Roark said little and was never unaware. Still, when the trees tangled in leafy canopies overhead and chirps of forest birds sang out in the distance, Ashwood seemed at ease, like he could breathe easier.

It must’ve been the Draven in him.

We descended a few rocky pathways that carved across the hillside like jagged claw marks.

Until we faced a flat pebbled ledge. Roark paused and, without looking at me, held out a water skin for me to take.

Gods, the man was a conundrum. One moment his eyes were bright and heated, like he had a soul of passion buried beneath his scowls. Next, he was cold as a frost storm in the jagged peaks.

I snatched the skin with my tethered wrists and tilted the spout to my lips. With the back of one hand, I wiped away the dribble and followed Ashwood’s stare.

Fifty paces down the hill was an arch made of thick slabs of stone and oak beams. The gates towered higher than ten men standing one on top of the other. The front entrance was blockaded by an iron portcullis, and watchtowers guarded every curve. Beyond the gates were dark speckles of homes, shops, and the gabled palace in the center.

“Stonegate,” I whispered.

Roark let out a soft breath and stepped onto the wider path that would lead down to the gates.

Hillside cottages and hunting cabins tucked in tall grass and trees materialized as we walked farther.

A few folk loitered about, noticing the commotion as we marched past their huts. The Stav were greeted with murmured respect and a few fists to the chest. I stepped closer to the center of the path, and stumbled over a stone. The Sentry caught me under the arm, steadying me against his own body.

All the gods. Chest to chest, I could feel the thud of Roark’s heartbeat against my own, I could make out the sharp edges of the scar that dug across his throat, and I could breathe in the leather and oakmoss on his skin.

It took a few moments to readjust, but the instant we were parted, the frigidness of the Sentry returned. He took hold of the chain between the irons on my wrists and urged us forward.

When we were on level ground, Stonegate appeared even more formidable than from above.

The journey from the sea was rocky and jagged, but trade roads webbed across treeless knolls on the back borders of the keep. There, carts and caravans could wrap around the dirt paths to the entrance and join the market square.

Parapets and arched walkways connected stone walls to more stone walls. Stonegate was an endless maze of gates and towers.

All at once, the reality of what this meant crashed over me like a slab from the walls surrounding the city.