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“I have not decided.”

He muffles his laughter. “What shall I call you, if not ‘girl’?”

She does not give her name, does not want to hear it come from him, from any of them. “I’d rather you never addressed me again.”

“That isn’t a polite thing to say to your savior.”

She snorts. “You mean, my captor. And a poor one at that. Shouldn’t I be tied up?”

“It seemed unnecessary with all that snoring.”

She glances carefully in every direction, looking for–

“They are here,” he says, and holds up her weapons, miniature in his wide hands. “I’m disappointed. I thought saving you might slow your thirst for attack for at least a few more moments.”

“I’m a lot of things, but I’m not slow.”

“On that, we can agree,” he rumbles. “Where did you learn to fight?”

Dawsyn sneers, “Where do you think?”

“Who was your tutor?”

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles. “Your father then. Or your mother?” He waits, his eyes not leaving hers in a pointless match.

Finally, too tired, Dawsyn sighs. “Briar.”

“Lie down,” Ryon orders, his eyes back on the glow of embers. “You are weak.”

Weak, as though she hasn’t had the wits knocked from her a dozen times before. The warren is too small to stand, so she crawls to the fire, snatches a stick from the ground and begins stoking the twigs and bracken that lie in a heap atop the embers, suffocating them. Almost immediately, a flame licks up the stick and she continues to make room for it, setting the kindling ablaze once more.

“Who is Briar?” Ryon asks. He has a voice like thunder and it rolls around the close space.

Dawsyn only stares back.

“WhowasBriar?” he tries instead.

Dawsyn sighs once more. “She was my… mother – or guardian, I suppose.”

“Not your true kin?” he presses.

“She was true,” Dawsyn answers. “My mother’s sister, and I never knew anyone truer.”

“What happened to your real mother?”

“Lung sickness,” she answers. “When I was an infant.”

“Your father?”

“Briar’s husband – my father – went into the Chasm. I do not know of any other.”

“Did you leave anyone behind on the Ledge?” he asks in a low voice.

There is nothing in his voice other than mild curiosity, but Dawsyn still wonders why he bothers.

It’s a thought-provoking question –didshe leave anyone behind on the Ledge? Hector’s name dances on her tongue, but he isn’t hers. She isn’t anyone’s.