Longwark sat shackled on the end bed in the temporary infirmary the soldiers had set up in the Hall. His huge legs were splayed. His wild hair was snarled around his beaten face, and his blue run tattoos were smeared with grime.

Gray sat opposite him, as the medic prodded at his ribs. Purpling bruises clawed over Gray’s torso.

He suppressed the tremble in his limbs. The furious fight with Killian, all the way to the infirmary, had not been pleasant.

Gray’d been tossed around like an errant cub by a very angry mountain lion mother.

Across the room. Through the corridors. Down the stairs, and past wide-eyed stares and muffled laughter and hisses. Killain pointing his finger steadily whenever Gray twisted out of his grasp. Gray dodging, and somehow, to his surprise, always landing right into Killian’s hands. Getting dragged by the scruff of his neck. Two soldiers had been crying tears from laughing so hard.

And, now, Gray sat on the bed in the infirmary that Killian had forced him onto, and if he returned to Killian with nothing, he didn’t know what the consequences would be.

Losing his temper had been damn stupid.

So stupid.

The infirmary was crowded and reeked of disinfectant. Golden morning light streamed through large windows looking over the wreckage in the town square.

Nearly all the men were sedated, save for a couple near the door, who were watching Gray and Longwark like it was their damn hobby.

Gray darted a glance at Longwark.

Longwark had bruises on bruises. His eyes were both swollen slits. Dried blood caked his lips. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed like Longwark was studying the sky. This was odd to Gray, who was having difficulty dragging his gaze away from the debris in the town square.

‘Arms up,’ said the medic to Gray.

Gray obeyed, withholding a wince, and the medic deftly bandaged Gray’s ribs.

‘Damaged cartilage,’ said the medic. ‘Nothing broken.’

Gray nodded, his mind on how the heck he was supposed to get Longwark to talk.

He had to do it quickly. The medic was finishing up with the bandage.

‘Major asked me to give you more calming draughts,’ said the medic. ‘Wait here.’

This was it.

Gray inched towards Longwark. Longwark’s eyes were so swollen, Gray couldn’t tell if Longwark was watching him or not.

’Their mage has gone,’ murmured Gray in northern.

There was no reaction from Longwark.

‘She left last night,’ rushed Gray.

Very slowly, Longwark turned his head towards Gray.

Gray felt all his muscles lock.

‘Who strangled you?’ said Longwark.

Longwark’s voice was messed up. Longwark was messed up. Gray was surprised he was still able to sit upright.

Involuntarily, Gray reached up to brush his fingers over his throat.

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‘Uh,’ said Gray, forcing himself to speak calmly. ’She joined the others in the forest, didn’t she?’

Longwark wrapped one of his giant hands around his own thick neck. ‘Him?’

Some of his thick fingernails were missing. Gray wanted to shudder. He wanted to spring to his feet. He wanted to bolt. ‘If,’ he said, so softly that Longwark leant forward to hear, ‘I wanted to join her, join them, where might I go?’

‘He did a poor job of it,’ said Longwark. ‘You’re still talking.’

Gray’s heart hammered. The medic was crossing the floor, and headed their way. ‘Mr Longwark, where do I go in the forest, to find them?’

‘You keep talking,’ said Longwark, ‘and I’ll show him how it’s done.’

—

Gray stood in front of Killian, leaning his weight on his good leg and digging his toes into the carpet.

Bright sunlight lit the room, the artwork on the walls, the dining table, and the giant, empty bed.

The sun could fuck right off.

Killian glanced up from the parchment covered in Gray and Longwark’s conversation. Vaddenham had come in briefly to translate the northern, with a faint frown on his brow.

It only covered half a page.

‘I got nothing,’ muttered Gray.

‘You got nothing,’ said Killian softly. ‘No bath.’

Gray hadn’t been expecting a bath anyway, after the whole dragging-fight-through-the-Hall earlier. He fisted his hands and glared at the sun streaming in from the window.

‘You’ll try again,’ said Killian.

‘Try again,’ Gray said, faintly.

‘I’ll arrange for Longwark to need to attend the medic again. And you.’

Gray couldn’t stop himself from shaking his head. ‘I won’t do this. Damn your bath.’

‘You will,’ said Killian, steel creeping into his tone.

‘He knows what I’m doing,’ said Gray, trying to keep the frustration out of his face. He felt sick. The guilt was almost unbearable. ‘I can’t go in there again, and start asking questions. Again. He’s already suspicious.’

‘You really need to learn the pecking order here, kid. You’re not Krydon’s coveted little Griffin orphan anymore. Until I hand you over to the king, I own you. I say jump, you say how high. Got it?’

‘He’s too smart,’ said Gray through gritted teeth.

Killian leant close. Gray could see every detail of the battle scars on his face.

‘Be,’ said Killian, ‘smarter.’

—

Gray sat on the same damn bed in the infirmary and tried to block out the sounds of Longwark getting the bones set in his hand.

If Gray didn’t get something useful from Longwark soon, he didn’t want to think what injury the soldiers would give Longwark next.

Gray clenched his jaw. His sleeve was rolled up. He was supposed to be getting the cut on his arm cleaned and re-bandaged, and he buried his chin into his shoulder as the medic moved on from Longwark and started dousing Gray’s wound in stinging disinfectant.

One glance at Longwark, and Gray knew there was no way he was getting anything out of him.

Not without a throttling.

But he had to.

Gray glared out the window, down at the rubble in the town square.

And froze.

Several soldiers surrounded a farmer’s cart.

‘No,’ said Gray.

Gray knew this farmer. He knew those piles of carrots and onions. She was a wizened old widow who sold vegetables at nearly every market day. Mrs Farrack.

No one had told Mrs Farrack. No one had warned her there was no market this week.

Krydon was a danger zone.

Mrs Farrack should be safely away at her farm.

How had the damn soldiers watching the roads not warned Mrs Farrack away?

Unless …

Of course.

The soldiers were grabbing sackfuls of vegetables and carting them off. They were taking her produce.

Mrs Farrack shouted, and they shoved her.

A local man came to the widow’s aid, swinging a punch at the closest soldier.

And another local. And another. One swung his axe, and it lodged in a soldier’s arm with a sick thud.

A northern curse slipped out of Gray’s lips. He jumped off the bed, ignoring the protests of the medic.

He pressed his hands against the glass and stared down, aghast, just as the soldier down in the town square drew his sword and in one vicious movement slashed the man’s neck.

Gray didn’t even wait to see the spray of hot blood. He pushed past the medic, hobble-ran through the infirmary, and was out in the corridor before anyone had a chance to react.