With muddied fingers, she drew back the black strands, revealing the scars that raked down the left side of her face.
“Though it looks similar, it is not Vela’s mark,” she said thickly. “I am not cursed.”
And of all people, this woman might know. For if the Krimathean failed in her quest for that goddess, she would bear Vela’s mark—and be shunned by all. Driven from every village and city to live forsaken and alone. A woman to whom even a Nyrae warrior would not offer protection.
With the tip of her finger, the Krimathean drew a line down the outside of her cheek.
Relief lightened Lizzan’s heart. For that line was where another scar would have been, had she borne Vela’s mark. So this woman must have seen it before. So many others had not. And Lizzan had often known all the weight of the curse that she hadn’t earned.
She had been cursed. And shunned. But not by a goddess. Instead a bastard prince had been the one to steal everything from her. Her rank. Her honor. Her heart. For not all thieves skulked in the forests.
Oh, but she prayed they came across bandits soon. For now that she had thought of him, her sword thirsted for blood.