlling behavior.”

“Kvothe—”

“How long has he been doing this?” My voice was shaking. “How long has your patron been carving magic into your skin?”

She didn’t answer. But her eyes—those beautiful, haunted eyes—told me everything.

Months. He’d been doing this for months.

Every lesson. Every meeting. Every time I’d seen new bruises and assumed the worst—

I’d been wrong. The truth was so much worse.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Denna said. Her voice was hollow. “Not anymore. The first few times, yes. But he has ways of… managing the pain.”

“Managing—”

“Please.” She finally met my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I knew what I was getting into. I made my choice.”

“Did you? Did you really know he was going to turn you into a—a—”

“A what? A weapon? A tool?” She laughed—a sound like breaking glass. “That’s what I’ve always been, Kvothe. That’s what women like me learn to be. The only difference is that now it’s written where I can see it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” She pulled her arm back, covered the marks with her sleeve. “I’ve spent my whole life being shaped by men. My father. My first patron. Every gentleman who thought he owned me because he bought me dinner. At least Cinder is honest about it.”

“Cinder?”

She went still.

Too still.

“You weren’t supposed to know that name.”

“I’ve known it for a while.” I kept my voice steady. “Master Ash. Lord Ferule. Cinder. He’s Chandrian, Denna. He killed my family. And now he’s—”

“I know what he is.” Her voice was sharp. “I know what he’s done. I know everything, Kvothe. That’s part of the binding.”

“The binding?”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she began to roll up her sleeve again.

“Look closer,” she said. “Really look. Not just at the commands. At the whole pattern.”

I looked.

And this time, I saw what I’d missed before.

The Yllish knots weren’t just scattered across her skin. They connected. Flowed into each other. Formed a single, continuous design that wrapped around her arm like a serpent coiling.

“It’s a song,” I said. Understanding dawned like cold water. “The patterns—they’re notation. Musical notation, written in Yllish.”

“The song about Lanre.” Denna’s voice was empty. “It’s not just a song I’m singing. It’s a song I’m becoming. Every time I perform it, every time I add another verse, another layer gets written into my skin.”

“Why?”

“Because songs fade. Memories change. But what’s carved into flesh—that lasts.” She touched one of the spirals. “He’s making me into a living record. A permanent version of the song that can never be forgotten or destroyed.”

“A weapon.”

“A key.” Her eyes found mine. “When the song is complete—when every verse is written and every pattern is in place—I won’t just be singing about the doors. I’ll be opening them. The song in my blood will resonate with the seals, and everything Lanre locked away will come pouring through.”

I felt cold. The kind of cold that starts in your chest and spreads outward until it fills every corner of your being.

“Then we stop it. We find a way to remove the binding, to—”

“You can’t.” She smiled—sad, resigned. “The binding is too deep. It’s not just in my skin anymore. It’s in my nerves. My blood. My bones.” She touched her heart. “Every breath sings the song. Every heartbeat plays another note. I AM the song now. And I don’t know how to stop.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

The fountain bubbled beside us. People walked past, oblivious to the horror that had just been revealed. The world continued, indifferent to the woman being slowly transformed into a key that would unlock the end of everything.

“There has to be something,” I said finally. “Some way to counter the binding. Some—”

“There isn’t.” Her voice was gentle. “I’ve looked. He’s looked. The magic he’s using is older than naming, older than shaping. It comes from a time when words and reality weren’t separate things.”

“Then I’ll find something new. I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Invent a new kind of magic?” She took my hand—her grip weak, her fingers cold. “You’re brilliant, Kvothe. The most brilliant person I’ve ever known. But you can’t fix this. You can’t save me.”

“I can try.”

“I know.” She squeezed my hand. “That’s what I love about you. You always try, even when it’s hopeless. Even when the only possible outcome is more pain.”

“Denna—”

“Let me finish.” She took a breath. “The binding controls my actions. My words. My thoughts. But there’s one thing it can’t touch. One thing Cinder never thought to write into my flesh.”

“What?”

“My feelings.” Tears were running down her face now. “He wrote loyalty and obedience and devotion. He wrote commands that make me serve him without question. But he didn’t write love. He didn’t think he needed to.”

“Because he didn’t think you could love anyone.”

“Because he thought love was weakness.” She smiled through her tears. “He was wrong. Love is the only thing that’s still mine. The only part of me the binding can’t control.”

She leaned forward. Kissed me.

Soft. Desperate. Full of everything she couldn’t say with words.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you. And whatever happens next—whatever I become, whatever I’m forced to do—remember that. The woman who loved you is still in here somewhere. Fighting. Waiting. Hoping you’ll find a way.”

“I will.” I pulled her close. “I swear to you, Denna. I’ll find a way to save you. Whatever it takes.”

“I know you’ll try.” She was crying openly now. “And I know you’ll fail. Because there is no way. The song is almost complete, and when it’s finished—”

“When it’s finished, we’ll deal with it together.”

“No.” She pulled back. “When it’s finished, you need to stop me. Whatever that means. Whatever it costs.” Her eyes were fierce. “Promise me, Kvothe. Promise me you won’t let Cinder win.”

I looked at the woman I loved. At the marks carved into her skin. At the impossible choice she was asking me to make.

“I promise,” I said.

But even as I said it, I didn’t know if it was a promise I could keep.

She left that evening.

Back to Cinder. Back to the lessons that were really inscriptions. Back to the slow transformation from woman to weapon.

I watched her go, and I felt something inside me harden.

Not anger—something colder. Something more dangerous. The kind of resolve that comes when you finally understand how much you have to lose.

The marks on her skin weren’t just magic. They were a message. A declaration of ownership. Cinder’s signature, written in the flesh of the woman I loved.

And I was going to make him pay for every line.

Every curve.

Every word.

I would find a way to stop him. To save her. To undo the damage he’d done.

Or I would burn the world trying.