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The woman’s eyes stray to her unconscious cousin. “If you’re friends of Ayanleon’s, I suppose we are friends as well.”

I nod, satisfied. “Just so you know, friends don’t usually drug each other. Just a little etiquette tip for the future.”

“We had to confirm Ayanleon was who he claimed to be,” she says dryly. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And if he hadn’t been?”

She shrugs, evading the question.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

“My family’s estate in Revalane.”

“That’s fortuitous. We’re headed to Revalane ourselves.”

Knowingly, she says, “For the wedding.”

“Yes, well. Something like that.” Apparently, it’s not a secret here in Ferradelle. I turn to my sleeping companions. “Why did I wake up first? I’m smaller. Shouldn’t the toxin have hit me harder?”

The woman looks unconcerned. “You likely have Woodmore somewhere in your lineage, likely many generations back.”

Funny—Mother always assumed it was High Vale.

“Didn’t I say antlers would suit you?” Henrik groans, just waking up.

“How much of that did you catch?” I ask him, relieved he’s conscious.

“Most of it, I think,” he says groggily. The commander sits up, throws his legs over the cot, and rubs his face. “We’re going to Revalane?”

“That’s right,” the woman says, eyeing Henrik with an appreciative gaze that makes a jealous part of me stand at attention.

Henrik jerks a thumb toward Ayan. “And this idiot is truly the rightful duke?”

The elven man snorts but hides his amusement when the woman shoots him a reproachful look.

“He is,” she says.

“And you are?”

“My name is Audra Lea’ess Laviet.” She motions to the man next to her. “And this is my family’s shadow rogue—”

The man clears his throat, cutting her off.

Audra pauses. “Guard. He’s a guard.”

“I’m Lyredon,” he says.

I cross my arms as I study him. “Why did you try to spook me in the tavern?”

“I wasn’t trying to ‘spook’ you. I wanted to catch your eye. I was hoping you’d come over, and we could have a nice chat about Ayanleon.” The elf then has the audacity to chastise me, raising a brow. “Instead, you started a bar fight.”

Henrik has said little, but he studies the pair with apparent distrust.

“How did you follow us?” I demand. But before Lyredon can answer, I have an epiphany. “You were on Caldwell’s ship! Lawrence heard your footsteps the first night.”

“I paid the captain for passage—same as you.”

When I see that man again…