Someone jerks my scarf off my hair. I’m instantly on my feet, the dagger hidden within my wrist guard sliding into my hand. I freeze at the sight of Jonyah. How had he sneaked up on me?

“It is you!” he snarls. He would be handsome if his face weren’t always twisted into an ugly sneer. The firelight from a lantern casts copper tones in his dark hair, which he has freed from its usual braid. “Pray the Twins favor you, if you’re here for the reason I think you are.”

When I don’t shrink back, the muscles in his neck go taut. His hands lift, fingers flexing as if he’d like nothing better than to throttle me.

“And what reason is that?” I ask coolly. We’re far from the Company and anyone who knows who we are. Since he’s hardly going to report my disrespect without giving away his own little adventure here, I can speak to him however I wish.

When he doesn’t answer, I lean my hip against the table and ignore the way my thighs protest. I pretend to study the blade of my dagger, which glows faintly orange from the firelight. I stole it from the armory two years ago. Kendara doesn’t always warn me when she’s sending me off into danger, so I try never to be unarmed.

Jonyah grips my forearm, yanking me far too close for my comfort. His grip is bruising, the only sort of grip he’s capable of, I suspect. I almost smash my fist into his face.

Instead of replying, he spits out, “What are you up to?” His reluctance to name his task irritates me, because it proves he did learn something from Kendara.

“What do you think? Work it out yourself,” I say and then casually withdraw the note from my pocket.

Jonyah goes still. The brief flash of alarm on his face is almost comical. But then he laughs, the sound abrupt and harsh.

“You’re one of her pupils? She must have been desperate. You’ve lost, Tshauv Taws. She’s going to choose me.” He spits at my feet. “Because I’m better than you in every way. My name, my station, my skills.”

My nails bite into my palms. Tshauv Taws. In old Evewal, which is taught only to reiwyn, it means “ashes.” Saengo told me after the first time he’d called me that. It’s a translation of my last name, Ashwyn, which isn’t a true Evewynian surname. The monks gave it to me at the orphanage as an unsubtle way of saying I come from no one and nothing.

Despite the insult, he’s unwittingly revealed what I’ve been desperate to know since reading the note—Kendara hasn’t yet named him her apprentice. I haven’t lost everything. Not yet. “She doesn’t care about any of that.”