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I pry one eye open partway, but the world is blurry. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on a wooly sheep, and when I try to talk, all I manage is a string of gurgled words.

What’s wrong with me?I think sluggishly…and then I remember the dart. The wretched elfpoisonedus.

Finally, my open eye focuses on the pair in front of me. The two elves kneel a few feet away, studying me with matching scowls. The woman is beautiful in a classic High Vale way, with sharp features and sage green eyes. Half of her light ash brown hair is braided back, and the rest falls in a straight sheet to her waist. She appears to be close to my age, but there’s something intimidating about her.

She tilts her head to the side as she studies me, and her brow creases. “Though you feel a bit disoriented now, the toxin wears off quickly once you wake. You should be fine in a moment or two.”

“Who are you?” I say thickly, my mouth not responding as it should. I move my jaw from side to side, realizing my cheeks are numb. With great difficulty, I lift my fingers to my mouth and prod my lips.

I lie on my side, with my face pressed onto a soft blanket. The room is white, with muted sunlight shining in from the windows. It seems we’re in a home of some sort…but we’re moving. I can feel the vessel rocking in water, along with a forward movement.

I try to wrinkle my nose. When it works, I do it again. At least something is responding.

“Are you all right?” the woman asks, looking as if she’s trying not to laugh.

Though I attempt a response, the words come out slurred.

“I think she’s still a bit numb from the toxin,” the man says.

“You,” I say, enunciating as carefully as possible, “followed us.”

“I did,” the elven man answers, lacking any sign of remorse.

Up close, I can tell he’s a little older than the woman. He, too, looks mildly amused, though not necessarily in a hostile way.

Whoarethese people?

Finally, the feeling begins to return, and I’m able to twist my head. “Where are the others?”

“They’re here,” the woman says just as I locate the men myself.

They lie on cots, asleep, still under the effects of the High Vale’s toxin.

Panic flutters in my chest when I realize Henrik’s sheath is empty. My eyes fly to the others. Lawrence’s blade is missing as well, and Bartholomew’s short sword is gone. Ayan’s been stripped of his dagger, and my bow and small knife are nowhere to be seen.

But as concerning as the loss of our weapons is, there is a more urgent matter.

“Where’s Pranmore?” I demand.

“Pranmore?” the woman asks curiously.

“Our Woodmore!”

“YourWoodmore?”

“He’s our friend,” I snarl, whipping back to glare at her—or attempting to. The movement is slow and awkward.

“Woodmores are immune to the slumberweed toxin. He’s resting elsewhere, mourning the loss of a journal or a book or…something. I didn’t quite catch what it was.”

“It’s a journal,” I say hotly. “And what did you do to him?”

The blond-haired elf’s expression becomes rather exasperated. “In his panic, he slipped from the boat and nearly drowned in the marsh. I saved him—you’re welcome.”

“Why did you abduct us? If you expect us to do manual labor, I’m afraid you picked the wrong bunch of humans. I only dug my first hole a few weeks ago, and I didn’t even do a good job.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “We haven’t captured you as slaves.”

“Then why?” Suddenly my foggy brain remembers the subject of their conversation when I was just waking. “You’re bounty hunters, aren’t you? You want Ayan!”