My blood heats at the thought of Everly forced to defend herself with fruit. She should have a weapon. I make a mental note to give her one.
I press onward through the winding streets, determined to root out the truth. Most shops I visit yield little, with fearful merchants and patrons claiming ignorance. Still, I persist, questioning person after person. I cling to each scrap shared with me—a glimpse of a scar, traces of an accent, the cut of a surcoat. Slowly, the fractured pieces come together, forming images of our foes.
I know exactly who they are.
Two of them work at the docks. I’ve seen them there before, unloading cargo from the ships. They keep their heads down, avoiding eye contact.
The third man is an assistant to a blacksmith. I’ve spotted him lugging materials and finished weapons.
Eventually, I reunite with Luc, Liam, Gabriel, Praxis,and the rest of my men, and we head toward The Rusty Anvil, where the attackers were last spied.
I push open the door of The Rusty Anvil, and the stale scent of ale and sweat hits me as I step inside. Luc, Liam, Gabriel, and Praxis file in behind me.
To my left, a long bar stretches the length of the wall, its surface scarred and pitted from countless mugs and brawls over the summers. Behind it, rows of jars line shelves that haven’t been cleaned in ages.
My gaze sweeps over the patrons. Most hunch over their drinks, avoiding eye contact. A few glance up to stare at us.
In the far shadowy corner, a group of men huddle around a table. They keep their heads close together as they speak in hushed tones. Even from across the room, I know who they are.
As I approach the table, the three men look up, their eyes widening as they recognize me. I plant my hands on the table, leaning in close.
“You’re all coming with me,” I say, my voice low and cold.
The men exchange nervous glances. One opens his mouth to argue, then Luc, Liam, Gabriel, and Praxis step closer, and he snaps his mouth closed.
The blacksmith’s assistant bolts from his chair, knocking it over as he makes a desperate dash for the door.
I reach for the nearest terracotta jar on the table and launch it across the room. It spins through the air, connecting with a sickening thud to the back of the man’s head. He stumbles forward two more steps before his legs give out, and he dropsto the floor.
I turn back to the remaining men at the table. “Anyone else feeling brave?”
They shake their heads, eyes downcast.
“Wise choice.” I nod to Praxis and Gabriel. “Bind them.”
As they secure the prisoners, I walk over to the unconscious man on the floor. I crouch down, checking for a pulse. “He’s alive. How unfortunate for him.”
Liam yanks the unconscious man off the floor and throws him over his shoulder. The rest of the patrons remain silent as Liam carries the man out the front door.
I keep my expression hard and impassive, even as triumph thrums through my veins.
We accomplished what we came here to do, sending a clear message that any attack on our army will be met with swift, merciless retaliation.
Chapter
Twenty
EVERLY
After Cenric leftme in my tent, I didn’t stay there long. I needed to do something with my hands—anything to distract myself.
So, I joined Morwen in her tent, helping her cook. She hums as I stand over one of the pots bubbling with beef stew, the rich aroma of herbs, onions, and spices wafting up to tickle my nose.
“Everly, could you pass me the thyme?” Morwen asks, holding out her weathered hand.
I reach for the bundle of dried thyme and place it in her outstretched palm. As I do, my mind drifts back to the crowded market square. Could Hawke and his band of smelly brutes be behind the attack?
Morwen’s voice breaks through my swirling thoughts. “Is there something weighing on your mind, child?”
