Ayla’s breaths were the rush of the Steorran Sea. A push and pull. Ancient, primordial. The oldest rhythm, the first song.

Blood in Crier’s mouth. Her own. The texture was different, thinner and oilier than human blood. The taste was probably different too. Ayla’s heartbeat was quickening. Crier’s eyes flew open and she watched as Ayla shifted, fingers twitching. She was curled up on her side, hair spilling across her face. There were long claw marks up and down her forearms from Rosi’s fingernails.

Ayla made a tiny noise. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Hello,” said Crier, trying not to sound hysterical.

Ayla’s brows furrowed. She blinked once, twice. “. . . Crier?”

“Yes.”

“’S going on?”

“Kinok found us. He used a fine powder to render us unconscious. Now we are in a cell, possibly in some sort of dungeon, though not too far removed from the heartstone forge.”

“Nn.” Ayla shifted again, groaning. “You talk weird when you’re nervous.”

“Do I?”

“Even more . . . formal. ’N like, detached. I dunno.”

“Oh,” said Crier, considering this. “I suppose that makes sense. It might be a defense mechanism.”

“You being nervous is making me nervous.”

“You probably should be,” Crier told her. “We’re in a very bad position.”

Ayla pushed herself up on one elbow, wincing. “Panicking won’t help anything.”

“I am not panicking. I am quite calm, actually. My heart rate is half the speed of yours; I’ve been regulating it. However, I was slightly concerned you would not wake up.”

“Kinda wish I hadn’t,” said Ayla, all the way upright now, slumping back against the stone wall. “Feels like there’s one of your giants in my head. From the story with the, the craters, ’n the gold. Stomping around. Gonna break my skull.”

“Well, you’re wounded.”

“Yeah, thanks, I headbutted a mountain. Not gonna forget that one anytime soon. Ah.” She touched her temple, looking relieved when her fingers didn’t come away red. “Horrible. All right. Do we have a plan? I’m assuming you can’t muscle your way out of those manacles.”

“I tried,” said Crier.

“Really? Wish I’d been awake for that,” Ayla said, then cleared her throat loudly. “If that’s not an option . . . then what?”

Crier shook her head. “There are no viable windows, the door is almost seamless and there’s no handle on the inside. Even if there was a handle I couldn’t reach it without breaking the chains, which we’ve established is impossible.”

“Damn. Maybe—”

“Shh,” Crier hissed, heart leaping into her throat. She could hear footsteps outside. She knew those footsteps. “Pretend you’re unconscious.”

Scyre Kinok stepped into the cell. He took one look at Ayla and said, “I know you’re awake, handmaiden.”

Ayla opened her eyes and glared up at him, the picture of defiance even chained to a wall, dried blood on her temple, covered in rock dust and bloodied claw marks.

Kinok’s eyes flicked to Crier, evidently dismissing Ayla. “Lady Crier,” he said. “I missed you at our wedding. You made a fool of me.”