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Virki slumped in his chair. “The more pressing matter is why our prince returns to us while the Jorvan prince he was commanded to slaughter still lives. Why does he step through the gates with a living melder, no less protective of her than before?”

My father’s brother held none of the gentleness of Vishon Thornwood. Where my father was playful, Virki was brutal. Where Vishon spoke with diplomacy, Virki demanded blood.

I did not know if he played a hand in Nivek’s death beyond his duty to report that the prince had smuggled the melder away, but I would not be held back if he’d been part of the slaughter.

“Roark.” My mother drew my attention. “How do you answer?”

Her expression was unreadable save for the glimmer of something like pain behind her eyes.

I hesitated for a breath, a little petulant with a desire to be wholly uncooperative to the people in the room. The longer I delayed, the longer Lyra was left with unknowns.

I smoothed the wrinkled parchment and penned the reply.

You expect me to despise the prince who saved my life when you all left me for dead. I do not. You expect me to forget a bond for which my brother died. For a time, your curse worked and I had no memory. But it was restored. What more do you wish me to say?

The council would want to know of Fadey and of Damir’s death. But if they knew Fadey desired Lyra for her power, if they knew what she could do with her craft, no mistake they would kill her and bring war to the gates of Jorvandal to finish Fadey.

The latter I did not mind, but Lyra’s life was not a game to be played.

My mother read my words out loud to the úlfur. Upon the final line, she closed her eyes, as though anticipating the shouts that followed.

“You should not have had the choice to even care for the melder,” Virki said, his voice harsh and sharp. “I want to know why the bond was restored.”

I popped one shoulder in a disinterested shrug, then laced my fingers over my middle, feigning indifference.

“Kaysar?” Virki faced a tall man with long features and a shorn head inked in runes. “You have nothing to say? It is your daughter who he forsakes for this so-called bond.”

Kaysar Fernclaw was a stoic man, thoughtful, quiet. The opposite of Brynn and Auki’s mother, who was warm and boisterous. At least what I recalled of her.

Brynn’s father studied me for a breath, like he could break beneath my skin and see every scornful thought. “If the soul bond is true, why would I submit my girl to a marriage where she is the interloper? She would be wed to the prince, but in truth be the mistress.”

Guilt was there. A mere bite of it. I would not betray Lyra for anything, but the image Kaysar created was true. Should Brynn and I be forced to wed, my heart, my soul, would never be hers. I would always belong to another.

No one deserved such a life.

“Good gods, have you all lost your damn minds?” Virki sneered. “Or perhaps I should place blame at the feet of the soul render, our very own queen.”

It was not often anyone spoke of the Draven queen’s ability to split souls. Like her craft was something sacred…or feared.

But Virki did not hold his tongue as he barreled on. “Was this connection restored because commands were not properly issued as agreed by the council?”

The queen snapped her attention to my uncle. “Speak clearly, Virki. If you wish to accuse me of treason, say it loudly and stand by it.”

“I merely wish to understand why our weapon”—he glared at me—“for that is what your soul was meant to be, boy. Why did it not scorch the Stonegate fortress from the inside out? I do not speak for myself alone when I say the thought of the melder remaining within our gates disgusts me.”

“But if the melder remains with us, her craft cannot be used for the Jorvans,” Yanson insisted.

“Her craft should not exist for anyone to use.”

“Can the girl help what the gods placed in her blood?” Yanson sat back in his seat. “I know you tend to place blame on the innocent for the craft the gods gave them, Virki—”

“Careful how you speak, Yanson,” my uncle interjected.

Yanson hinted not only at Lyra, but at Emi. He spoke of how Emi’s own father discarded his wife, his damn soul bond, all from hatred that their daughter had been cursed with bone craft instead of soul.

I was too young to recall most of it, but Virki corrupted his own thoughts into believing the woman who was sealed to his soul would betray him with some faceless Jorvan.

If one half of a soul pairing harmed the one to which they were bonded, it would darken a piece of their soul. Irreparable. It was punished in Dravenmoor.