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“Oh, you aren’t? Then pray tell—what are you?”

He raises a brow. “I’m actually the rightful heir to the High Vale dukedom.”

Henrik snorts out an unexpected laugh, delighting me. The soldier and I exchange a look, and I grin when I turn back to the elf. “Of course you are.”

“No, it’s true,” Ayan says flippantly. “I even have the written will and testament of Augmirian Argald Woldervin III to prove it. Or I did…at one time.”

I turn to Gruebin. “Were you aware you’ve made the mighty heir to the High Vale throne your thrall?”

“He’s mentioned it,” Gruebin says dryly.

“So you’re—what?—Duke Augmirian’s older brother, lost at birth?” I ask, playing along.

“It’s far more scandalous than that, my fair maiden. I am, in fact, Auggy the Short’s half-brother, younger by several months,illegitimately born.”

Incredulously, Henrik says, “And yet the duke would choose you as his heir?”

“Appalling, isn’t it?” Ayan says brightly.

Obviously, we’d have to be fools to believe a word of it, but there’s no reason to argue with the elf, especially now that I spot Pranmore walking to our table.

I rise, wincing as my arm throbs at the sudden movement. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he assures me, and then his attention moves to Ayan.

The two elves assess each other—Ayan with amused interest and Pranmore with distaste. It’s no secret there is little love between the two races, similar though they might be.

Deciding to ignore Ayan altogether, Pranmore touches my arm. “If you are finished eating, let me attend to your wound.”

Happy to escape the squirrel banquet, I follow Pranmore away from the tables. Henrik ends up behind me, but Bartholomew stays with the gnomes.

“Will he be all right?” I ask, glancing back at the young man.

Henrik nods. “They have no reason to kill us now.”

“If they kept Ayan alive all these months, they’re more tolerant than I first believed.”

Henrik shakes his head, looking heavenward. Apparently, the gnomes are more tolerant than Henrik, too.

Pranmore leads us to a quiet area near the gnomes’ small orchard. Nearby, a lantern glows, just bright enough to illuminate the growing night. Now that the sun has set, the air is cool and growing colder.

I’m thankful I won’t have to sleep outside tonight, even if it means I must share a cottage with Maisel.

“Remove the sling,” Pranmore instructs. “I’ll let you undo the bandage as well.”

He draws in a concerned breath when he sees the injury anew, and he shakes his head. “This might hurt a bit.”

“It’s all right,” I assure him. “It can’t be worse than Maisel’s ministrations.”

But actually, it can.

I gasp when he presses his hands over the wound and the tendrils of his magic begin to prod raw places.

“Perhaps you should sit,” Pranmore says sympathetically.

“All right.” Feeling rather dizzy, I clench my eyes shut and lower myself.

“No, not down there,” Pranmore says. “I won’t be able to work on the ground. Henrik, can you pick her up? We need to stay by the light.”