“Don’t.” Kael squeezed my arm. “It isn’t on you. I promised to keep your lies, and death isn’t a sturdy enough threat to change that.”

I rested my cheek on his brow, listening as the bone crafter went on with her instructions.

“You may know me as Emi Nightlark,” the Stav Guard said.

Draven clans took odd surnames. Ashwood. Nightlark. Thorian explained to me that every Draven young one took a piece of the earth in their names—from the wood, the plants, the sea, the creatures—as a way to keep their souls connected to the wildlands where they lived.

Emi cleared her throat and went on, “I have lived in Stonegate since my fourteenth summer, and I understand what it is like to sit where you are.” She hesitated. “So take my words and know it is not so dreary. This is not the end of your life, but there are expectations to remain safe within the gates.”

“Nightlark isn’t horrid, Ly,” Kael said, hoarse and strained. “I met her, sparred with her. She did this under a direct command.”

“She should have refused the command.”

“Lyra.” Kael sighed. “If not Emi, it would’ve been a blade from Captain Baldur. She even whispered to me before she used her craft that she would not let me die.”

My anger at Ashwood, at Stonegate, at my own magic made it impossible to have a glimmer of appreciation for the woman. Kael and his endless optimism softened the disdain, but still I did not understand how another crafter could stand watch as families were torn apart.

There were means of surviving, then there were acts so vicious it would be better to die before committing them.

Emi described the trek to the gates. It would take long enough we would make camp in the wood before reaching the keep. From there we would be brought before the king.

A simple life, a purposeful life, that was how Emi described our new futures. Like all this was fated to be.

“For our journey,” Emi went on, “you will be expected to learn a few hand signals Sentry Ashwood will use often.”

Roark narrowed his eyes, but didn’t move, merely took us in like he could not decide if we’d be better off in chains or drowned at the bottom of the sea.

Emi held up her palms, slowly moving through a few commands Roark might use on our journey and expected us to recognize.

To ask us if we were in need of aid, he would cup his palms and draw them toward us like a supplicant seeking food or coin. To signal an approaching fight or for us to take up blades, we’d watch for crossed wrists.

To claim something as his—a strike, a kill, a horn of ale—Ashwood tapped whatever he wanted three times.