Lyra fiddled with a snag in her shift when silence thickened. “May I ask how you were injured?”

I tapped the side of the mug for a long pause. My people.

“You said that, but how?” Lyra’s face wasn’t one of pity, more of anger. “How could they do such a thing to a child?”

Nightmares, strange memories, more and more of the night my standing in my own clan shifted was returning. I did not recall much, and wasn’t certain I wanted to know every dark truth of the raids, but I remembered enough to know Dravenmoor paid for those raids in blood.

I replied slowly. I made a fatal mistake.

Her eyes narrowed.

I shouldn’t speak on it. There was no need to give up bits of a past so few knew. I kept going anyway. Cursed marks are carved when a clansman dies by another Draven’s hand, or a betrayal is committed. I was accused of both.

“You were a boy, surely nothing was intentional.”

It was not seen that way.

She wanted to ask, I could see it in her eyes, but Lyra dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, as if biting the question off before it could form.

I brushed a hand over her shoulder, drawing her attention.

I do not recall everything, the mark—I gestured at my scar—is a curse in a way and must have shadowed memories. But as time goes on, I recall more. One of my choices caused the death of the Draven prince. Where blood is taken, blood is given.

“The prince?” Lyra fiddled with the end of her hair. “Thane said you were found at Stonegate after—wait…you were found after the raids.”

I looked away. It was foolish to be speaking of this when so much was at risk, when I was half-convinced my nightmares of a silver-eyed girl in the darkness might be more than a dream.

Lyra drew in a sharp breath. “Roark, you were in the craft raids as a boy? Weren’t you?”

I told you, I remember little but—I hesitated, my hand stilling in the air—I remember smoke, blood, and screams.

Her chin dropped. “So do I. When I was taken from Skalfirth, small moments from the raid started returning. Mostly in dreams.”

My stomach tightened. A muscle pulsed in my jaw. Why were we both all at once recalling moments of that bloody night?

“I’m not sure they’re even real,” she said. “But I remember my father. He…he had dark eyes and a deep laugh.” The corner of her mouth curved into a small smile, but it faded swiftly. “I remember the heat of fire on my face, and I think someone pulled me from the longhouse. I don’t know, but since using my craft, slowly my mind seems to recall horrors it wanted to forget.”