Wren’s mouth snapped shut.
Her father looked around the small room. He decided not to comment on the mess she had made, her clothes strewn about and her bags open and unpacked. “You let a Fell best you for the first time ever during the most important test of your life?”
Wren swallowed. “She tricked me. There was a pit—a cavern, really—and she set a trap. Then they just left me there. I…” She trailed off. In truth, she’d barely survived, but that seemed unimportant now.
“Sabotage and subterfuge have always been a part of the Bonewood Trial.” He straightened, his gaze roving her critically. “I thought with all the nonsense you pull, you’d be well equipped to handle such hijinks.”
“Hijinks?” Wren spluttered. “I fell into a fifteen-foot-deep mass grave filled with at least ten corpses and their tier-three ghosts! I am the only valkyr novitiate that could have made it out of there alive—and I barely did.”
He was unimpressed. “You are not a valkyr novitiate anymore.”
A surge of impotent frustration rose up. “Father, please. You have to talk to her for me. You—”
“It’s too late, Wren,” he said simply. “I told you Lady-Smith Svetlana was looking for any reason to fail you. You have never been your grandmother’s favorite.”
The bluntness of it hurt more than it should have—it was no surprise to her, but it was unfair nonetheless.
After all, the circumstances of Wren’s birth weren’t her fault.
Wren was conceived during the Iron Uprising. Apparently, her father had dallied with a fellow soldier while defending the Border Wall, and Wren was born as the war came to a close. Her mother had died in childbirth, and Vance had returned home to Marrow Hall with Wren in his arms. That in and of itself might not be enough to earn her grandmother’s ire… except for the fact that he’d been betrothed to the king’s daughter at the time.
The resultant scandal brought their engagement to a swift and bitter end, along with her father’s—or, more accurately, Wren suspected, her grandmother’s—royal ambitions. Everything Lady-Smith Svetlana Graven did was for the glory and prestige of the House of Bone, and Wren’s existence was a strike against that. A constant reminder of it. Vance had disappointed his mother—first by coming home without Locke, heir to their house and her obvious favorite, and second by having an affair that resulted in fathering a bastard child on a random soldier.
It was no wonder her father rarely discussed his time serving at the Border Wall or anything to do with Wren’s mother. It was no wonder he’d wanted her to do particularly well tonight.
And she’d been exiled instead.
She crossed her arms, jutting out her chin petulantly. “You’re heir of our house. One day you’ll be head. Surely you have a say?”
“You know it’s not that simple,” he said, looking away. “I have a responsibility to the entire House of Bone, not just you. I can’t break the rules whenever it serves me.”
She gave him a look that said, quite plainly: Clearly you can and have—I’m living proof.
“And look where that got me,” he said quietly, correctly interpreting her expression. “Living in the shadow of a dead man, without the authority to stand up for my own daughter.”
Despair welled up inside her. It felt as though the conversation was over, and she searched desperately for a way to extend it. “I found a fresh body down there,” she blurted.
He stilled. “A fresh body?”
“Well, I mean, relatively fresh. No more than five years old.”
His gaze roved her face for a moment—she fidgeted under his stare. “Did you find anything else?”
The ring in her pocket seemed to get heavier as soon as he said it. She wished she could show it to him—ask him about it—but she could already hear the reprimands and imagine the blame he might lay at her feet. Was this why she’d taken so long? Might she have saved the situation if she’d not dallied?
“No,” she lied smoothly. This wasn’t her first interrogation.
“No…？” he repeated, dragging out the word. When she didn’t contradict him, he finally turned away and shrugged. “I’ll look into it. A mistake by a new digger, perhaps—or the body was just extremely well preserved.”
“I know how to date a body,” she snapped, arms crossed. She might have failed the Bonewood Trial, but she had been studying dead bodies in various states of decomposition since she was eight, when her bonesmith training had begun.
“As you say.”
Wren scowled.
“Are you determined to fight? I came to say goodbye, not argue.”
How did he always do that? Make her feel like she was the one being unreasonable, like she’d started all this, when he was the one who refused to listen.
When she didn’t respond or remove the frown from her face, he laughed. He put his large hands on her shoulders and squeezed. They were almost at eye level, but the gesture made her feel small. “Come now, little bird. I don’t want us to part in anger.”
She clenched her jaw, refusing to look at him as sudden moisture pricked her eyes. Little bird. He’d not called her that in a very long time.
She was leaving, and she didn’t know when she’d see her father again. She never really knew, with the way he was always coming and going from Marrow Hall, but this time, things were far more precarious. Her assignment as tribute at the Breachfort had no end date. It could be two years, two months… or the rest of her life.
She caved, uncrossing her arms and meeting his gaze.
“Attagirl,” he said, nodding his approval. Wren hated the way her chest glowed with it. “Now, do your duty and serve honorably at the Breachfort.”
“Serve honorably?” she repeated flatly.
“Yes. That means no more mischief, Wren. Despite what you may have heard, it is still an active fort on a strongly contested border. The war might be over, but that could change at any moment.”
Wren frowned at that. “It could? I thought the ironsmiths had been wiped out and the undead beaten back?”
“Well, yes—our enemies were defeated,” he said, “but what are our words?”
Wren had just heard them hours before. “Death is as certain as the dawn, and just as a new day will come, so too will the new dead rise.”
“Exactly. We must always be ready. The Breach was never sealed, and though their numbers have diminished, the undead have not been eradicated entirely. Besides, there are other dangers east of the Wall. Bandits and brigands. Thieves and poachers. People have died in the line of duty while posted there. Your uncle died while posted there.” He paused as he always did whenever his brother came up. “Your name, your position… They will not be able to protect you. I will not be able to protect you. Do you understand?”
Wren nodded, fighting back a rush of emotion. It was a relief to know that he did care, despite his lack of reaction after the trial and his insistence that there was nothing he could do to help her. That he wanted to protect her, even if he couldn’t.
“When you arrive, you’ll be serving under Odile Darrow, who is their highest-ranking bonesmith. She was Locke’s reapyr, and we all fought together in the aftermath of the Breach and during the Uprising. She’ll look after you.” He released her shoulders, stepping back. “Play by the rules, follow orders”—his eyes sparked at that, regaining some of his usual humor—“and prove yourself worthy.”