The group stood before the gorge of cliffcrawlers. Five made jokes, despite his shaking hands, Six and Dog as steady as ever. Together they tried to think of a way to get through safely.

In the Ygrex nest, Six tossed her axes to her, relief written over his face as Dog faced off against the creature.

Oakhammer leered down at them and the group stood before him, their fledgling trust in one another shredded.

“I hope she’s already dead.” Resentments surged with the lodge in sight. Dog leaped between them.

Twelve felt the Croke’s concentration grow sharper and the whirling thoughts slowed. Twelve relived again her fight with Six, wincing beneath the remembered blows and Dog’s misjudged bite. The Croke pored over this until the pressure in her head was so great, Twelve felt sure her skull would crack. Then, abruptly, it began to ease. The flow of images slowed to a trickle as the Croke made to slip out of her mind. A final image of Sharpspark, the firesprite, speaking to her rolled past. “You are different from them,” he said.

Something about this caught the Croke’s attention and suddenly it was back in full force, examining her memories of the firesprites. It rolled them back and forth like marbles until it found what had happened in the cliffcrawler gorge. Again and again, it replayed that scene; Six screamed her name, Sharpspark threw a handful of flame at her, and burning gold sparks appeared from nowhere to engulf him. Her fingertips throbbed with heat, and the rage she had felt flooded her again.

The Croke’s attention shifted. Seemingly random memories flashed before her, emotions washed through her until she was sure she would vomit and then, just when Twelve thought it couldn’t get any worse, the Croke found what it was looking for.

A fire burned and she sat silently before it on the grass, legs crossed, back ramrod straight. The moon shone down coldly and a breeze swept through Poa. Doors creaked and shutters rattled. She hadn’t bothered closing any of them: there was no one left to care.

Behind her, a great mound of fresh-dug earth stood sentinel. Her arms still shook with the effort she had expended in digging, moving the occupants, filling in the cold earth again. She hoped it was deep enough. Black dirt streaked her face and crusted thickly beneath those of her fingernails that were left. The mound whispered for her to look at it, but she resisted, tried not to think of the soil weighing on eyelids, filling mouths. She shivered in spite of the fire and wondered if the tales about wraiths were true.

She was exhausted but sleep was unthinkable. Her fingers toyed ceaselessly with one of the arrows and she examined it again by the firelight, taking in the taut leather fletching. She placed it carefully on the fire and watched it burn.