“We think she was taken,” Victory continued. The weaponsmaster turned back to Twelve, saw the sudden trembling in her fingers. “Are you all right?”

For a moment, Twelve couldn’t speak, could only picture Seven as she’d last seen her, offering a smile of encouragement as Twelve followed Silver down into the dungeons. The kind of smile Twelve rarely returned.

“I . . . yes.” Her mouth felt as dry as a desert. “What happened? How did they take her? And where?”

“We don’t know,” Victory said slowly. “You said the one called Morgren had magic. The goblin mages used to be notoriously powerful, but still . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “I must go and report this to the council. Your testimony is vital.”

Before Twelve could respond, the weaponsmaster whipped around and strode away, her boots ringing on the flagstone floor.

Twelve’s troubled gaze traveled the room. Where was Seven? Worry buzzed like a hive of bees under her skin.

Victory’s words echoed in her mind. Goblins. Kidnap. Magic.

If what she had seen in the dungeon was so important, then shouldn’t she be telling the council herself?

Her eyes met Widge’s and she made up her mind. She should. Yes, she definitely should. She threw back the fur and stood unsteadily. The floor seemed to tilt under her, but she made her way to the door and wobbled down the stairs. Widge chittered encouragement on her shoulder, his claws digging in hard when she swayed.

The training ground was a shock, almost unrecognizable after the destruction wrought on it. The ogres and the winter wolves were dead, the smell of blood thick in the air. The only things still standing upright were the Hunters frozen by the Grim and the Grim itself. Twelve’s heart nearly stopped when she saw it, until she noticed the bronze sword through its chest. It was dead, turned to ice just like its victims. She kept her face averted from the other slowly melting ice statues, but her grief for Silver still howled inside her.

Choking down a sob, Twelve hunched her shoulders and hurried to the Great Hall. Before she even reached the doors, she could hear voices raised in argument.

“Snickering snarrows!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Elder Hoarfrost. “This ain’t the ruddy floating market, Cirrus. No need to yell like that!”

“Excuse me,” sputtered Cirrus, “but there certainly is! Victory is right: the Guardian should be tracking the girl right now. Every moment we lose light and she gets farther away! And if goblins have taken her . . .”

“Aye,” Hoarfrost said. “If goblins have taken her. Guardian, what say you?”

“My place is here,” a strangely deep and gravelly voice said. “Our walls have been breached. Never before has this happened. There may still be danger.”

Twelve stepped closer to the enormous doors, cracking one open just enough to peep inside. The Hunters’ backs were turned to her as they gazed at the stone Guardian.