“You should be begging me for mercy,” he growls and then backhands me again. My teeth cut the inside of my cheek, and I taste blood. I pretend to sway to disguise the movement of my wrists against the rope. I’ve gotten far worse than this.

With a jerk of my head, I toss back the loose hair that’s fallen across my eyes. I spit blood onto his boots. His face goes tight with fury. There’s a kind of freedom in defiance, in being released from every restraint, every expectation. But I would gladly embrace those restraints again if it meant having my place with Kendara back.

He bends over and snatches his dagger from the ground. He presses the dagger to my throat, beneath my left jaw. “Where’s your familiar, shaman?”

“Probably dead from the rot,” one of the others offers. “She hasn’t used any magic yet. No familiar means no magic.”

When I don’t respond, Eyebrow Tattoos’s gaze flicks back to me. “I should kill her. Queen Meilyr might grant me a title for it.”

The soldier who tied my hands snickers, but the archer looks uncomfortable. I hold Eyebrow Tattoos’s gaze, unblinking. I wonder what he sees in my eyes, now amber like gemstones. Whatever it is, it unnerves him, because his hand quivers. My neck stings as the blade breaks skin. I grin, baring my teeth, which are bloody from my split cheek.

Fear glimmers inside me, startling the smile from my face. Yet somehow, I know it isn’t my fear. I’m not afraid. I’m bitter, determined, and enraged. But not afraid—at least not of these soldiers. The sensation is more an echo of the emotion, not strong enough to truly take shape inside me.

Saengo calls out, “Leave her alone!”

All three turn to her. Although I’d prefer their hostility remain directed at me, I immediately resume the work of freeing my hands. I’ve lost count of the number of ways in which Kendara has tied me up and left me somewhere highly questionable.

Although Eyebrow Tattoos watches his companions circle Saengo, he keeps his blade against my neck. The archer abandons his bow for closer torment as he fingers the feathers in Saengo’s hair. Her lip curls in disgust as the third soldier coils Saengo’s heavy black braid around her hand and jerks her head back sharply. Rage—and that inexplicable echo of her fear—brightens inside me.

“Wyvern, is it?” the soldier says. “Once my friend there finishes with the shaman, you’ll be coming back with us to be tried as a traitor. You don’t deserve a braid.” She steps away, but only far enough to slice her sword through Saengo’s hair.

Saengo’s shock ripples through me as her mouth opens on a soundless gasp. She reaches up, her fingers stiff with horror as they touch the blunt ends of her hair.