So the missives speak of a woman? The child who escaped was said to be a girl, more reason for greed and bloodlust from kings and queens to seek her out. Any house sigil?

It was common in the kingdoms to ink a brand below the left ear of a child by their first summer, a mark of bloodlines and heraldry for houses and clans.

One of Thane’s brows arched. “Said to be manipulated. Some of the runes were added later to make a brand of the nameless. Curious, don’t you think?”

If one wanted to hide rare craft, adding ink to a house sigil until it looked like a waif-and-wanderer symbol—folk without clans or house bloodlines—would be the wisest action to take.

“The jarl found the correspondence between the blood crafter and the scout,” Thane explained. “Of course, Jakobson now wants some sort of reward for being the township to unearth the lost craft.”

The prince went to the tall arched window, looking out at the distant wood over the walls. “My father always suspected the reported death of the girl was a ruse. You know that’s why he forced each jarldom to have a blood crafter casting their spells. After all this time, he was right. A melder has been hidden from the king. A woman.” Thane shook his head. “The first in five hundred winters, Roark. You know what this’ll bring.”

War, was all I gave in a one-handed reply.

If this report was even true, there would be new battles from the Red Ravines of Dravenmoor to the small seas of the kingdom of Myrda.

Damir would not allow anyone to take his prize again, and the queen of Dravenmoor would return for retribution for what she lost during those raids so long ago.

A melder’s craft was only found perhaps once a generation, and rarely in a woman’s blood. It was a collision of all three crafts—dangerous, coveted, and owned by Jorvan kings through treaties made long ago.

“War is certainly a risk. Which is why you’re to go to this Skalfirth village.” Thane chuckled when my mouth tightened. “The king has already arranged for Baldur to go with you. What a fortunate bastard you are.”

A soft groan breathed from my throat. Baldur the Fox was as cunning as his name, brutal but a damn skilled Stav.

We’d trained together since boyhood, but when I surpassed him in skill with the blade, he built up resentment toward me. My rank in the Stav Guard as Thane’s Sentry made me the prince’s blade, his protection; it required me to do anything to keep the royal blood in his veins from spilling, even becoming a killer in the shadows.

The Sentry was not a true leader in the king’s Stav, more assassin and brute when needed. Still, my position kept me under Thane’s word and not the king’s.