“It’s not them,” she whispered. “It—it’s a—”

“Shadow stalker,” Ronan finished as he reached down for her hand. “I didn’t want you to have to see it, but now you have, so come on and we’ll get out of here.”

“But you said my father and Moria—”

“They’re gone. Not here. We should go. This one is dead, but the light might attract others.”

He took her shoulders and steered her past. “Don’t look at it. You’ve seen enough.”

If it was a shadow stalker, she should see it, know exactly what she faced. She looked. Ronan pulled the lantern away quickly. Not quickly enough. Not before she got a look at the face. It was horribly disfigured, but not disfigured enough to disguise the features. Features she knew well. A nose that had been rendered permanently crooked when a warrior tried to negotiate a better price with his fists. A mouth always quirking at the corners, ready to burst into laughter.

“F-Father?” She dropped to her knees and yanked at the thing’s tunic, ripping it open to see the scar on his chest bone. Then she screamed, a wail of horror and grief wrenched from deep inside her.

Ronan grabbed her, his hand slapping over her mouth to silence her. She fought him, kicking and twisting. Tried to bite him, too. But he held his hand there, tight, whispering, “I know, I know. But you can’t scream. You can’t. Shhh.”

She caught sight of Tova now. The hound was lying beside her father’s body, his muzzle on her father’s arm, not interfering with Ronan, just waiting, eyes pleading with her to stop screaming.

She did. And the moment Ronan released his grip, she shoved him aside and looked around. There, next to her father’s body, was what seemed like another figure. As she fell on it, she felt the soft fur underside of a cloak identical to her own.

Moria’s cloak.

She would have screamed again, if she could. But when she opened her mouth, the pain doubled her over and stole her voice.

It can’t be. If she was hurt, I would have known.

The cloak was sticky with blood. She snatched it up and—

There was nothing beneath the cloak. She scrambled over on all fours, looking about wildly. Then she raced to the sleeping mat. She looked all around it before turning to Ronan.

“She’s not here.”

He paused, then said carefully, “There’s blood on the cloak, Ashyn. Quite a lot. It was clutched in his hand. He must have attacked her.”

Her heart stopped as she imagined the scene, their father going after Moria. Attacking her. Trying to kill her. Moria going through that, alone.

No, not alone.

“Daigo wouldn’t leave her,” she said as she walked back toward the door.

“He might have gone with her, if she turned into one of those.”