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JAX

A few minutes ago, I was glad we were alone, cloaked by shadows and silence. It took me forever to find the nerve to grab hold of Tycho’s armor, to press my mouth to his, but I’ve hardly seen him in days. He sat there speaking of concern for my honor. He pulled the pin from my hair. The sky was fully dark, the soldiers were tucked away at the camp, and Tycho was right in front of me, smelling like oranges and leather. We were alone, and I was no good.

Now I’m regretting the solitude. I’m regretting my inexperience. Because a real soldier would be a hell of a lot quicker with a bow and arrow.

As it is, the scraver rips Tycho away from me, and I lose a moment to shock before I remember I’m armed. Tycho is swearing, struggling against the scraver’s grip, and the creature makes an inhuman sound that hurts my ears. The scent of blood flares on the air, causing a visceral reaction in my gut. Soldiers are shouting near the camp, but I have no idea what they’re saying. They’re too far to help anyway.

Then I have an arrow nocked on the string, and I’m drawing back to shoot.

It’s so dark. All I see are wings and shadows, and I can tell they’re rolling, fighting, tussling. Tycho’s voice breaks off on a sound I don’t ever want to hear again.

But I hold the arrow. I can’t see. I don’t want to hit him . I don’t know what to do. I might have the gear, but I’m not a soldier. Sweat erupts between my shoulder blades.

Then they come to a stop. Tycho isn’t swearing anymore. He’s not moving at all. The scraver has him pinned to the ground, and it rears back, claws ready to swipe through his throat.

I shoot.

The arrow snaps off the string and goes right into the scraver’s chest, hitting with enough impact to shove the creature sideways. In the dark, they could almost look human, those dark wings barely more than a shadow. But the screech that comes from its throat is so inhumanly shrill that I want to cower. Several horses break free from the tether line and bolt.

I have another arrow nocked already, and I shoot again. This time the scraver collapses to the ground, silent.

I’m breathing hard, my heart pounding in my ears. Tycho still hasn’t moved, and I’ve completely lost track of my crutches. I have to crawl to him.

Blood is everywhere, on his armor, on his face, in his hair. His armor seems to be hanging loose at the shoulder. I don’t think he’s breathing.

Then the clouds shift, and a bit of moonlight peeks through. I can see the reason for the blood. Claws have ripped across the side of his head, tearing through his ear, his cheek, into his mouth. His other arm is a shredded ruin where it wasn’t covered by armor. The scent of blood is so thick in the air I can taste it, hot and metallic.

I choke on a sob. “Tycho. Tycho. ”

He doesn’t move.

He’s forbidden to use his magic, I know. Does that mean he might not have used it in time to protect himself? Could he be dead?

The thoughts are too terrifying to contemplate, and I don’t have time to think about it anyway. Another screech pierces the night above me, but I’m ready. The wind feels like ice against my skin, but I don’t care. An arrow is nocked, and I’m firing as soon as my eyes lock on the motion. One shot, two. Swip, swip.

This scraver drops with a heavy thump , landing somewhere distant in the grass.

But then I hear words on the air, and the sound is odd, almost like a thought instead of a voice.

— You heard Xovaar. Find the magesmith.

Xovaar. Is that a name?

Find the magesmith. Are they looking for Tycho? Or the king?

More screeches erupt overhead, but now soldiers are responding, and the shouts have drawn closer. More arrows are firing from the other side of the tether line, the screeches of the scravers cutting abruptly short. Winged bodies fall to the grass.

I look down at Tycho and choke on a sob again. I turn my head and shout for soldiers.

“Help!” I call. “Help me!” But I realize I’m shouting in Syssalah, and of all the words they’ve taught me, help hasn’t made the list.

I look down again and press a hand to Tycho’s cheek, which is wet and tacky with blood. “Please,” I whisper.

And then I notice that his cheek is whole , when a moment ago, it wasn’t.

As I stare, the rest of the injuries begin to heal as well, his arm knitting back together, the gash through his scalp sealing over, leaving nothing but blood, his magic responding to put him back the way he was. After a moment, he draws a ragged breath, and his eyes flutter open.

His expression twists with fury, and he shoves me away with surprising strength, flinging me to the side. Claws graze my cheek, then my shoulder, and then I hit the ground, just as Tycho draws a blade and slams it into the scraver that was descending on us both. The creature collapses on top of him, claws digging at the grass, but I can tell it was a killing blow. The efforts are futile.

Tycho grunts underneath its weight. “Help me, Jax.”

I shove it off him, but it takes longer than it should. My left arm doesn’t want to work. Tycho is gasping, but he pulls the blade, then stabs the creature again.

This time it goes still for good.

He pulls the dagger free again, then wipes it in the grass. Wind is still whipping across the fields. Half the horses are panicking, dragging at the tether lines, while dozens seem to have broken loose. The clouds have shifted again, and moonlight reveals the wash of blood across his face, the streaks through Tycho’s blond hair. We’re both on our knees, breathing hard, looking in all directions, waiting for another attack. The wind might be ice cold and brutal, but the screeches have gone silent now, the only sound coming from the shouting soldiers who seem to be heading this way.

Tycho’s fingers brush my shoulder. “One of them got you.” Without warning, pain flares in my arm, and I nearly jerk away.

“Wait,” Tycho murmurs. “It only takes a moment. You remember.”

I do. In fact, the pain is already subsiding, easing away as my own injuries heal and dissolve into nothing. I swallow, and the touch of his fingers turns into a caress against my arm.

“Where else?” he says, eyeing me critically. His hand lifts to my face, where the claw marks are already beginning to sting.

I try not to flinch when I feel another flare of magic. “But—but you’re not supposed to use—”

“Jax.” He gives me a look. But the shouts have gotten closer, and soldiers are suddenly pushing past the tether line, carrying torches and weapons and enough righteous rage to fight a war right here. Tycho’s hand drops away from my face before he heals much of anything at all, and he shoves to his feet, holding out a hand, all brusque duty now. Just one man offering another a hand up from the battlefield.

I can’t lock away emotion so quickly, and it doesn’t help that I can’t understand half of what the soldiers are saying.

They’re afraid, though. Afraid and angry. I hear it in their voices, see it in the flickering shadows that dance across their eyes. Some of them are splattered with blood, too.

They see the bodies of the scravers we killed, and the blood sprayed across Tycho’s armor. It’s all over me , too. Voices raise, men looking to the sky, pointing at me, at the camp, at the loose horses. I don’t see anyone I know, and I can only pick out random words, and nothing makes sense. We’re not under attack by scravers anymore, but nothing seems better .

“What are they saying?” I say desperately. “Tycho, what are they saying?”

“They don’t know why the scravers attacked.” He speaks quickly, his voice a low rush, because soldiers are moving closer. “But three men are dead. Maybe more. They think the creatures might have followed you from Briar—”

A soldier snarls something, cutting him off, and Tycho takes a step forward, blocking the man from getting in my face.

Then, in a move that surprises me but shouldn’t, Tycho puts a hand on the man’s armor and shoves him back.

I don’t need to speak Emberish to know it’s a little too rough, a little too much , especially right now. I forgot how keyed up he was when I saw him walking toward the prince’s tent, when he looked ready to pick a fight with anything upright and breathing. He all but growled at me when he found me waiting with Mercy. As soon as Tycho puts his hand on this soldier’s armor, I can feel it, the snap in the air that predicates a fight. There’s an indrawn breath, a ripple of tension that spreads. Tycho has drawn himself up, and my own shoulders go tight. There are so many of them. I have no time for fear, just action.

But just as quickly, shouts erupt from the back of the group, the clear sound of orders being given. Soldiers begin to fall in line, snapping to attention.

These words don’t need any translation, because I’ve heard them a hundred times by now.

Make way for the prince.

Even the men who seemed ready to brawl are falling back, expressions washed clean. No anger, no fury, just readiness.

It’s a skill I don’t have. Too much has happened in the last ten minutes, and I can’t unwind all my thoughts yet. But Tycho has ducked to fetch my crutches from the grass, and he’s all but shoving them against my armor. By the time Prince Rhen reaches us, even Tycho looks sharp and ready, while I’m barely steady on my crutches, my jaw tight and my shoulder stinging.

The prince is backed by two guards and six soldiers. Four of the soldiers have arrows nocked, and their eyes are on the sky. Another two carry lanterns, and the light gleams where it finds Prince Rhen’s weapons, throwing shadows across his face. He wears a leather patch over one eye, but still, some scars are visible where they escape the covering, and the flickering light seems to accentuate them. I know from Tycho that the prince lost the eye in a battle with a magesmith years ago, when Prince Rhen and King Grey were fighting over who was the rightful heir to the throne in Emberfall.

I also know Prince Rhen is responsible for the dozen whip marks on Tycho’s back, so every time I see the patch or the scars on his cheek, I don’t feel one single ounce of pity.

In fact, every time I see him, I want to punch him right in his stupid face.

I shouldn’t feel that way. I know I shouldn’t. He’s giving me a new opportunity in Emberfall. If I knew nothing about their history, I’d be on my knees, groveling with gratitude, because the prince doesn’t seem like the kind of man who’d chain a boy to a wall to have him flogged. Tycho has made his peace with it, so I should, too.

But I think about Tycho hiding out here with Mercy, his ready tension that nearly made him brawl with all these soldiers, and I wonder if he’s made peace with anything at all.

Too much soldiering.

It makes my heart hurt.

The prince looks across the sea of faces, then settles on Tycho, who’s still slicked with so much blood that half his vibrant blond hair is almost blackened. The lantern light reveals huge gouges across the leather of his armor. Prince Rhen is questioning him, and though I can pick out a few words, I haven’t learned anywhere near enough to follow their entire conversation.

But the key concept is clear, and I don’t need translation for that. Scravers attacked. Tycho doesn’t know why. Nakiis wasn’t one of them.

Most of the closest soldiers are looking at the prince and Tycho, listening to everything they say, and I’m sure word will spread the very instant the prince is gone. But some of them are looking at me , and I consider what Tycho began to say before we almost fought.

They think the creatures might have followed you from Briarlock.

I have nothing to do with scravers. Until the battle that nearly killed the king and queen, I’d never even seen one.

I think of that odd voice in my head while these scravers were attacking.

You heard Xovaar. Find the magesmith.

They definitely weren’t after me.

“And you, Jax?” Prince Rhen’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I can’t decide if I’m more shocked that he’s addressing me , or that he’s doing it in Syssalah. “Tycho said none of these scravers were familiar. Did you recognize any of them?”

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the language. Even though we’ve hardly exchanged words, I heard him speak it in Syhl Shallow. The king is his brother, after all, married to our queen.

Prince Rhen is nowhere near as fluent as Tycho and King Grey, though. He talks like he’s learned from a book, all slow, careful pronunciation and perfect grammar.

Like everything else about him, I hate it.

“Jax.” Tycho flicks the back of my hand with his fingers, and I realize the prince asked me a question and I haven’t even answered.

“Ah . . . ?no, Your Highness,” I say quickly. “It was very dark. I didn’t know any of the scravers in—”

“Slower,” Tycho murmurs, and I realize the prince is frowning slightly, trying to make sense of my words.

It makes me want to speak faster.

But I don’t, because this man is the king’s brother, and I’m not an idiot. “I didn’t know any of the scravers in Briarlock,” I say slowly. “They arrived to aid the king.” I hesitate, thinking of that odd voice in my head. “But one of these said . . .”

My voice trails off as my gaze fixes on the soldiers gathered around us, how so many of them seem to think this has to do with me, or with Briarlock. Few of them speak much Syssalah, but they’re still focused on this conversation, listening to every word. Many of them speak a little , and I have no doubt my parts will be remembered and repeated. I’ve never had to consider rumors and gossip and how quickly one piece of information can spread like wildfire and bring down an entire kingdom.

I don’t know why these scravers might have been looking for a magesmith, but if winged creatures are suddenly hunting anyone with magic, I’m not sure it should be announced to the entire army.

Especially if they’re hunting the King of Emberfall.

Prince Rhen is waiting for me to continue, and I glance between him and Tycho.

My voice drops. “I . . . ?I don’t know if I should say this in front of everyone.”

The prince’s expression sharpens. He turns his head and says a few words, and the gathered soldiers fall back almost instantly, at least twenty feet. Even the royal guards drop back ten. But to my surprise, Tycho falls back, too, and I realize Prince Rhen took me at my word. He ordered everyone to give us space.

I’m suddenly alone in the grass with the prince.

My heart thumps hard, and my mouth goes dry. Despite my feelings about him, Prince Rhen is intimidating. This moment is intimidating. As if what I wanted to say won’t be worth all this trouble, and he’ll have the soldiers shoot me or drag me behind a wagon for wasting his time.

The wind washes across the fields again, whipping between us. It’s not cold now, but I shiver anyway.

“Tell me,” the prince says, and I swallow.

“One of the scravers spoke,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the distance. “It . . . ?it wasn’t like a voice.” I watch him work these words out in his head, and I remind myself to go slowly. “But I heard it. It said, ‘You heard Xovaar. Find the magesmith.’ ”

“Xovaar,” he repeats. “Was that one of the scravers in Briarlock?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“Were they looking for Tycho?” he asks. “Or the king?”

“I don’t know that either. But I heard the words after it tore into Tycho—which makes me think it was still looking.”

“Tore into Tycho?” Prince Rhen echoes, like my phrasing is unfamiliar. His eye widens, and he glances from Tycho to me. Tycho is closer to the lanterns now, the blood on his face and armor even more apparent. I’m sure I’m not much better.

The prince looks back at me, and awareness lights in his gaze. His voice goes very, very quiet. “You were both badly injured.”

I freeze, realizing what I’ve nearly admitted. Tycho is forbidden from using his magic. Would he have been allowed to use it to save himself? To save me? What about the soldiers who died?

It’s too many questions, and Tycho is already under enough strain—most of which he doesn’t deserve. If he wants to admit to using magic, it can be his choice, but I’m not adding more challenge to his life.

So I keep my voice level and even. “No, Your Highness. He was able to stop the scraver before it got past his armor. I shot the first one. Tycho stabbed the second. Blood went everywhere.”

I’m not a bad liar, and I might’ve been able to fool my father, but Prince Rhen is too savvy. He stares back at me, and for a moment, the weight of my lie hangs in the air between us. He knows. I know he knows. My heart keeps pounding, and I set my jaw, waiting for him to challenge me.

He doesn’t. “What made you keep this private, Jax?”

“I didn’t mean for you to send Tycho away, too.” I hesitate. “But what the scraver said . . . it felt important.”

He gives me a nod. “It is.” Then he turns away and begins issuing orders again.

I let out a heavy breath. My palms feel slick on my crutches.

Tycho returns to my side. “They’re striking the camp. Prince Rhen wants to return to Ironrose tonight. He doesn’t want to risk being out in the open any longer than we have to. I’m going to fetch my bedroll and saddle Mercy. You should get your things.”

“Wait.” I move close and take hold of his arm, and the knives on his bracer are cold under my fingertips. I desperately want to put a hand against his cheek again, to reassure myself that he’s really all right. Using magic to heal himself is exhausting, I know, and he was already exhausted.

He glances down at my hand, and he goes still. When he looks back up, his eyes hold mine, and he doesn’t pull away.

Before I can say anything, a soldier breaks apart from the group to approach us. Tycho straightens, and my hand falls off his arm. I brace myself, but it’s only Sephran, one of the young men I was sitting with earlier. I know he won’t be coming to start trouble.

“Sephran,” I say—though our conversation will probably end there, because he hardly speaks a word of Syssalah.

“Jax,” he says with a smile—but then he draws close enough that he must take in the blood and the state of our armor. The smile drops off his face. He pats his shoulder, then points to mine, then asks a question, glancing at Tycho for help.

“He wants to know if you were hurt,” Tycho says, and his tone has gone a bit cool. He doesn’t even wait for me to respond; he just says something in response, and Sephran gives us both a nod, then turns to follow the other soldiers.

I start to frown, but Tycho glances at me. “Come on. I told him you’re all right, but we’ve been given orders to move. That means us, too.”

Oh, of course. I stick close to his side as he moves back toward Mercy. “Tycho,” I say softly. “The scravers were looking for a magesmith. I heard one of them say it.”

He grimaces. “Me too. I don’t know if any of the soldiers heard it—or if they understood. It was in Syssalah.”

My eyes widen. I didn’t consider that—but of course I should have.

“Do you know who Xovaar is?” I say.

“No.” He pauses. “I only know Nakiis. The scravers in Briarlock left before I could learn any of their names.”

“Do you think they’re after you?” I say. “Because of your vow to Nakiis?” I pause. “Or are they looking for the king?”

“I don’t know. Is that what you wanted to tell Prince Rhen?”

I nod, then hesitate. “He knows you used your magic.”

Something in his gaze tightens, but then he glances after the prince, who’s nearly back to his tent already. “It’s all right.” He pauses, and his expression falls. “I would’ve used it to save the others, too. I didn’t know. And because I’ve been ordered to keep it a secret, none of them know I have magic that might’ve helped.”

There’s resignation in his voice, and I frown.

“This wasn’t your fault,” I say softly.

He laughs without any humor. “I’m the first one who let Nakiis out of a cage, Jax. Some of it is.”

We’ve reached Mercy, and he begins pulling her gear from where it’s stashed along the line. Nearby, dozens of other soldiers are doing the exact same thing. It’s pitch-black, and no one says much, but the heady tension hangs in the air. I can’t get away from it.

That means I should be packing up my things, too.

“I’ll be on the wagon,” I say, because those are the only parting words I can offer.

“Hey,” Tycho says, and I turn. His eyes find mine in the moonlight, and they speak volumes without him saying a word. I want to stride back through the grass to hold him, but I can’t, so I simply look back at him until my throat tightens dangerously.

“Thank you,” he eventually says. “For dinner. And . . . ?everything.”

Always , I think, but that feels like too much. Too big. A word I shouldn’t say to the night air. Something I couldn’t say without revealing every ounce of my feeling to everyone around, regardless of language.

But I give him a nod, and I say it in my heart.