Chapter 18 · Ironvow at the Fire

"You burned my grain."

Aldric Ironvow stood on the other side of the fire pit, backlit by torches his men held. He wore steel and fur like he'd been born in it. The flames between us made his face all sharp angles and shadow.

I didn't step back. "Your assassin wore your mark."

"My mark," he said, "is worn by eight hundred men. I don't carve it into their skin myself."

"Then you're sloppy."

His jaw tightened. One of his men shifted weight, hand going to his sword hilt. Virrak moved beside me, slow and deliberate. The numbers over his head flared yellow—alert, ready.

Aldric raised one hand. His men stilled.

"Walk with me," he said.

I laughed. "So your people can slit my throat in the dark?"

"If I wanted you dead," Aldric said, "you'd be in the snow next to your grain."

He turned and walked away from the fire. Toward the edge of camp where the torchlight thinned and the ruins started. He didn't look back to see if I'd follow.

Virrak's hand caught my elbow. "Don't."

"I need the food," I said quietly. "He knows that."

"He'll use it."

"He already is.