Noises and smells are everywhere. Laughter, wailing, chewing, mead, sweat, leather.

Awkwardly, I walk over to my sister. The broadsword weighs me down heavily on my left side, and I have to adjust my stance accordingly. When I finally reach Temra, I hover at her shoulder. That brings the gazes of the others at the table straight to me.

I stare at the back of Temra’s head, willing her to do something. Anything.

She reaches up, grabs my arm, and yanks me onto the chair so that half my rump is balanced in the air. And then, as though Temra’s acceptance was all they needed, whatever conversation I’d interrupted resumes.

“As I was saying, Kellyn is a fine swordsman, despite being so young. There’s talk that his father was a weapons trainer in the late king’s castle, but that could just be a rumor.” The man speaking pauses to take a hefty drink from his cup.

“But honestly, that’s the least of his fine qualities,” one of the girls says. She and the other woman at the table turn toward a corner of the room.

I nearly choke on my own spit.

Golden-red hair. Tanned skin. Longsword at his back.

It’s the stranger who helped me create the sword. I wanted to touch him, and the blade ate up the secret, giving it power.

Secret Eater.

The name comes to me all of a sudden. Normally, I leave the naming of weapons up to my customers, but this one is now my burden to bear.

My thoughts circle back to the mercenary Temra wants to take with us on our journey. Kellyn. He already has a connection to the sword. Either it’s a sign from the Sisters that he’s our best option on our journey or that I should keep him far from the weapon.

“We can’t use him,” I say after leaning in toward Temra.

“Do you see any other options?”

But he’s going to remember me, and it’s going to be awkward and—

For Temra, I have to do this.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go talk to him.”

Temra gives me an irritated glance. I think she’s upset over how I chastised her for sneaking out. As if I’m the one in the wrong here. “You can’t just walk up to someone like that, Ziva. We need to wait for the right moment.”

I watch as Kellyn raises a cup to his lips and throws his head back. Half the contents spill down either side of his face.

“He’s drunk!” I exclaim.

“Of course he is. This is a tavern.”

“And this is a terrible idea.”

We watch as one of the men seated next to the mercenary says something, the sound lost in the cacophony of other voices. But whatever he said Kellyn doesn’t like, because he tosses his tankard right at the man’s face.

“Oh dear,” Temra says.

The man opposite Kellyn draws his blade and tries to skewer the mercenary to his chair. Kellyn dodges just in time, finding his feet.