He denies nothing. “We did it to save our people. And it worked.”

Well, at least that much is true. But now I understand why Rhen’s subjects have begun to rise up against him. He made promises that are failing to come true. He bought their confidence with lies, and now he will be weaker than when he began.

I look at Noah and Jacob. “And you are trapped here. You cannot return home.”

They exchange a glance.

“Yes,” Jacob says finally. “More or less.”

My heart trips along, trying to make full sense of this revelation. “And neither of you are royalty at all, are you?”

“No,” says Jacob. He offers half a shrug. “Noah is really a doctor.”

“Then Princess Harper is not a princess.”

“She saved the prince from a terrible fate,” says Grey. “She risked her life for Emberfall, and she risked her life to protect me. She may not be a princess by birth, but she is one in spirit.”

We all fall silent, but now there’s a contemplative tension to it. Somewhere in the darkness, another screech echoes through the trees.

Eventually, most of the men find spots in the shadows to retire to, but despite my exhaustion, my thoughts are still churning.

Grey hasn’t found sleep either. When I glance over, the firelight flickers across his cheeks, and I realize he’s watching me.

I meet his eyes and hold them, then wait.

“You’re clever,” he says.

It’s not what I expected, and the word doesn’t sound like a compliment—nor an insult, really. I can’t read his tone. The bird of prey calls out to the night again, and I shiver.

Grey doesn’t look away. “You knew I was the heir,” he says, his tone very low, very thoughtful. “And you figured out the truth of Disi. What else do you know, Princess?”

I keep my eyes on the fire and try to keep any despondency from my voice. “In truth, I am not a princess. I am the elder of two sisters, but only the named heir earns that title, and that is not me.”

“Then what do you know, elder sister?”

I hesitate, but he is so forthright, so lacking in hesitation, that it makes me want to act the same. “I know you must have been very loyal to Prince Rhen to keep this secret.” I pause. “I see how loyal Tycho is to you, and I think Prince Rhen’s actions must have been quite a betrayal.”

Grey snaps a twig between his fingers and tosses the pieces into the fire. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “I once told him he was never cruel. I meant it as a mark of respect.” He pauses. “Now I feel as though I issued a challenge, and he accepted.”

Nolla Verin can be cruel, but I cannot imagine her taking something dear to me and torturing it—even for political gain. Regardless of my feelings for Rhen, these men had a history. I do not understand what it must have cost Grey to endure the beating—nor what it must have cost Rhen to have it done.

The air has grown heavy and uncomfortable, so I tilt my head and look at him, forcing my voice to be light. “Earlier, when everyone wished for food, you wished for a dozen arrows. Why?”

The ghost of a smile peeks through his sadness. “If I had a dozen arrows, we’d eat for a week.”

Ah. Of course. I should have wished for a dozen arrows as well.

He winces then, and presses a hand to his side, where his shirt clings to a weeping wound. The bird screeches again, sounding closer.

“Should I wake Noah?” I whisper.

“No.” Grey pulls the shirt away from the wound, his breath shaking from the effort. He shifts, then shifts again, unable to get comfortable. Another screech echoes through the woods. “If I had an arrow,” he snaps, “I’d shoot that creature.”

Wings beat among the trees, followed by another long screech that’s cut off abruptly.

“Well.” Grey stares up at the branches. “I suppose something else took care of it.”

Leaves rustle, and a black shape falls out of the sky. A large goose slaps into the ground with a thump.

Grey swears and jerks back. I give a yip of surprise.

His eyes meet mine, and his hand falls on the sword lying beside him.

Out of the darkness above, another shape descends, buoyed by a pair of wide black wings that nearly span the narrow clearing. Smoky gray feet settle into the leaves silently. It’s beautiful and terrifying, and I catch my breath.

“A scraver,” I whisper, torn between fear and wonder. Part of me wants to scramble back, but another part wants to crawl forward and take a closer look. I’ve never seen one outside the pages of a book, and stories of their inhuman feats in the ice forests did not prepare me to meet one face-to-face.

“Yes, Princess,” says the creature. Its words are soft, barely more than a whisper on the air. Fangs glitter in the moonlight when it speaks. Its eyes are pure black, no white showing at all. “And as for you,” it says to Grey, “do you go by Hawk? Or by Grey?”

Beside me, Grey swallows. His hand is tight on the sword.

The scraver’s skin absorbs the shadows as it leans toward us, shifting into a mockery of a courtly bow, wings flaring wide. “Ah, forgive me. Shall I call you Your Highness?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

GREY

Rhen himself could have dropped from the trees and I’d be less surprised.

The scraver appears larger than it did at Worwick’s, though the cage was small and I never saw it stand upright. Or clothed, for that matter; it’s found black trousers somewhere, held up by a length of leather, leaving its broad chest bare. The garment makes the scraver seem more human—yet somehow less human at the same time.

Those claws still look just as sharp.

Beside me, Tycho stirs and runs a hand across his face. “What—what’s—” His eyes settle on the scraver, and he goes still. “Am I dreaming?”

“You’re awake.” Noah and Jacob are asleep a little farther away, so the noise hasn’t woken them yet. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing.

“I thought the scravers were trapped in Iishellasa,” says Lia Mara, and her voice is a curious mix of fear and wonder.

The creature’s glittering black eyes shift to her. “Not all.”

When he speaks, his voice is low and clear, but I can feel each word against my skin, like a breath of icy wind. It’s unnatural, and unnerving, and I shift my grip on the sword. Rhen is not the only one who has a bad history with magic.

“If I meant you harm, I would not have announced myself.” The scraver nudges the goose with one clawed foot. “For now, I wish to help you survive.”

Beside me, Tycho shivers despite the summer warmth, and I know he feels it, too. He’s the first to shake off the awe, though, and he levers himself to his knees. With a wince, he crawls forward to grab the goose by the neck. He sits on his heels by the fire and begins yanking feathers free.

“The boy has some sense,” says the creature.

“The boy is starving,” says Tycho.

“Where did you come from, scraver?” My hand hasn’t left my sword hilt.

“You know where I came from. You yourself cut the ropes, Your Highness.”

“Stop calling me Your Highness.”

“Then stop calling me scraver.” He overemphasizes the word, with a C pulled from his throat and an R that ends in a low growl. This time I shiver as if ice brushed against my skin, and I’m no less inclined to take my hand off my weapon.