Then the guards came and escorted them through the village. Now it was Ashyn’s turn to look all about, getting a fresh picture of Fairview, should they have an opportunity to escape. Ronan did the same, but Gavril and Moria kept their gazes forward. Empty gazes, each lost in thought.

There was, Ashyn admitted, nothing to see. Even Tova and Daigo didn’t show more than cursory interest in their surroundings. The village was locked up tight. This time, no one even opened a window to peek out.

An entire village held captive. How was it even possible? True, Fairview didn’t have a garrison, but they had guards and able-bodied men. Women, too, would fight, if their homes and their men and their children were in danger.

There was no sign that the capturing force was simply too large to conquer. She’d seen perhaps a dozen mercenaries. She could hear the spirits whispering, but as always their messages were vague and unhelpful.

The guards led them into the village hall. It was a simple affair—just a long, whitewashed building. As they passed through the doors, she saw Barthol, the big leader of the mercenaries, and his confederate, the small man, Fyren. There were also four guards—mercenaries, all of them, she was sure, like the men who’d escorted them here. And the governor. He was the only one sitting. She presumed it was “his” chair, an ornate one big enough to hold his weight. But he shifted and fussed, as if he couldn’t get comfortable. Then he saw them and went still.

“By my poxed ancestors,” Fyren said, sliding forward. “They truly are alike in every way.” A chortle. “Or every way I can see.”

Ronan stiffened beside her.

Fyren continued forward. “Feast your eyes on this, my brothers. Can you imagine both of them in your bed? I know I can.”

He leered. Moria reached for her waist and stopped as Fyren pulled a dagger from his belt.

“Looking for this, pretty one?” He twirled it, metal flashing. “A lovely blade. I thank you for it.”

Moria lunged. Ashyn didn’t have time to react—didn’t even have time to see what truly happened. She heard Fyren let out a grunt, saw the blade swing, only to stop abruptly. Fyren twisted to see who had him by the arm. It was Gavril. He plucked the dagger from Fyren’s fingers and handed it to Moria. She thanked him. Ashyn looked at the mercenaries. They all stood watching, as if amused.

Gavril pushed Fyren aside. The smaller man reached for his sword, but before he could pull it out, Moria had her dagger at his throat.

“You’ve been bested,” she said. “Don’t embarrass yourself further by pulling a blade on an unarmed man.”

Snickers now, from the others.

“The girl is right, Fyren,” Barthol said. “Step back.”

“You aren’t going to let her keep it, are you?” Fyren said.