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“I am proud of you,” Petter said. “I will save you a seat with us in the great hall, my boy.”

Ari, my Golden King, cried for his father. He pleaded, he raged, he asked forgiveness over and over as the Ravens lifted their swords and slaughtered Petter and a man at his side. They never stopped until blood soaked the grass and heads were piked in front of the last surviving boy.

“Let him rot for a few sunrises,” the lead Raven barked. Darkness coated his body, shadows and hatred. I could almost make out the damn battle lord in the cruelty of this moment.

The Raven gripped Ari’s chin and forced the boy to look at him. “Then it’s his turn.”

“Now’s our chance, little one.”

I spun around. A skinny boy was there. Stefan. He didn’t look old enough to grow a beard.

This tale was important. Deep in my soul, I knew this path of fate would guide us to the end, to the missing piece of my whole soul. But it would fail to take shape if I didn’t move and save the boy tied to that tree.

We kept to the thick trees of New Timoran, resting briefly behind thick ferns during the night, and before dawn we sprinted toward the hidden refuge of Night Folk rogues.

“Got anything to shield us?” Stefan asked. “They’ll cut us down if we’re not careful.”

Rogue Night Folk did not hesitate to kill outsiders, even young ones. I removed a slip of rice paper from my tunic and used a stick of charcoal to write a shield of protection. Using Stefan’s lit paper herb roll, we burned it to ashes.

Somewhere in the trees was a comforting song. A voice that matched the words on the paper. A promise of protection.

Stefan told me to stay down, then climbed up one of the trees near the tattered archway of Ruskig. He tossed a pebble. “Oi!”

An old man with tangled hair over his shoulders and a beard to his chest stepped out. He yanked a curved knife from his belt. “Get down here, boy.”

“There’s a Night Folk house near the docks under attack. Killed ‘em all. Only the boy’s left. He’s a fighter, but they’re slitting his neck in two days’ time.”

The man narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “That so? Who is he?”

Stefan peered down at me. I closed my eyes.A bright king. He was a bright king for . . . someone important, but . . . not yet.

For now, he was a boy of House . . .

“Sekundär,” I hissed back to my brother.

“House Sekundär.”

“I know that house.” The old man’s face sobered. “Once a royal cartographer for House Ferus.”

He took a few breaths, then whistled to hidden rogues in the shadows.

“Klock, what is it?” One man said gruffly.

“Gather the people. Night Folk in the vales are under attack.”

As the fae assembled to go after the tortured son of House Sekundär, the low melody in the shadows grew louder. I wanted to run toward it. I wanted to touch the one to whom it belonged. Time was running short.

Stefan climbed down, and before Klock and rogue Night Folk could catch the feral children in the trees, we sprinted deeper into the wood, their shouts at our backs.

Deeper and deeper we ran, until Stefan cried out when the earth gave, dropping us into a pit. Silky webs coated our faces. Hairy, bulbous weavers hissed and spat, attacking the intrusion to their peace. When I should be horrified, I fell into a sense of calm.

Stefan winced when one of the poisonous creatures bit at his throat. His chest rose and fell in rough breaths. “Until the . . . the next tale.”

I whimpered when the light faded from his eyes and his chest stopped rising.

“Whisper . . .” It took a moment, but soon my body warmed, as though someone had wrapped me in furs. “I miss you.”

Do you know me?