Before I had time to move away, Ashwood took hold of my arm and tugged me against the hard planes of his chest. Breath slid out in a gasp when he gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

He shifted my face side to side, as though inspecting for wounds, his fingers almost gentle against my cheek as he asked, Did it hurt you?

The words were formed slowly, but it was another moment where I needed little help in understanding, like a deeper part of me felt his words.

I shook my head, uncertain what more to say.

After a moment, he jerked his head toward the shadows of the wood, an unspoken command that we would return to camp together.

“How did you calm it?” I looked at the slumbering wolf.

The Sentry’s jaw tightened as he wrote in the corner of the parchment.

Fara wolves are loyal to souls who respect them. I spoke to its soul, let it trust me. Dravens are taught how to speak to fara before their fourth summer.

The soul. Draven folk used soul craft. No one ever mentioned if Ashwood had a talent with the magic, but it seemed even if he did not, Dravens knew how to communicate deeper than ears could hear.

“Are you…hurt badly?” Without a thought, I reached for the gash on his shoulder.

Roark pulled back, shaking his head.

I curled my hand into a fist and took a step back. “What is this place? There are bones everywhere.” He paused, a muscle flexed over the hinge of his jaw. He tore a new scrap of parchment and wrote—this time using my shoulder as a tabletop.

What becomes of Stav and reckless women who wander the trees and face an ambush of ravagers.

I ignored his veiled insult and took in the massacred camp once more. “Skul Drek and his followers did this?”

This was how viciously the rogues of the untouchable Draven assassin left their victims?

Roark’s mouth tightened, but he gave a rough nod.

I bit down on my bottom lip, taking a final look at the mounds of golden bones. “Do you see the glow?”

The Sentry arched a brow, but followed my gaze. Once more, he removed the parchment and wrote: A melder’s eye sees the souls that once were in the bones. Fadey could not summon the sight at will.

I rubbed the inked runes on my neck. The insinuation came out like the Sentry thought me stronger than the former melder.

With the way Ashwood held me in a constant glare, I did not think it was a compliment.

The Sentry didn’t bind my wrists, he did not level threats of maiming for my disobedience, he merely kept hold of my arm until we emerged from the harrowing shadows of the wood, returned to the ring of huts.