Behind me, I hear the heavy bar drop across the door.
Good. She follows orders when they make sense.
The corridor ahead fills with the clash of weapons and the screams of wounded warriors.
Civil war has come to Ironhold.
And I’m about to discover who among my captains has been planning my destruction.
FIVE
ZORAYA
The sound of shattering glass still echoes in my ears.
I stand in the center of my chamber, staring at the arrow embedded in the wall where my head was moments ago. Black-fletched. Professional. The kind of shot that doesn’t miss unless the target moves at exactly the right moment.
My hands shake despite my efforts to control them. The sewing awl weighs nothing in my grip, needle-sharp point barely the length of my thumb. What good is a seamstress’s tool against trained killers?
Heavy footsteps in the corridor outside grow closer, accompanied by the scrape of boots on stone. They stop outside my door.
“Zoyara, are you hurt?”
I know without a doubt it’s Vlorn and open the door.
Blood spatters his armor—dark stains that gleam wet in the firelight. His great-sword drips with it, crimson droplets hitting the floor with soft sounds that make my stomach lurch. But his expression is pure fury, amber eyes blazing with rage that has nowhere to go.
“You didn’t catch them.” The words come out steadier than I expected.
“No.” That single word carries enough rage to shake the stones. His scarred hands tighten on the sword hilt until his knuckles go white. “The bastard knew the fortress layout better than some of my own warriors. Knew exactly where to run, which passages to take, where to disappear.” He sheathes the blade with a vicious rasp of steel against leather. “Someone in my own clan guided them.”
The weight of that settles between us. Not just an assassination attempt—betrayal from within. Someone who eats at his table, follows his orders, swears loyalty to his banner, just tried to have me killed.
And probably him too, eventually.
I set the arrow on the table with deliberate care, fighting to keep my voice level. My fingers tremble, and I don’t want him to see how badly shaken I am. “How many others are involved?”
His voice grinds out the words. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out. And when I do...” He doesn’t finish the threat. The blood on his armor speaks for itself.
Before I can respond, he’s moving with sudden purpose. Gathering my few possessions—the dresses and sewing kit from the trunk. His movements are efficient, controlled, but underneath, I see barely leashed violence looking for an outlet.
“What are you doing?”
“Your quarters are compromised. Someone with access marked your door, knew your exact position, coordinated this attack with inside knowledge.” He straightens, my belongings bundled in his massive hands. “You’re moving. Now.”
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to project confidence I don’t possess. “Where?”
His burning gaze meets mine, unblinking, predatory. The firelight dances in his eyes, making them seem alive. “My chambers.”
My stomach drops, followed immediately by heat that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “Absolutely not.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t care what it was.” My heart hammers so hard, I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
Something flickers across his scarred features—amusement, maybe, or satisfaction at my defiance. “You’ll sleep wherever I can protect you properly. Someone just tried to put an arrow through your skull, seamstress. Until I root out this conspiracy and crush it, you stay where I can watch you.”
“I’m not a child who needs watching.”
