The whetstone scraped along the blade in a steady scrape, scrape, scrape rhythm.
I was interrupted by the sound outside.
Shouts. Hooves pounding on the solid ground. A woman's laugh slicing through the noisr. Too loud. Too bright. Too familiar.
My stomach clenched so hard the half-sharpened knife nearly slipped from my fingers. I froze, my heart slammed against my ribs. The amulet burned against my skin, the bond a low, muted hum beneath it, but even that was enough to carry the sudden spike of tension rolling through camp.
I shoved the blade into my waistband, stood too fast, and pain lanced up my still-healing leg like someone had driven a hot poker through the bone. I hissed through my teeth but didn't stop. I walked to the tent flap, yanked it open, and stepped into the cold.
The camp had turned into a spectacle.
