I swallowed, cracked one knuckle, then another. Once my pulse had slowed to a tolerable pace, I cleared my throat. “No sense in waiting.”

Roark took his place at my side once more.

“Don’t let me fall in there,” I whispered before I could think better of it. I wasn’t certain I even meant the words for Roark, but he came closer all the same, until our chests nearly touched.

For a tense, drawn-out pause Ashwood studied me, then slowly took hold of my hand, guiding me through the doors.

17

Lyra

Two guards opened the doors to the savory scents and riotous company. My stomach churned when Roark took us inside.

I anticipated endless rows of courtiers. There were few in the room. A select few Stav Guard, a lady or two in pale gowns.

Roark led us down a woven runner, hardly glancing at the others.

Despite the small numbers, the great table was topped with hocks of meat and roasted roots and nuts, and seated at the head was King Damir. Chairs down the sides were reserved for his consorts, jarls, and Stav officers. Baldur was already fiddling with a curled lock of hair on a young courtier at his side.

My steps were stiff, but I dared lift my gaze to the king.

King Damir shared the same storm gray eyes as his son, although his hair was paler and speckled in silver strands. His beard reached his chest, braided in two, and three bone shards pierced his ears on each side.

Rugged and handsome like his heir, but there was an emptiness in his gaze, like he’d long ago lost the light his son still kept in his own.

The king rose, a tall drinking horn in his grip, and watched our approach.

Roark dipped his chin in a bow of respect. He did not gesture to the king, did not sign a word, merely nudged the small of my back until I stepped forward. Damir’s gaze was cold, but the warmth of his smile fought to find a balance.

I mimicked the Sentry and dipped my chin. “Highness.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Lyra.”

“What is your house sigil? Full name, girl. Or shall I look to the runes you have marked on your neck?”

My palm covered the altered symbols behind my ear. Air grew hot; walls were too near, too confined.

Roark came to my side, the storm in his eyes flashed like a summer squall.

Against the slope of my spine, his fingers moved. Slowly. It took half a breath to realize he was speaking. Small movements I’d studied on the ship, in the stack of parchment he’d sent, in the memory of his bones in my mind.

Don’t fall, was all he said, again and again, ensuring I got his message.

My insides cinched. Don’t let me fall.