A boy, really, only a little bit older than Thorn. His dark-brown hair looked like a seaweed mop against the gray of his skin. Strange splotches clustered across his arms and face. It almost appeared as though someone had covered their hands in ash and then pressed their fingertips against his skin. He looked terrible, but the boy wasn’t dead. He shivered violently as the healers bundled him up in a thick quilt. They slung him onto a stretcher and ran past Claire and Thorn and into the dark of the healers’ building, but not before Claire caught a glimpse of the boy’s eyes.

His eyes. She wrapped Aquila’s arms around herself, trying to stop the cold that had suddenly shuddered through her. They’d had no spark to them. It was as though a wall of ice had been built between his thoughts and the world. He’d seemed trapped within himself. The passersby murmured to one another as they stepped back onto the street and resumed their business, but Claire couldn’t get her feet to move.

“What—what happened to him?” Claire whispered. She hadn’t been screaming, but for some reason, her throat felt raw.

“Wraith attack,” Thorn said, his voice flat. “That’s what untreated wraith-burn looks like.”

Now Claire understood why the boy had been shivering. She’d faced wraiths before. Their long limbs and sticky shadows were what nightmares were carved from, and Claire had felt their cold seep into the pit of her stomach, wrinkles of her brain, and holes of her heart. Each time, though, she’d managed to get away from their grasp. Each time, Sophie had saved her. If Sophie hadn’t been there … Now it was Claire who was violently shivering. She might have ended up like that boy. Or Nett’s parents.

“She’s sending a message,” Thorn said. “If they don’t give her the Hammer Tine, the wraiths will continue to attack.” There was no need to say who the she was.

“The grandmasters,” Claire said. “We need to talk to them. Now.”

Thorn nodded and broke into a jog.

Alkaline’s Kettle was at the far edge of town, where Fyrton’s buildings butted up against Mount Rouge. Like the rest of the shops and taverns, it, too, had a hanging sign, this one a wrought-iron teakettle, with a swooping A in the center.

“Ready?” Thorn asked, and when Claire nodded, he pushed open the swinging doors.

Claire’s first impression was of a hunting lodge. Vaulted wooden beams arched over several round tables, and servers bustled from table to table, taking orders and carrying silver platters piled high with tankards and steaming bowls. Large iron lanterns dangled from the ceiling, casting the diners in an orange glow, which was further emphasized by the reddish rock of the farthest wall. Half of Alkaline’s Kettle was actually carved into the mountain, making use of its sturdy base.