Sconces marked the posts at the docks. The grim light played games with shadows, sprawling haunting shapes across the sails and hulls of the Stonegate longships.

One bitter tear dripped down my cheek when I took in the smooth, ashy stones of the Skalfirth beaches. I looked to the inky night sky bright with crystalline stars, to the crooked points of rooftops, then to Thorian’s battered fishing nets. Hillsides and trees loomed around me like haunts in the darkness, watching as the village was torn apart.

“Lyra! Kael!” Selena sobbed on the path leading to the docks. The Stav Guard shoved her back into the crowds.

“Sel.” My voice was a broken croak, too soft for her to hear.

Doubtless Selena took note of the wretched way my features contorted in fear, in pain, for she pressed a hand to her heart and did the same. She fell to her knees, pleading to the gods, who ignored us.

“You heartless bastard,” I seethed at Roark.

The Sentry spun me around, pinning me to his chest. We were close enough, I had to tilt my head back to meet his stare. One of his palms cupped the back of my neck, squeezing until I stiffened beneath the grip.

For a drawn-out pause he held us there, nose to nose, then slowly pressed a finger to his lips. A command to keep silent and there was no mistaking the threat in it. His patience was spent.

Two longships bobbed in the tides. Clinker-built hulls bulged in the middle and were painted in the seal of Stonegate—a white wolf’s head in front of a round shield and sword.

Most ships in the Skalfirth fjord came for trade, fishing, or passengers, and were fitted for only fifteen to twenty oars. These ships were built for battle and had places for sixty oarsmen.

My toe caught on the lip of the rail, but Roark caught hold of my hand.

I despised how warm his palm was against mine. There was an unwelcome gentility in the way he helped me over the rail of one longship, and I hated him all the more for it. Bruise me, batter me, be the creature I believed him to be. Kindness had no place in his actions.

When my feet were firmly planted inside the ship, I glared at Ashwood on the dock.

This was done under his command. Baldur shouted the orders, but the Sentry was to blame.

Another shoulder struck mine. Hilda, trembling and tearful, was shoved next to me. On the shore, Gisli, her husband, fell to his knees, a palm to his heart, like it might be breaking free of his chest.

This was wrong. Hilda had done nothing but carry bone craft in her blood.

Because of me, families were being ripped apart.