Chapter 10 · A Hand That Isn't His

Vittal's forearm hit my chest before I saw him move.

My back slammed stone. Air punched out of my lungs. His other hand dropped to the hilt at his hip — didn't draw, just rested there. That's worse. A man who draws is scared. A man who just touches the grip is deciding if you're worth the trouble.

"Talk," he said.

"About what."

Elbow into my ribs. Hard.

"You knew where the western breach'd open before the scouts reported it." His face close enough I could smell the oil on his mail. Sharp. Metallic. "You knew Corporal Anse would die on second watch. You told Sona to move her sister off the north wall an hour before the mortar found it."

"Maybe I'm good at guessing."

"Nobody's that good." His arm pressed harder. Behind him, torchlight guttered against the armory's low ceiling, threw his shadow twice his size across the racked spears. "Who sent you."

Not *who are you*. *Who sent you*. Like I'm a piece somebody else moved.

"Nobody sent me, Vittal."

"Then how do you know."

I could've told him. The words sat right there on my tongue like a stone I could just spit out.