I kept my head down and raced for the tree line. At my back, the hiss of steel slicing through the air was met with snarls and the rustle of leaves.
I raced behind a thick oak and pressed my back to the trunk, drawing in deep gulps of air. A wash of guilt stirred in the pit of my belly. Roark Ashwood was the Death Bringer, a brute and heartless fiend for what he’d done in Skalfirth. Still, part of me did not want to see the man torn apart by a wolf.
When I looked back into the clearing, my pulse stilled.
Ashwood had one open palm on the top of the wolf’s head. The beast was on its side, ribs rising in steady breaths, and its eyes were…closed.
As though the Sentry’s touch had lulled it into a deep sleep.
Unaware of my scrutiny, Roark leaned forward, his hands making an arrow point shape on top of the wolf’s head. The Sentry pressed a kiss to his hands over the crown of the wolf, then rose to his feet, sheathing the curved blade on his outer thigh.
By the endless gods…
Roark strode through the darkness, furious gaze on my tree, as though he were part of the mists. His hair was damp and his bare chest was coated in dirt and a splatter of blood from claw marks across his upper shoulder.
Once he reached me, anger flashed in his eyes like hot coals. Roark gave me a rough shake before releasing my arms. He twisted his knuckle to the side of his head—foolish—but he did not cease his silent rage. His hands spoke in rough gestures, some I had memorized, most I could not follow.
Strange, but I yearned to curl away beneath the shouts ofhis silent language more than if he screamed the words in my face.
After a breath, the Sentry tossed his hands over his head, frustrated, and dragged his fingers through his hair.
In slower, steadier movements Roark made simple gestures for my benefit. The message clear—I could have died here.
“I wanted to see Kael,” I said, voice soft and broken. “I…I didn’t mean to go so far.”
Ashwood closed his eyes for a breath, then lowered to a crouch, one knee bent. He tore out parchment from the pouch on his belt and penned a response. With the glow from the piles of bones, it was not so hard to read.
You were nearly killed to soothe your own worries. Darkwin and the crafters are unharmed. If you die on the journey, the king’s wrath will be theirs to shoulder.
Tears of anger burned behind my eyes. “They do not deserve it. Let them go. They are innocent here.”
Roark snatched the parchment from my hands and wrote against one of his palms.
Cease your childish naivety, follow my damn commands, and you all might live longer.
Before I had time to move away, Ashwood took hold of my arm and tugged me against the hard planes of his chest. Breath slid out in a gasp when he gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
He shifted my face side to side, as though inspecting for wounds, his fingers almost gentle against my cheek as he asked,Did it hurt you?
The words were formed slowly, but it was another moment where I needed little help in understanding, like a deeper part of mefelthis words.
I shook my head, uncertain what more to say.
After a moment, he jerked his head toward the shadows of the wood, an unspoken command that we would return to camp together.
“How did you calm it?” I looked at the slumbering wolf.
The Sentry’s jaw tightened as he wrote in the corner of the parchment.
Fara wolves are loyal to souls who respect them. I spoke to its soul, let it trust me. Dravens are taught how to speak to fara before their fourth summer.
The soul. Draven folk used soul craft. No one ever mentioned if Ashwood had a talent with the magic, but it seemed even if he did not, Dravens knew how to communicate deeper than ears could hear.
“Are you…hurt badly?” Without a thought, I reached for the gash on his shoulder.
Roark pulled back, shaking his head.
I curled my hand into a fist and took a step back. “What is this place? There are bones everywhere.” He paused, a muscle flexed over the hinge of his jaw. He tore a new scrap of parchment and wrote—this time using my shoulder as a tabletop.
