I kicked a pebble from the forest path, frowning. I didn’t need to keep down, but that’s all anyone ever told me to do.
I was old enough to fight with the damn clan, and tonight I’d prove it.
From a small leather scabbard on my waist, I removed my father’s old whittling knife, etched with runes and a double-headed raven on the blade, and slashed at the low-hanging branches.
My foot caught on a gnarled root, and I toppled—head over foot—down a lumpy slope, landing in a heap with a cough and groan.
“What’s a boy doin’ out in the trees? Don’t you know the drums sounded? They’re barring the gates to town.”
A hand touched my shoulder and I scrambled backward, sloppily holding the knife out in front of me. This was not my fate. Nodamn enemy clan would slit my throat without me drawing a bit of blood first.
“What’s the matter with you?” she snickered.
A…girl? Oh, by the gods, no. I was not—in any of two hells—dying because of somegirl.
“You look thirsty.” A hand touched my shoulder. “Have you been lost in the wood?”
I spun back toward the hill, knife outstretched, and met her eyes. Dark and bright all at once. There was a shock of silver through the centers. The color we needed. The color that meant an end to war.
But it was more. The first look at her stole my breath, the same that happened when stupid Gunter rammed his fist in my belly last week in the sparring circle.
This time it didn’t hurt. This was warmer, like waking after the dawn to the full sun. The knife in my hand lowered.
Until the screams began…
I snapped awake, sweat onmy brow, pulse rapid in my skull. I blinked against the gray light of my chamber, screams and smoke and blood in my ears and on my tongue.
With a silent curse, I kicked off the furs and sat on the edge of my bed, threading my fingers through my sweaty hair.
A damn nightmare was what brought down the Stonegate Sentry. Pathetic.
Silver scars. I dreamed of Lyra, but…as a girl. Through the mind of a boy.
I dropped my palms and let my head fall back, face pointed at the thick rafters overhead.
The rank ceremony had to be the cause. Soul bones left me in disquiet for days, waiting for blood to follow.
I slumped forward, leaning onto my elbows over my knees, and caught sight of something pale beneath the crack of my door. A missive.
The wax seal was Thane’s symbols—stag antlers behind the white wolf. I scanned the prince’s steady writing, my blood heating with each word.
Damn you, Thane. The coward of a prince must’ve delivered this several bell tolls ago. He’d slipped out of the gates, bound for a ride in the wood with half a dozen Stav Guard. Bastard had the audacity to tell me not to feel a drop of frustration or anger at his recklessness of leaving the fortress.
There was nothing else to feel.
I crumpled the parchment and threw it at the wall.
Thane oftentimes forgot I was duty-bound to keep his precious royal head atop his shoulders. But to leave the walls without warning, this was a deliberate attempt to give me no choice but to wander, fret, and curse his name until he returned.
He thought it was a kindness, a way to give me some respite, but waking to the missive left a darkness in my chest, a dread that prickled over my scalp. Wretched things happened after a melder used craft. Thane knew my beliefs on this, but did not feel the same.
I felt out of control and I could not rid myself of the tension ofwhyand what might come of it.
Sleep evaded me and my temper heated the longer I paced my chamber.
Soon enough, I bit into a strap of leather, securing it around one wrist, and trudged toward the training field off the east wing of the palace.
Long lines of racks with silver-bearded axes, longswords, seax blades, bows, arrows, and throwing knives were there for the taking. Wooden round shields all bore the white wolf of Stonegate and the clank of dull steel over the boards echoed across the morning mists.
