I wake up vomiting seawater.
It’s unpleasant, but vastly preferable to getting kicked in the ribs, which is what happens next.
“I asked your name!” a man barks.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think, which is why I croak out, “What?”
“Your name.”
I try to open my eyes, but everything is dark. I move my hands, and sand grits beneath my palms. I’m facedown, and I try to rise to my knees.
Someone kicks me back down again. “Your name.”
I open my mouth to say Corrick, but I cough on a lungful of seawater that I spit all over my hands.
“I told you!” a man snaps, and it takes me a moment to place the voice. Lochlan. “He’s just one of the prince’s servants.”
“Is that true?” A boot nudges me in the side.
My breathing is ragged. One of the prince’s servants? I don’t understand. I can’t think.
“Come on, Wes,” Lochlan says, and there’s a bite of urgency to his tone. “Tell Mr. Crane your name.”
Mr. Crane.
Come on, Wes.
I shove my hand into the sand and flip over. A dozen men and women stand over me. All are heavily armed. I can smell blood on the air, and I desperately hope it isn’t mine.
One drops to a knee beside me and puts the tip of a dagger against my chin. He’s the tallest man I’ve ever seen, with a line of jagged scars from his eyebrow to his neck. “Yes,” he says. “Tell Mr. Crane your name.”
I swallow thickly, but then my eyes land on Lochlan, at the edge of the circle.
“Come on, Wes. They’re going to kill you if you don’t talk soon.”
I give a weak cough and look back up at the scarred man.
I must take too long, because he moves to kick me again. “Your! Name!”
I snap a hand out and grab his ankle, jerking hard, using his momentum to knock him to the ground. He goes down swearing. I expect someone else to grab me, but they laugh and whistle.
So I roll to my knees and grab his dagger out of his hand. I have it against his chest before he can roll away.
I spit seawater beside his face. “My name is Weston Lark,” I say roughly. “What’s yours?”
