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Silence brought heady disquiet that came from behind and throttled me until it felt as though I could not draw in a deep enough breath.

Then, slowly, fists pounded over chests. A few calls of approval echoed across the hall. Rowdy cheers grew, and stacked on one another, until the room rumbled in celebratory shouts.

My face heated. I leaned nearer to Roark, slipping my fingers through his still digging into my thigh.

Elisabet held up a palm. “For seasons, Jorvans have used melders, forcing them toward corruption. It would be ungrateful of our people to disregard a blessing of the gods that brings the melder to our lands now. Instead of a pawn in their hands, she is now numbered among us.”

More cheers.

Gods. There was an unspoken need I had not realized lived inside me. The yearning to be accepted, to have a place in this wretched world. In Skalfirth, I had a home with Thorian, Selena, and Kael. To others, I was nothing.

In Stonegate, I was to be used, corrupted. I could not be Lyra.

Not until the Sentry stood at my side.

Not until the Jorvan prince told me I could be free with them behind the doors.

Only then did I begin to feel like I mattered more than my craft.

To hear the call of acceptance from folk who rather despised my craft meant something. It meant a great deal.

“It is time to make her new house official.”

My pulse quickened when Elisabet led a burly man forward. He had endless black ink decorating his skin, a beard to his navel, and half a dozen piercings in each ear.

“The house sigil is different across the lands, but no less important.”

My fingers touched the raised brand behind my ear. Gammal had reshaped the sigil of House Bien long ago. Dravens marked their skin similarly, but more with blessings of their house, runes and symbols for the life their folk hoped they might live.

The choice is yours. Roark gestured low so only I could read the movements of his hands.

I swallowed, then stroked the back of his neck where the faded runes of his house marks remained. “Am I part of your house, Roark Ashwood?”

His eyes flickered like hot coals. You are part of everything.

I pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth and rose from my seat. Roark followed, as did Brynn, Emi, and Auki. Gunter scrambled to follow, nearly tossing the voluptuous woman on his lap to the floor.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Not only did my husband and his depraved soul prowl around me, now it seemed so, too, did my personal band of Dravens.

“Well, where are we puttin’ it, Melder?” The man held a narrow iron stake he would pound into my flesh. His cheeks filled with a bit of red when he looked at Roark.

By the frosted hell. Darkness cloaked Roark’s shoulders. The man could hardly hold in his chaos. Did he not recall the risk of constantly dividing his soul?

“Roark.” I touched his arm. “Stop.”

He speaks down to you.

I scoffed and whispered against his ear. “It’s possible some folk don’t even know my name. You can’t devour their souls for something they don’t know.”

So you think. His eyes narrowed at the man, but his shoulders lost a bit of the tension.

The inkist had his back turned away and likely missed the moment his prince considered tearing his soul to shreds for not speaking my given name.

I cleared my throat and approached him when his tools were laid out. “I am Lyra.”

One of his thick brows rose. “Ikard Willowvane.” He sniffed, brisk and wholly unaware of his temperament. “Well, where’ll you have it? Aches on the ribs, throat, and belly. I suggest for a lady like you, shoulders, breast—”

Roark grunted, one fist clenched.