I’d barely met my twelfth summer when word filtered into Dravenmoor that the house of a new melder had been found. Distant memories of my folk strapping their longbows and seax blades to their shoulders still haunted my nights.

That raid was when I made a deadly misstep and lives were lost. Not long after, for my mistake, my folk left me for dead outside the walls of Stonegate, and the unexpected mercy of a young prince kept me breathing.

This woman—Lyra—had no sense of how soon her craft would be exploited.

“Sentry.” A young Stav clicked his heels, drawing to stiff attention at my side. “Do we take them all with their households?”

The great hall fell into chaos and cries of folk pleading for the bone crafters to be left in peace. Darkwin was breathing, but bloody and still. Lyra called his name, each time her voice cracking a little more. On the opposite side of her, the two spare crafters reached for their families.

Perhaps they were innocent and knew nothing, but the laws of Stonegate gave Damir the power to take from traitors as he pleased, and the king always demanded every drop of magical blood be claimed.

I made a swift gesture. Leave them. Only crafters.

The Stav swallowed, then dipped his head and aided his fellow guards in tearing the man and woman away from their families.

“No!” The melder tugged against the guards, but her eyes found me.

A muscle flexed in my jaw, but I ignored her pleas and pushed my way through the chaos.

All at once, Darkwin thrashed in his own blood on the floorboards. Blood from the wound had stopped flowing, but his body kept convulsing.

“Help him!” Lyra twisted in Baldur’s hold. “Remember, Sentry Ashwood, if he dies, then you have nothing. I swear it.”

The blaze in her eyes sealed her threat. She’d send herself to Salur, no doubt.

When Baldur signaled for Emi—the bone crafter who tore Darkwin apart—I gripped his shoulder, shaking my head.

Emi’s face had gone paler than it already was, and she was unsteady on her feet. Her damn craft had a bite to it. For bone crafters, the cost of manipulating in such a way caused phantom pains to burn in their own bodies.

No doubt, Emi’s limbs and ribs were lined in discomfort, but I knew her—this unsteadiness rose from something else.

When we were alone, she would spew her rage for what I’d made her do.

Baldur shook me off and shouted at a young Stav. “Seal the wound tight enough he makes it to Stonegate to face the king.”

The guard knelt beside Darkwin, wrapping clean linens over the split skin.