I spun into her. Most might cower, maybe back against the wall, but not Hilda. She took another sip, pinning me in her gaze over the rim of her horn.

“I wouldn’t be alone,” she whispered. “Kael admires you and all the Stav, but Lyra is his sister in every way that matters. She is like a beloved niece to Edvin. We are watching you closely, Sentry Ashwood. Do not hurt her heart, or yours will stop beating.”

For speaking in such a way, I could have the woman’s flesh flayed from her bones, her naked body strung up in the square for townsfolk to mock and bruise with rotted pomes.

Hilda was no fool; she knew the risks and spoke her words anyway.

I should’ve penned a response—I always carried charcoal sticks and parchment for such an occasion—I ought to remind her of her place, of my interest in the melder being nothing more than obligation.

I did none of it, merely lowered my chin in a subtle nod.

Hilda grinned and patted my arm. “Good. Enjoy the revel. It is in your honor, after all. Threats aside, I have no words to convey my gratitude for your part in restoring our family.”

My lips parted in a bit of stun when she sauntered away. A heartfelt thanks and soul-deep vow of death and gore in one conversation.

Hundur’s barking laughter drew my attention back to the high table. The Myrdan king was chortling at one of the jesters tossing platters atop a long spinning rod, but Lyra was gone.

A touch of frenzy took hold as I scanned the hall until I caught sight of her intricate braids and the pale skin of her thigh showing through the dangerously high slit in her skirt.

I’d be certain to send Súlka Margun a basket of the finest silk threads for her contribution to Lyra’s attire by week’s end.

Lyra shifted, giving up that the sod, Tomas Grisen, had trapped her in conversation near the back doorway. The man was a bastard who thought himself equal to a prince in Myrda.

As though she could sense my glare, Lyra looked over her shoulder. Those warm eyes locked with mine.

Just a duty, a purpose.

That was all she would be.

The thought was potent enough, I tasted the lie on my tongue.

Have you seen Lyra? I patted Kael’s shoulder when the crowd in the hall had thinned. Damn Baldur tried to drag me to a room with him and a Myrdan man and woman. His drunken request drew my frustration long enough that when I looked back to the hall, Lyra was gone.

Darkwin’s eyes were rimmed in red from too much ale. A Myrdan courtier had her slender arm around his waist, keeping him steady.

“Say again?” He squinted at my hands.

I let out a rough sort of growl. Lyra?