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“Why tell you? We were to part ways when we reached Terrsaw. You’ve been trying to do so ever since. There was no need to burden you with information.”

“Brave and sweet.” She sounds anything but charmed. “And what other information did you fail to burden me with?”

His chest falls in readiness. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what everyone hides. I want to know why everyone talks to me with guilt on their tongue, like they are indebted to me. Why do they grovel at my feet, give me their possessions, offer to keep me? Why do the Queens fear me? Why do they donothingto help those on the Ledge?” Dawsyn presses the tip of the poker, now cooler, once more to Ryon’s throat and leans in. “So, tell me what they did, Ryon the Glacian. Tell me how my people came to be herded into a prison while the rest prospered here on the ground.”

Ryon’s stomach churns. She knows. She has already put it together. He can tell by the slight quiver in her voice, the glistening in her eyes. Already, it hurts her. But she is owed the answer nonetheless even if it is not he who owes it.

“Because fifty years ago, Queen Alvira made a deal with the Glacian King,” Ryon tells her, watching the words strike like daggers to the chest. “Because she sold King Vasteel a village of humans, free for the taking, and in exchange, Vasteel agreed to leave the rest untouched.”

The pressure from the poker subsides as Dawsyn’s hand slackens. “The Fallen Village. Alvira sold them?”

“Yes.” He hates the word.

“And did the rest know?” she asks, a tear slipping free from its hold. “Did all in Terrsaw know our people would be taken to the Ledge?”

Ryon reaches to her cheek, his thumb sliding beneath her eye. “I do not know.”

Her eyes press shut for a moment, as though erasing what she knows, but when they open again, they are drier, clearer, and she pushes his hand away. “Then, I’ll find out myself.”

She lifts her body from his, her feet thudding as they hit the floor, and whirls. She snatches a pair of trousers from his mantelpiece and pulls them on viciously.

Ryon follows her out to the hall, wholly aware of the poker still clasped tightly in her hand. Dawn light leaks into the stairwell. He can hear the first stirrings of Salem in the dining room downstairs. He’ll be preparing the food for the day. Esra will be by the back door, unloading milk and eggs and meats and never-ending liquor supplies. He’ll also have several short swords, bows, and arrows hidden beneath the crates on his wagon, waiting for Ryon to steal them away.

Dawsyn’s feet thunder down the steps. She does not bother to hide the sound. He follows in the same fashion, readying himself to come between her wrath and his friends, if he must.

The flats of her hands crack against the dining room doors, and they fly open. Ryon winces – it took over an hour to repair them after the Glacian raid. The sound of the frames banging against the walls draws Salem and Esra from the storerooms to the bar. Their eyes are alert and wary, searching for the threat. They find Dawsyn stalking toward them, poker in hand, her face deadly calm. But the twitch of her fingers, the very ends of her hair, spark with rage. It is palpable, scenting the air in the room. She is a storm above them, roiling, finding its mark.

“Miss Dawsyn, what is it?” Salem asks. His eyes dart from her to Ryon.

Ryon nods slowly, his eyes beseeching both him and Esra to tread carefully. It is all the warning Salem needs. The man has been telling Ryon since he arrived at the inn that this very day would come to pass soon. And that when it did, she would be lost to him.

Salem faces Dawsyn head-on, sighs heavily, and says, “I’m sorry, lass. I regret how it was.”

Dawsyn’s voice trembles. “How was it, Salem? Did the rest of Terrsaw lock their doors and board their windows while my grandmother’s village was flattened? Did your kin know they would come and burn children alive in their beds? Did they cover their ears and turn their heads?”

“I was a young boy then, lass. My kin, all of Terrsaw – no one speaks of it.”

“Tell me if Terrsaw knew!” she shouts, her voice slicing the stale air. “Did they know the Queen had doomed the village? Were they in favor?”

Esra shrinks back, his eyes welling. “The common people didn’t know about the deal until it was too late, Dawsyn.” He hesitates. “But the court, the noble class, the guards? They knew. They agreed to it. There was a vote, and the village was taken overnight.”

Dawsyn’s eyes squeeze shut again, tears freely sliding down her cheeks. Salem and Esra make to move, like they would console her. But the poker in her hand is still raised, and her rage is so potent that it repels them. Instead, they wait, wring their hands, and pale with anticipation.

“Why is she still their Queen? If the common people had no hand in it, why do they allow her to rule?”

“Fear, Miss Dawsyn,” Salem says. “They might not’ve liked the deal – and some wanted her killed because of it – but the alternative meant offerin’ their own neck to the blade, an’ in the end, people ain’t so noble. Easier to disapprove in silence, build shrines, an’ pray their guilt away. She has her hand in the Glacian King’s pocket, love. No one is willin’ to cut off a hand like that.”

“Including you?” Dawsyn spits, her face reddening.

Esra ducks his head, his own tears falling, and Salem nods reluctantly, his remorse plain.

“Aye,” he says. “Includin’ me.” The last word breaks as it leaves his lips.

A sound of breaking leaves Dawsyn, too, and for a moment, she is utterly still.

Ryon steps toward her, her pain striking him. “Dawsyn?”