Page 10

Misha rolled her eyes with a scoff, pivoting on her heels and storming off. Iryana didn’t move. She let the echo of her sister’s words batter her.

She was still standing there when a shout from the wall drew her attention. Across the training yards, a crowd was gathering at the great wooden wall that separated the village from the cliff at the end of their hanging valley. Everyone around her had stopped as well, turning toward the gate to the Dovaki Post.

She knew it wasn’t the dakii, there were calls they used when they were under threat or attack, but something was definitely happening.

Iryana ran, passing the sparring duos and trainees, braid thumping against her back.

Nearing the gate, she could hear the crowd whispering in panicked tones.

“What if it’s a distraction?”

“What if it’s a trap?”

“Bet this will cost us.”

Iryana ignored them, making her way to the front of the group where Edvar was looking down from the small tower over the gate.

The First wasn’t there, so they all turned to her as Third. Her shoulders tensed at all the eyes on her.

“A soldier from the 18th is here, says they’ve brought something for us,” Edvar called down to her, suspicion lining his face.

“Let them in,” she ordered.

Two of the village volunteers hesitated for a moment but began opening the gate.

A tall, lanky soldier slipped inside as soon as there was room, looking warily at the guardians and villagers around him. He wore mismatched steel and leather-wrapped armor, a yellow-brown belt like the one Iryana had stored away in her room, and a bowstring and quiver draped over his shoulder.

“Mezhimar!” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning. She hadn’t seen him since right after they took control of the fort.

His long face relaxed the moment he saw her. “Iryana!”

“She is the clan’s heir,” someone snapped from the crowd. Another added, “Address her properly, soldier.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry,” Mezhimar chuckled awkwardly before clearing his throat. “Third.”

“Sen Mezhimar,” she responded just as formally, using the proper address for a soldier, though with a hint of teasing in her words.

They clasped arms.

Iryana looked around awkwardly at the disapproving looks of her kin and the villagers. A bit of discomfort rose in her.

“This is one of the soldiers that helped us take on the 18th, one of the soldiers on my team while I was with the brigade,” she tried explaining to the crowd. “He’s a better forged archer than I am.”

“But my forged bow doesn’t come strung,” he argued back, patting the bowstring slung over his shoulder, the one he had to manually string his bow with once it was formed. “And my arrows are mere wood and steel, unlike your forged ones.”

Iryana waved his compliments off. She had good control of her magic and had worked hard to form her bow fully strung and half-nocked, unlike most forged archers—guardians of her clan included—who had to string the bow once formed.

“What have you come for, Mezhimar?” She tried to block out the others. They just needed to get this over with. “My cousin said you brought us something?”

“Ah, yeah. We have a few carts of food down in the Yuresh Valley, already preserved and packed for winter, and grains. To replace the ones the late general destroyed.”

Iryana blinked. Could all their supply issues be resolved that easily?

“What’s the price?” her cousin called down from the guard tower to demand.

Iryana shot him a silencing look.

“The general is invested in our new alliance,” Mezhimar said loudly so all could hear. “He wants to ensure that not only are reparations made, but that our allies are strong going into winter. The stronger your clan is, the stronger we all are.”