Vella faced Ashwood and his blades. Her icy-pale braids were thick and heavy, stacked on her head like a nest. Cracked white paint decorated her slender features and added more mystery than age. Black runes descended from the peak of her hairline to the undercurve of her chin and each nostril was pierced with a gold hoop.

“We bid welcome to the honorable Stav Guard of House Oleg at Stonegate,” Vella said with an airy voice. “A feast has been ordered for your men. Let us sit together and celebrate the future union of kingdoms.”

Baldur faced the elder. A clasp of silver raven wings kept his fur cloak fastened around his shoulder, a mark of his rank. Pale scars littered the edges of his face, and one front tooth was chipped. “After you, Seer.”

Ashwood shifted on his feet, but never pulled back his hood. I remained frozen, locked in a bit of fear and curiosity.

The Sentry’s hand twitched. No—his fingers moved in a deliberate pattern. Gods, did he speak with his hands? The man was known as a silent guard. I’d always taken it to mean he merely did not chatter much with others, but…perhaps he could not speak.

Baldur nodded, watching the Sentry’s gesture, then faced Jarl Jakobson again. “Our guard will take up posts at the gates during our stay. They will be scanning for weak points or potential threats.”

Jakobson opened his arms. “We are here to serve. Do as you must.”

Ashwood pulled back his hood. Wind-tossed dark hair—braided on the sides to keep the wild strands out of his eyes—fluttered around his brow where a clear welt had reddened just above his left eye.

I dug my fingers into my palms, silently pleading he wouldn’t…

He faced me, head tilted to one side, like he could hear my damn thoughts.

The wash of gold in his eyes was shockingly vibrant. Molten pools of ore that would burn should one draw too close.

They pierced through me, holding me entranced, almost like I’d seen such eyes before and merely forgot them.

But no one would forget the face of the Sentry.

Roark Ashwood was quite possibly the most captivating man I had ever seen. Tall, not overly broad, dark brows, sun-toasted skin, and a bit of dark stubble covered the straight lines of his face. A ridged scar ran from the left hinge of his jaw, over his throat, and ended across the right edge of his collarbone.

Harsh features, yet beneath it all was an imperfect beauty.

Roark narrowed his eyes into something hateful, almost violent. He knew—he had to know—I was the woman he’d faced in the Fernwood.

I held my breath, chest burning, and waited for him to look away. He didn’t. If anything, the Sentry took a step closer, a flare to his gaze, like he might see someone else besides the woman throwing bruised plums.