So assuming she knows about me, what would she gain from having me attacked? She’s made me into a traitor and a spy, and she’s all but set to go to war with the Empire.

But there has to be more to it than that. There are better ways to start a war than to target one lowly wyvern in the Queen’s Company. And the fact I’ve learned all this since leaving Spinner’s End makes me realize Ronin is either keeping the information from me—highly likely—or he isn’t doing as much as he can to investigate the matter.

Four pairs of eyes watch as I lean against the wall, and I realize I’ll have to figure this out later. Right now, my focus needs to be on the shamanborn.

Their appraising looks take in my general state. Although I’m tired from the journey south and I’ve barely slept in days, I’m obviously not a former prisoner. I’m lean, but that’s from rigorous training, not malnutrition. My clothes are wrinkled and dusty but not threadbare. These four wear clean but ill-fitting clothes, either stolen during their escape or provided after their capture.

“Hello.” I pitch my voice low so that the guards down the hall won’t hear us.

The keys to the cells currently hang on the other side of the barred door separating the offices from the cell area. I have no idea how I’m going to get them. It’s a pity Phaut isn’t here. Her craft could bend these locks easily enough.

“You’re not from the Valley,” one says, a woman with brown skin and sapphire eyes.

I explain in hushed words why I’ve allowed myself to be captured. They look increasingly skeptical, bordering on pitying. They probably think I’ve lost my mind, and I can’t blame them. Prince Meilek has already put a dent in my plans by taking my pins, and if even he can’t help them, what good will a random stranger possibly be?

“I’m Kudera,” the waterwender says. She nods at another shaman with light skin and black curls that tangle around her shoulders. Her eyes are purple amethysts. “This is Maiya. The little one is Morun, my brother.” She touches the shoulder of the boy, who doesn’t look much older than eight. His eyes are still gray.

“I’m Nong,” says an older man with graying hair. Deep lines bracket his mouth and carve the skin around his eyes. “How have you avoided being imprisoned in the labor camp?”

Their trust has been broken enough without me lying to them as well. But the truth isn’t yet something I want to reveal. “I’m sort of new to all this.”