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I grinned at Ikard. “What about between the shoulders?”

“Suits me. Sit and tug down the dress a bit.”

Eyes tight, Roark stepped between Ikard and me, waiting for the man to stand back before he unlaced the back of my gown, just enough so the top of my spine was exposed.

“Your jealousy is going to get folk killed,” I murmured.

Not jealous. The corner of his mouth curved when he spoke with one hand. Protective of what’s mine.

The final tap was soft against my cheek before Roark took his place in front of me.

I would not whimper in front of the entire hall of Dravenmoor.

I. Would. Not. Whimper.

With every notch of the iron and ink against my skin, I repeated the words. Ikard was skilled at his trade, but no amount of gentility with the spike and mallet would ever make new ink comfortable.

It took another bell toll before Ikard stepped back and asked for the prince to inspect his work. Roark’s callused fingertips traced the edges of my sore flesh, and he gave a nod of approval.

“Fits you, Ly,” Emi said, beaming.

“I would’ve gone with mischief or something there on the final mark,” Gunter offered. “But perhaps your house doesn’t have the stomach for any more trouble.”

“What are the runes?” I asked.

Honor, wisdom, bravery, and cunning. Roark pressed a kiss to my shoulder, then took hold of my hand, drawing us toward the front of the dais.

Those who observed cheered while others lost themselves in their cups or returned to feasting.

For a moment, this hall, these people, it felt a bit like a…home.

The doors banged open. A formidable hush fell across the feast. Two Dark Watch warriors, windblown and weary, shoved into the hall. Heavy steps and long strides had both men to the dais in moments.

“My queen.” One man dipped his chin. “Scouts have brought news from the borders.”

My heart leapt to my throat.

Elisabet clasped her hands in front of her body. “What’s happened?”

The second guard cast a hesitant look toward me and Roark as his companion hurried on.

“The Jorvan king is dead.” Gasps echoed against the rafters. The guard swallowed and went on. “Our folk tell us the Jorvandal Stav Guard search for the melder along the ravines, not for use of craft, but because she is the king’s killer.”

23

Roark

The two Dark Watchers dipped their chins and stepped back from the dais in the same moment the hall burst with shouts and inquiries, even a few cheers.

Lyra was frozen where she stood, her skin flushed the same shade as the irritated redness around her new sigil. Her expression was one I recognized, the look of fright buried beneath a mask of calm. One she wore when too many found her in a crowd and left her wanting to fade into the shadows as she’d done all her life.

I slid my arm around her waist, a cold burn along the scar on my throat. No mistake, the fear of some voices collided with the violence in my soul, waking the need to destroy anything—anyone—to keep Lyra breathing.

And I was not alone.

In front of the dais, Auki took a stance beside Emi, one of his throwing knives spinning in his grip. Gunter (still eating a slice of herb bread) sneered at our folk like he was readying to play some sort of bloody game, and Brynn stroked the raised hackles of her fara.

“Is this enough, my queen?” In the back of the hall Sampson stood. At his side, his wife desperately tugged on his arm. He shook her off.