The next few days passed in quick succession, driven by long hours of hard work. The rain continued to worsen, turning everything outside into a quagmire, and making everything inside chilly and damp. A leak developed in the great hall ceiling, and the west wall of the Churning Room was visibly wet, moisture beading and trickling down the plaster. The rolling of thunder in the distance had become a constant counterpoint to the normal sounds of the fortress.

It hadn't let up by the end of the second day after her father left, and Rhoa, her mother, Orla, and Tettony had to spend most of the third day putting up the mudding shroud – a massive sailcloth tent that covered the tower scaffold.

Somehow, they managed to fill the clay pit in the meantime, and mudding began as soon as the sun supposedly dawned on the fourth day. It was difficult to tell what time that was, exactly. The sky was pitch black when they rose, and the storm ate up the light. It was so dark beneath the shroud they had to work with lanterns and torches – which made Rhoa nervous. The scaffold was taller than the top of the curtain wall, which meant anyone mudding the upper three levels would be a plainly visible silhouette to those outside the fortress.

They had no choice. In less than a week the Warmoon would be full. They worked around the clock, racing to stay ahead of an already exacting timetable.

Through it all, Rhoa did her best to ignore the way the hum didn't just throb, now, it flowed, washing up against the base of the tower almost like waves on the shore, seeking any entry.

She could actually feel the moment she climbed above it. Her muscles would tighten imperceptibly as she walked up the scaffold ramp, spiraling around the tower carrying stacks of folded canvas or weighed down under a shoulder yoke loaded with two big buckets of clay. Then, when she got about halfway up, she could suddenly breathe easier, and the tension would leave her spine.

That line of relief seemed to be getting higher, but she ignored that too. Doubt and fear were dangerous luxuries she didn't have time for. She had to stay sharp. Strong. She threw herself into her work with determination, slinging clay until her well-calloused hands were raw with new blisters, walking her rotations on the wall in her father's armor, and keeping the watchtowers stocked with wood and the fires burning.

As long as she focused only on what she needed to do next, the prisoner's questions couldn't worm their way into her brain. If she thought of him as simply another task to perform and not as a human being, he wasn't quite so distracting.

The latter proved especially difficult when she took a basket of food and water down the night they spent mudding.

As she came around the last bend in the tower stairs, the sound of a deliciously smooth baritone brought her to a faltering halt on the steps.

Her mouth fell open.

The prisoner was singing.

And he could really sing, as well as any of the minstrels from Lubelin. Even though she couldn't understand the words, the haunting melody and the rich quality of his voice made her skin tingle and her breath catch in her throat. Beauty wasn't something that came along very often in Ardusk. 

A few moments later, the song ended, the last note drifting into absolute, cavernous silence.

With a start, Rhoa dragged air into her lungs, surprised to find tears brimming behind her lashes. She would have gladly stayed right there in the stairwell, just listening. She heaved a shaky sigh, made an attempt at pulling herself together, and then kept going, entering the main hallway of the dungeon, where she paused to light the wall sconces with the candle from her lantern. Anything to give herself some mental distance.

When she drew even with the prisoner's cell, he was already standing with his back against the far wall, squinting at the brightness she brought with her.

Keeping a wary eye on him, Rhoa unlocked the cell door and eased inside, the fresh basket on her hip, the butt of the crossbow cradled against her other shoulder.

The prisoner moved and she stiffened, but he only folded his arms over his chest, one dramatic eyebrow rising as he watched her place the new basket on the ground just inside the bars and gather the rags and other things into the basket she had left behind the night before.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said, his tone light and casual. "How are you? Oh, that's wonderful. It's so good to see you. It's been so long."

She picked up the old basket and turned to go.

"Don't you want to ask how many of me there are today?"

She didn't acknowledge that one at all.

"You're not even remotely curious?"

"Are you going to tell me?" 

With a sigh he shrugged. "That is unlikely." 

She locked the cell door again. "Then you can have that conversation with my father."

"How unfortunate."

For a second, she hesitated, regarding him through the bars.

A slow, devilish smile crossed his face, giving his exotic features a hint of boyish – and definitely human – charm. "Goodnight, Rhoa."

That smile probably worked on other girls, but it only made Rhoa lift her lip in disgust. Shaking her head, she moved away from the door.

"Why is everyone in Ardusk getting sick, Rhoa?"

"Goodnight, Vanguard."

"Kry!" There was a clatter of chains as he moved forward in his cell. "My name is Kry!"

Still shaking her head, Rhoa continued down the hallway.

Later, she wasn't entirely sure why she did it. He certainly didn't deserve it. Maybe it was a sort of unconscious 'thank you' for the song. Maybe it was a covert effort to win his trust and make him talk. For whatever reason, she left the sconce burning outside his cell, even though it was technically a waste of an hour's wick and oil.

That night, she dreamed of a beautiful male voice leading her through a forest so verdant the air even seemed drenched in green. She woke with a cry when the forest path opened onto a scorched plain, and there, smoldering low on the horizon, sat the Warmoon, full and burning red.

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