“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” The prince stole a horn from the table and stepped beside me. “It isn’t as though you weren’t aware of your constant state of annoyance. It is a revel, within the gates, Stav at every door. It would not kill you to enjoy a horn or two.”

It might and that might kill you. I gestured low enough that only he would see. There is tension.

Thane shook his head. “There is always tension. We have enemies who are never appeased and will be less so the moment they discover our lovely Lyra is behind these gates.”

I started to gesture that the feeling went deeper, but Thane was pulled away by Emi to dance. Darkwin was spotted by a bold young woman who whispered in his ear, and in the next moment he followed her to the center of the tavern with other couples.

Lyra sat away from the two bone crafters, sipping on her horn. She looked back at me for a long breath, then replaced Thane’s spot at my side.

“You’ve not taken a drink of your prince’s ale, Sentry Ashwood. Not thirsty?”

All at once a thought—perhaps a memory—snapped through my head like a lash across my mind.

Shadows were thick, only the flicker of golden light from a few lanterns danced across the mossy stones of a feed barn.

Keep low. Keep down.

He’d flog me with his belt if I stepped out of line of his command. He was already in a piss-poor mood since I snuck away to join his march.

“You look thirsty. Have you been lost in the wood?”

My stomach backflipped. I whirled around, yanking a small whittling knife from my belt. I was met with dust-covered cheeks, messy soil-brown braids, and dark eyes with the faintest slash of silver carving through the centers.

“Sentry Ashwood?”

I blew out a rough breath when the memory faded and met Lyra’s befuddled gaze.

She arched a brow. “Are you all right? You looked to be in pain.”

I swallowed thickly and snatched the horn from her hand, taking a brisk drink, and gestured a rough, Fine.

Lyra pinched her lips. “Hmm. Pity.”

In the center of the tavern, a Skald was calling for the attention of the crowd. The woman’s arms were draped in vibrant linens, her head topped with a flat cap, and a spike of bone pierced through the center of her nose.

“Gather round, ye kin of the king. Hear this, a tale of a wicked queen.”

My chest tightened, but I’d learned long ago not to show disquiet. Not to anyone.

“I always loved listening to the Skalds at House Jakobson.” Lyra’s mouth raised in a smile, but when she seemed to realize it was me she’d addressed, she cleared her throat and took a step away. “They always have good tales.”