Rawhide drums boomed and tagelharpa strings plucked. Folk danced, drank sweet ale and dewberry wine. Partners kissed and rocked against walls and posts. The king and queen sat on the dais with Hundur and his frail wife, like scavengers in the treetops looking at the weak below.

Baldur had long since moved to seduce one of Hundur’s servant girls. The daughter of the Skalfirth jarl tried to draw the same attention Baldur had given her in Skalfirth, but the captain shoved her away, forcing her hips to strike the table’s edge.

From across the hall, Darkwin stood, a rage in his eyes. Edvin had to tug on Kael’s arm, murmuring what I hoped was a call to stay his temper.

If he could not, I would need to pull him away.

Baldur was an ass, but he was Kael’s superior.

I signaled to Emi to keep watch on the servant woman should the captain try to take her from the hall.

When plates were cleared and more wine and ale served, I was called to intervene more than once with drunken Stav, leaving Lyra to endure King Hundur. The Myrdan king was brisk and foul with his words when he took too much ale.

From my position across the great hall, I could make out the steady, practiced expressions she kept in place. Polite nods of her head, the occasional taunting smile, she kept the king engaged, while never needing to speak in return.

“She’s always been unique.” The bone crafter woman—Hilda, I thought—stepped to my side. She followed my gaze, grinning. “Lyra, I mean. I can’t tell if you are about to attack her, or the Myrdan king for looking at her.”

I frowned, but didn’t attempt to reply. No doubt, the woman had not learned many of my gestures.

“But I think you know that,” Hilda went on. “She was a quiet girl. A simple servant, but even as girls I told my mother it felt like Lyra was stronger than she let on, like she was bound for something more than the shores of Skalfirth. I always thought Lyra was a hidden princess, running from her enemies. I suppose, in a way, I was right.”

I heaved a sigh, hoping the woman could hear my question of what she wanted to truly say rather than attempting to finger speak and storming away in frustration when she couldn’t understand.

Hilda chuckled. “I think you’ve fallen into the pull of Lyra Bien.”

I looked away with what I hoped was a fierce expression of annoyance. Hilda was undeterred.

“I can’t blame you. But let me say this—I wouldn’t care if you were the king,” she said through a dainty sip of ale. “Should you choose to hurt her, I will manipulate that spine of yours until it snaps.”

She was…threatening me?