But the building is dim, and warm, and all but empty.

There is only one man inside. Theophrane, the head blacksmith. He sits surrounded by his tools, as if he’s built a nest of them. They’re in no fit state to be used, all jumbled up, but he does clutch a punch chisel like a dagger. It would do some damage, if he lunged.

“Get out,” the blacksmith says.

She ignores him but keeps her distance, gasping for breath as she shoves the door closed and leans her whole weight against it. She locks gazes with the blacksmith, daring him to argue as the beasts outside hurl themselves against the wood.

He doesn’t, but he doesn’t lower the chisel, either. Soon, sooner than Voyne would have expected, the thuds slow, then cease.

Easier prey outside, perhaps.

He waits until she’s eased up against the door to demand, once again, “Get out, Ser Voyne.”

He knows who she is. He knows to be afraid. He’s hiding, trying to defend himself, and—

And that means that he’s not under their sway.

She lifts her hands, hoping to gentle him. “You’re safe here?” she asks.

His throat works. He lifts the chisel up a little higher. “Not if you’re in here with me.”

She sinks down to one knee, hands still up. “I just need space to think. I will not harm you.” She scans the room. It’s steady. Nothing spins. The world has reasserted itself, and she lets out a low, helpless moan, fisting her hand against the floor. “Out there, I—”

“You’re one of them,” Theophrane says.

And there is the memory: the lead-up to the feast, before Voyne found Phosyne huddled below the keep. There were so many who needed to be brought to the table. She had honey for so many of them.

Her beestings itch. They throb. There is blood beneath her nails, too. Jacynde’s blood.

Theophrane’s blood, before.

When she looks back up at him, she can see them, the purpling bruises on his face, his throat. She dragged him out of this building, threw him down, ordered him to eat. His fellows had held him, then, when she left to resume her patrol.

“I wasn’t myself,” she protests, half apology.

He doesn’t care. She can’t blame him.

“And you won’t be yourself again soon enough,” he mutters. He is so thin. He is starving. He doesn’t look at all like the people out in the yard.

“Did you eat?” she asks.

He grimaces. It bares all his teeth. “They tried to make me.”

“But?”

“But it all came right back up. It turned to ash in my mouth.” Theophrane hesitates. His beard has gone patchy over the last six months. “Maybe—maybe it would’ve been better if it hadn’t. I wouldn’t know, then, would I? What’s happening out there?”