The ability to hold steady was lost on me. When I fought to keep still, my knees bounced. When I forced my legs to lock, Icracked one knuckle, then two, by my sides. After I curled my fingers into tight fists, my teeth clenched and shifted until I gnawed on my bottom lip.
Ashwood tilted his head like he might whisper something to Baldur. Instead, two of his fingers pointed to the floorboards, followed by a closed fist, then a quick flick of his thumb and first finger.
My limbs twitched as though my body yearned to run from the great hall, while a darker part wanted to reach for the knife in my boot again and ram it through as many Stav bellies as possible before they sliced through my heart.
The captain prowled around Kael. “A noble bastard, revered by the Stav Guard, and a bone crafter by blood. They named you Bare-Hands in your training.”
The sting of tears collided with the heat of the dye in my eyes. In his missives while he was at Stonegate, Kael had sounded so damn proud to earn a name. Bare-Hands, all for his prowess for fighting without a blade, for taking down man after man with only his hands.
Baldur huffed when Kael said nothing. “Your father no longer claims you. A pity, for there is such potential in you. I assume you take after your mother’s line. A respected house, am I right? Wasn’t your mother the daughter of a warrior who slaughtered no less than two dozen Dravens before the gods took him to Salur?”
“Yes,” Kael said, voice rough. “My every strength will always be credited to the woman who gave me life. No one else.”
Jakobson dipped his chin, a wash of shame on his features.
Baldur’s teeth gleamed like the fangs of a beast searching for the best way to sink into flesh. “You are bonded with the melder, but I wonder how much you truly matter to her.”
The brawny Stav Guard holding me shoved a hand between my shoulders, nearly knocking me to the floorboards.
“Leave her alone!” Kael made a lunge for me, but was pinned facedown by two Stav.
“I’m beginning to think this village breeds liars.” Baldur stroked his braided beard. “We’ve no use for such folk in Jorvandal. Burn it all.”
Shouts bled to screams when the Stav moved as one, like their limbs were connected by a rod, and gathered torches from hanging lanterns and sconces on the walls.
“Captain Baldur,” Jarl Jakobson shouted, gathering a sobbing Astra into his arms. “This was not our agreement.”
“Plans change.”
Before the guard at my back could touch me again, I rushed for Ashwood, gripping his arm. “Leave them, gods, I beg of you. I confess. I-I submit my craft, but beg of you to stop.”
Roark looked at me with potent hatred; I could practically taste the sour burn of it. He stepped closer until our chests brushed. For a breath, two, I was frozen, locked in a spell.
“Stop this,” I whispered. “Take me.”
Ashwood pulled me into him. Shoulders to hips, I was pressed against the bastard who’d caused this. I thrashed and tried to pry myself free, but where I stepped, so did the Sentry, as though he were my broader reflection on a glass pond.
Ashwood’s eyes held a new fire, a touch of warning, and gooseflesh lifted on my arms beneath his grip.
Women hugged their children to their breasts, sobbing. Men had gone for anything they could swing—stokers, carving knives, platters. Mead stained the floors, and breads and iced cakes were crumbled and smashed along tables.
Roark held up a fist and the Stav ceased their fight, wrestlingthe last of their opponents to the floor until the commotion faded into eerie quiet.
“Ly,” Kael shouted. “Don’t you dare.”
Roark adjusted his hold, so my back was against his chest.
“You want them to live?” Baldur smirked. “Then impress us, and we leave Skalfirth with no more blood.”
“How?” My breaths were heavy against the Sentry’s body.
A woman materialized from the crowd. Clad in a fur cloak hemmed in red, the attire of Stonegate bone crafters. Her golden braids were styled in a crown around her head, and her mouth set in a taut line as she paused ten paces away. The flicker of lanterns in the hall glared over the shocking blue in her eyes.
She was Draven.
There were distinct markers of the Draven people—eyes in rich shades, so bright they practically glowed, and with her hair tied back I could make out a design of a double-headed raven on her neck, a ceremonial mark I’d once read was given to every Draven child by their third summer. For each household in Dravenmoor, different symbols might be added, much like the runes inked behind my ear.
Doubtless if Ashwood tossed back his hair, I would see his.
