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Scyld laughed, a short harsh sound, both at the question itself and at the barely concealed intrigue in Rowenna’s face. He had never questioned that her motives for learning his story were the same as his to learn hers: that knowledge was power, and that the more one knew, the safer one was. But she would have to work a little harder than that to get a longer story out of him.
“I am twenty-six, if that is what you want to know. But freedom seems a hollow thing if you have nowhere and no one to go to, don’t you think?” Why else would I still be working away on this forsaken corner of land under a name that is not my own?
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