But I did not know how I would ever learn the truth.

My lungs ached by the time Roark paused in front of a small ring of huts tucked within a copse of aspen trees.

In the center was a fire pit with iron hooks for cooking, and casks of ale were still stacked against the mudded walls of every structure.

The Sentry pointed toward a shanty near the back edge of the camp. He pressed a palm to his chest, a signal that was his to use, and now it would be shared with…me.

12

Lyra

Ashwood pulled back the stained canvas flap that made a makeshift door over the hut entrance. His jaw flexed as he positioned his spine against the frame of the door, offering space for me to slip past without drawing too near.

I rolled back my shoulders and strode over the threshold.

The floors were made of dusty boards and cold clay. Crooked tallow candles lined a narrow table against one wall, and the bed was nothing more than a moss-filled mattress and an old burlap quilt haphazardly tossed over the top.

Ashwood shoved inside, took the ax from my hands, and stripped his cloak at once, tossing the garment over the table. He kept his back toward me.

The stance was a muted insult. I was no threat to him.

Roark tossed the ax onto the table and began removing knives and shivs from hidden pockets in his jerkin.

Disquiet twisted low in my belly. If he continued much longer, the Sentry would begin to undress.

Damn the gods, was that expected? Was my body his to use until we reached the gates of the fortress?

Kael spoke of Ashwood’s honor, but many Stav Guard would view me as a conquest, a traitor who was no more a woman than the pebbles beneath their feet.

There was no honor that went with breaking an enemy.

I studied each position of the blades. Lined with precision across the tabletop, I counted five in all, but the Sentry kept his sword sheathed on his waist.

Should he lunge for me, it was possible I could slip around him and take hold of one of the small blades. Then what? I could throw a knife with accuracy, but if I managed to land a strike, Roark wore his leather jerkin, vambraces, and thick woolen trousers.

Not to mention, the man was broad and nearly two heads taller. He would have me pinned beneath him in moments.

The sound of fingers snapping drew my gaze back to his.

Ashwood dropped his hand, a befuddled look on his features, as though he didn’t know what to make of me. After a breath, the Sentry opened his palm toward the mattress.

I swallowed the fear and shook my head.

He arched a brow, but turned to the table. Parchment tore and a few scratches of a charcoal pen returned a note.

Sleep here.