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“She would’ve risked her life to do so.”

I nodded. I was eight seasons when she came. My folk listened to her tale of the hunt for the Wanderer’s bones, but she told them more. She spoke of you.

“Me? She saw me?”

I took hold of her hand again, using her open palm to form my words. I was told she spoke of a melder, a girl, hidden in the lands. A melder as strong as the god-queen.

Lyra’s eyes narrowed when I did not go on. “I feel like you’re not telling me everything. I swear it, Roark, if you keep secrets from me—”

Her words faded to a sharp gasp when I gripped her chin between my thumb and fingers, drawing her mouth close to mine. A slight movement to one side and I would taste those lips again.

I raised one hand to her cheek, speaking slowly, carefully. There is more. The seer told my folk that this melder would destroy the lands.

Lyra swallowed, her breaths deepened. “The raids.”

My thumb brushed over the edge of her chin. The raids are not on you, and they were not the destruction of which she spoke. They were done to prevent it.

“No.” Lyra pulled back enough to drag her fingers through her hair. “I am not as powerful as a legendary queen.”

I tugged on her wrist. The seer knew your potential strength. And you are stronger than Fadey.

“Yes, and he wants my damn bones because he believes the same.”

Fadey was a mystery in many ways. I could not shake the unease that there was more to his desire for Lyra.

I spoke gently over her palm. The seer cared for you.

“What do you mean?”

I swallowed. You knew her. She was with you as an Unfettered servant.

“No.” Lyra’s face pinched. “Gammal?”

Lyra had mentioned the old woman who’d cared for her before she was taken to work in the household of Jarl Jakobson. A woman who’d given an orphaned child a bit of kindness.

I nodded. After she left her meet with my father, Gammal sent word that she would not be returning straightaway to the Unfettered lands over the Night Ledges. She insisted that if ever there came a time when we had need of her, we call upon her.

“But Unfettered Folk don’t have craft. Gammal told me.”

I don’t know much about their clans. But whatever her gifts were, they convinced my mother and father that she spoke true. The words were not spoken as hatred for you, merely to warn folk what was coming.

“Gammal.” Lyra bit down on her bottom lip as small, jagged gasps rolled from her chest. “She…she told me to keep hidden, taught me to use the dyes. She taught me all I knew of craft. Gods. All that death during the raids came from the fear of one woman’s word.”

Lyra shot to her feet and paced in a bit of frenzy.

I followed her panicked steps, slid one arm around her waist, and pulled her back to my chest. I moved my words against the place over her heart. It was a game of power, Lyra. Dravens wanted you dead, Myrdans wanted to study your blood, and Jorvans wanted you to find the bones of the first king. It was not on you.

She spun around, her eyes bouncing between mine. “So after Gammal’s predictions about my craft, your mother and father took drastic steps to protect the soul bones by splitting the king’s soul?”

Yes. There was no need to mince words. The clan believed that with the Jorvans’ hunt aimed at the Wanderer, we had to do something equally monstrous.

“So your father became a divided soul. Your brother was assassinated. You lost your clan and your voice.” Lyra stood at my shoulder, a shadow over her features. “Why do you defend me, Roark? All my existence has ever done is cause you pain.”

I lifted her hand and pressed her palm to the steady thrum of my heart. Because this lives for you.

She blinked, and a single tear fell from her lashes. Her fingers curled around my tunic. “Will you tell me of your father and how such a burden is now yours?”

I did. I spoke slowly, at times even tore bits of parchment to be certain not a word was missed, despite Lyra insisting she had no trouble.