‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

His brow had settled into deep, lined furrows, the creases displaying an even darker shade of green than I was used to. ‘The Steward,’ he said, refusing to use Aifric’s actual name, ‘has finally deigned to show us where we’ll be staying.’

‘Ah. I guess it’s not up to your standards.’

He glowered further. ‘It’s not up to the standards of a bedevilled newt. You are a Chieftain in all but name. To expect you to stay somewhere like that is an affront.’

I was touched that he was so angry on my behalf. Truth be told, as long as there was a bed and a lack of rats – which was pretty much a given at this time of year as it was far too cold for even their furry hides – I didn’t much care. ‘We’ll manage,’ I told him. ‘It’s not going to be for long.’

His irritation didn’t subside. ‘Wait until you see it,’ he said.

He led me through a side door and down a winding path. The competitors’ village looked rather pleasant with twinkly lights which were just coming on as dusk settled. The path was lined with trees and free from frost. Someone had been using pyrokinesis to make sure no one slipped and broke their ankle before the Games began. I wondered idly if it was Byron and then pushed the thought away.

There was a hubbub of noise from the largest of the buildings. The different Clans might be in competition with each other but there was obviously a sense of camaraderie. It would probably disappear once the competition began – and I doubted that this fellowship would be extended to me. Nonetheless, the laughter was pleasant to hear; usually the Clans were at each other’s throats, vying for a foothold in their invisible hierarchy and forming and breaking alliances here, there and everywhere. The Games happened so infrequently that maybe this was an opportunity to put aside petty expressions of one-upmanship, even if only for a night or two.

Brochan marched ahead, his clunky shoes that were designed to hide his huge webbed feet slapping against the ground. We passed building after building until most of the lights were behind us and I felt my first trickle of foreboding. Aifric was certainly making sure we were well out of the way – and that could only be for a reason.

It was another five minutes before we reached the small cabin. There was a glimmer of light from inside and I could see that the exterior was flimsy. The last time I was at the Cruaich, when I’d agreed to help save the Foinse, I’d been granted luxurious rooms. Part of me preferred this set-up – it was more honest.

Brochan rapped four times on the door, a staccato beat which we’d used for years as a code to indicate safety, and then entered with me on his heels. That was when I realised just how bad things were.