Her cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean tonight. Just . . . sometime.”

Another absent nod.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For saving me. Again.”

He shrugged, his gaze surveying the empty plain. “You saved me, too.”

It wasn’t the same. She’d simply alerted him to danger.

He continued looking about the plain. Ending the conversation. He was tired, and she was distracting him from guard duty with meaningless chatter.

She started walking away.

“You seemed to know what that thing was,” he said without turning, as if he hadn’t noticed her leaving.

“A death worm,” she said.

He glanced at her, his expression blank.

“Like in the old tales?” she said.

He eased over, as if making room for her. When she took a cautious step closer, he shifted more.

“Not many bards in my life,” he said. “Or time for tales.”

“Moria’s the expert. Shadow stalkers, death worms, corpse dragons, fiend dogs, thunder hawks . . .” She lowered herself beside him. “She loves monster stories and grisly stories, and she tells them to the village children. She says she does it to get rid of them, but she knows they love it, and they love her for it. They follow her around hoping for more.”

“I wager they do,” Ronan said, as if he, too, would follow Moria for a story. “So she’s the one who told you about these . . . death worms? That’s what they’re called?”

Ashyn told him what she knew, then said, “I’ve never heard any other story mention the part about chewing through rock. I suspect that’s one of Moria’s embellishments. It doesn’t make nearly as good a tale if the monster can’t actually get you where you live.”

He chuckled, then sobered. “The Wastes are lava. The rock doesn’t go down forever. They must be living under it, and they come up in the sand if they hear someone.”

Ashyn shook her head. “Death worms aren’t real.”

“That one looked real to me. Felt real, too.” He touched his chest and winced.

“I mean they aren’t supposed to be real. Just like shadow stalkers. Something or someone has brought them to life.”

Ronan frowned. “How?”

“Sorcery.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Ah. Of course.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“That depends. Are you serious?”

She started to stand up, but he caught her arm.

“I didn’t mean to mock you, Ashyn. It’s just . . . sorcery? I suppose in a place like Edgewood they still believe in that sort of thing. Old superstitions.”

She glowered at him. “And how would you explain it?”

“Do we know for certain that these creatures don’t exist? Perhaps it’s just that no one—”

“If you say that no one who sees them ever lives to tell the tale, I’ll scream. That’s what my sister always says.”