Chapter 25

The Black Tomeis had not been the same since Ivo’s death. No one had said anything, but the atmosphere was different. The campfire each night was quieter. The afternoon rides no longer full of conversation. Adrian kept Sorcha closer than ever, but if he was gone for any reason, it was Revenant who stood guard—full of silent judgment and anticipation.

Sorcha kept her mouth shut, pretending not to hear when they called her a witch or worse. If Adrian was within earshot, they kept it to themselves, but sooner or later, the words always came out.

The Androphagoi could be seen from the foothills—growing in size as they neared. Nestled among the snowcapped mountains, it was the home to some of the most dedicated believers in the Aureum Sanctus. The Crimson Cult. She’d never thought of it that way before, but it was the truth. A death cult, revering a dead god and praying to join him as soon as possible. For them, death had never held any fear.

But she feared it now.

Ines. Rohan. The others sipping poison as if it were water, welcoming the convulsions and frothing mouths. She didn’t want that to be her fate—following blindly and giving her life away so carelessly. There had been minutes and hours when she hadn’t thought of her loved ones. The guilt that followed that realization was haunting. Letting life in, the small joys—a beautiful sunrise, a flower, the breeze that brought the scent of snow and pine. How could she enjoy those things when they were gone?

Not gone, said a voice in the back of her head. I am coming.

Sorcha shivered. It had been growing stronger, this strange pull that began in the center of her body and stretched out into the world. She wasn’t sure where it would lead her. But the moment she would meet the Saint—a living, real-world creature—was coming. And they would collect the final relic in the Androphagoi.

This was one temple she’d never wanted to visit. It housed a relic—the Saint’s skull—but this place was shrouded in mystery. No one talked about it. She only knew the skull was there because of the map on her skin. No one had ever spoken it aloud. No one wanted to talk about what happened within those temple walls.

Some whispered, though, when they thought no one in a higher-ranking position could hear. And Sorcha had never passed up the chance to eavesdrop.

Priests volunteered to be bricked behind solid walls, left to starve while they prayed and dedicated their last days to the Saint. Some claimed there had been a harsh winter years ago, and the men living there had been snowed in for months. When someone had finally gotten through the narrow pass leading to the temple, several people had been eaten. Right down to the bone.

Unease trailed them—a persistent companion—as they traveled. Adrian, Revenant, Thompson, and herself were the only ones going all the way to the Androphagoi doors. The others would continue across the mountains to a location Thompson had made sure they could describe—a place where the old road forked near a stream. Then, as soon as this final relic was retrieved, they would reunite and continue south.

Prince Eine would be waiting for them somewhere in the Wastes.

* * *

The walls of the city around the Androphagoi were jagged teeth—rubble and tumbled stones, with turrets crumbling against a gray sky. Statues of men in robes and women wearing halos were on every corner, gathered in the squares they passed through as if moments before they’d been speaking privately but now paused to watch these interlopers pass through.

Sorcha studied the stone faces, each one larger than life and coldly beautiful. They stood seven or eight feet tall, looking down on those who passed beneath them. She wondered if a person would emerge if the stone cracked. If that happened, she might scream. Epona tensed beneath her, tuned into Sorcha’s unease.

But the statues weren’t nearly as unsettling as the crows that sat everywhere. The birds watched them—silent and aware. Sorcha felt more than watched. It was inspection, critical and relentless. One bird broke the silence, stretching out its neck, its caw filling the air.

“Do you want me to shoot it?” Revenant asked, pulling his bow and nocking an arrow.

“No,” Adrian’s voice was hard. “Leave it.”

Sorcha let her eyes sweep over the two men who had come with them without resting for too long. Revenant was bloodthirsty and always so ready to kill. Thompson, though outwardly not as vicious, was the same.

One pale as death, the other dark as terror. They made a striking pair, following their monster general. Sorcha couldn’t stand them, couldn’t meet their dead eyes. If they could, they’d put an arrow in her heart, a knife in her throat. They saw the way Adrian looked at her when he thought no one was looking—when he thought she couldn’t see him. A look she struggled to understand, one that angered his men, made them distrust her even more.

Witch. Temptress. Oracle. They said she was many things. A priestess to a god, a harbinger, a woman holding more power than they thought she should have. Too many times, she had been alone with them. Too many times, she had felt their desire to end her life. If the prince hadn’t wanted her alive, she would be dead, no matter what Adrian said. It had been true since the beginning, but it was worse after this last audience.

She could feel them at her back now, waiting, wondering if maybe, in this place, they could get away with pushing her into a crumbling wall or down a broken flight of stairs. If Adrian knew, he didn’t show it, refusing to expose the weakness to them, but they had all seen him pull his sword on the prince as well as pull her up from the cliff and into his arms.

Safe, he had murmured against her ear. Safe with the monster.

Another raven cawed farther into the ruins. A receiver of the message. Whoever or whatever was in there, they knew Sorcha was here.

The Saint knew she was here.

Adrian turned to her. “Where will the relic be?”

“A safe place, deep within the temple. I’ve heard stories of this place, but none of them were clear about where the relic was located.”

With a nod, he led the way, Sorcha following, and the two men remained behind her. The flat stone paving beneath her feet was cracked—dead grass wilting through the breaks. The broken gate loomed—iron rusted, wood rotted.

What happened here?Sorcha wondered. How long has it been since anyone from the Citadel visited this place?

She’d never met anyone who had, but there was never any hint that it lay in ruins. Why leave the relic here when this place was decaying by the moment? Another lie. Another dark truth. More illusions of security and well-being. Kahina Kira talked about the temples in the world as if each were as powerful and important as the one Sorcha had grown up in.

Lies.So many woven together to create the illusion of safety and importance. Sorcha was no longer sure what was true. And in her heart, she no longer cared. There was no choice but to continue. Somewhere, the Saint waited. She could feel him, just as he must feel her.

They passed beneath the arched gate into a narrow street beyond. Buildings rose around them with hollow, empty windows and tumbled beams blocking doorways. Human bones, bleached white and weathered, were everywhere. They were in the gutters and on the street, slowly breaking down beneath the onslaught of the seasons. So many people had died here, and she wondered if they’d chosen poison over whatever might have broken through the gates.

Turning away with a shudder, she concentrated on Adrian’s back, trusting him to discover a path. Too much trust, leaning into him in a way she couldn’t understand. A man despised across the continent, feared in a way no other person had ever been, hated. Yet she had never felt so safe. Her heart had never raced the way it did when his dark eyes met hers. What did that make her? Betrayer, lover of monsters. A woman sick with darkness, infected with it, soul corrupt.

* * *

At the farthest point from the gates, nestled in an alcove of a sheer cliff, sat the Androphagoi. It had been carved hundreds of years ago into the dark gray stone—veins of white quartz ran through it, threads of gold twinkling within those pale lines. Pillars lay tumbled down the stairs, singed by fire and pockmarked with age. Huge, wide steps led up to arched doors, six of them across the front of the building. The metal embossed doors had been melted with some forgotten but intense flame.

The distorted story they told was familiar, and a pang of unexpected homesickness sank through Sorcha, from head to toe. A benevolent Saint, bestowing blessings, the sacrifice he made for his followers, the promise to return.And the ruins of the world without him.

The group dismounted, the men murmuring to each other as Sorcha patted first Epona and then Nox. The horse nuzzled her hand, searching for some small bit of food.

“Not so scary after all, are you?” Sorcha whispered, running a hand over his nose before turning to Epona to do the same.

The mare’s ears pricked forward and then back, listening to Adrian and Revenant as their voices grew louder for a moment before returning to whispers.

Sorcha went to her saddlebag, digging down past a second cloak and her gloves. There were a handful of small, wizened apples at the bottom—the remains of the fresh rations they’d taken from the Traveling City when they’d departed. Sorcha gave one to Nox and one to Epona, waiting for the men to decide their route.

“It’s time,” Adrian said, getting Sorcha’s attention and jerking his chin toward the temple.

He paused, twisting the sword in his hand. She came to stand beside him, part of her wanting to turn away, to run back through the deserted streets and out into a world where she was no one and nothing. Another part—the child raised and loved in the temple, with mothers and sisters who surrounded her and filled her with safety and security—wanted to go inside and see if anyone was there. And even now, knowing what would come, how it all would end, a small part of her wanted to meet the Saint.

Sorcha glanced at Adrian. He’d broken all his rules for her—bent his world around her. He had no idea how much blood there would be at the end. And it would all be hers.

“I’ll go first,” she said, moving past him and going up the stairs.

He let her go, falling into step behind her, becoming her shadow. The men behind followed at a distance. At the top of the steps, they paused, the weak light of the overcast day barely penetrating the gloom beyond. The space reminded her of home. It hit her, a swell of homesickness for something that could never be. And it had never truly been what she’d thought it was.

“There.” Revenant pointed at a far corner. “See it?”

A faint, glimmering glow reflected on a corridor wall leading deeper into the temple.

Adrian nodded, motioning for Thompson to stay behind as the three crept forward. Revenant lit the small lantern they’d brought, leading the way inside.

No one spoke as the light led them through the ruins of the sanctuary and deep within the twisting corridor. There were no stairs or diverging paths, only the corridor with brick walls that curved in on itself, spiraling in, around some hidden destination. From behind the walls came sounds—tapping or faint scratching. A smell of death and decay permeated the air, coming from deeper within the building.

“What happened here? Has the Horde been here?” Sorcha asked, pausing to listen to a knocking coming from the other side of the brick wall to her right.

“If they’d been here, the relic would have been brought back,” Adrian said, motioning for her to continue with them. Revenant nodded. Adrian continued, irritation beneath the words. “It could have been any number of smaller kingdoms or warlords. Bandits. Temples are wealthy. I haven’t seen anything of any worth left in this city.”

“Bandits? Warlords?” Sorcha’s brow furrowed. “You make it sound like ancient times. We don’t have those anymore. The only army who could have been capable of this is yours.”

“Prince Eine’s army,” Revenant cut in.

“Why do you think the Horde marches south?” Adrian asked.

“Because you’re power-hungry monsters.” The words were out before Sorcha could stop them. Not you, Adrian. You aren’t a monster, she thought, unable to say it aloud.But that was a lie. They both knew it.

A bark of laughter escaped from Revenant. “Or could it be that no one south of the Summer Palace is fit to rule and keep their people protected and prosperous?”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Sorcha snapped.

“The kingdoms south of your citadel have been fighting among themselves for centuries. What do you know of world history?” Adrian asked, gesturing that they should continue walking.

Sorcha lifted one shoulder, refusing to admit how little she knew. She’d paid no attention to the world beyond her small sphere. Never questioned the decisions royals made or the trade deals that were brokered. Of course, there were alliances and marriages and treaties and there had been other small wars. But none of it had impacted her life. Until now.

“Prince Eine will unite the entire continent,” Revenant said.

“And then?” she asked softly.

As a new section of the corridor came into view, they stopped, staring at the destruction ahead. Sections of the walls had come down, revealing dark expanses of nothingness, and bricks littered the floor. Emaciated bodies lay on top of the rubble. The smell here was worse than it had been, and Sorcha covered her mouth and nose. It reminded her of the Citadel—the way it had stunk before the city began to burn, when everyone was hungry and sick.

A scrabbling came from up ahead, around the next curve, and Adrian stepped to the front of the small group. Adjusting the grip on his sword, he waited. Revenant crossed to one of the bodies and knelt, moving a piece of fabric away from a shoulder.

“A relatively clean cut made after death,” he murmured, moving to the next corpse. He picked up a finger. “It’s been chewed.”

“What?” Sorcha looked from one man to the other, then down at the bodies.

A voice rose in song, a hymn she’d heard a thousand times. One of Ines’s favorites. The notes wobbled as the words ran together, fading off into loud humming.

“I know that song,” Sorcha said, stepping around Revenant and the bodies he was examining. “That’s her favorite song.”

“Stay behind me,” Adrian said, holding out a hand to keep her back.

“But—”

The humming grew louder, and the light in the corridor shifted. Incense blew toward them, the scent overpowering the decay. A thin, bald priest came hobbling into view. The man wore the crimson of someone important—an elder and leader of some kind. But his robes were torn and dirty, the hems stained a greasy black. In one hand, he carried a sharp hatchet, and in the other, a ceremonial bowl. The man stopped when he saw them, mouth open, bloodshot eyes dancing between them.

“Who are you?” Sorcha asked, taking a step forward.

“Sorcha.” Adrian’s voice was soft but firm. “Stay behind me.”

“Sorcha?” The priest looked from Adrian to her, pale eyes wide. “From the Citadel?”

“Where is the relic?” Adrian asked, at the same time, sword half raised.

“You came,” the emaciated man said, dropping the hatchet and bowl with a clang. He shuffled toward her with an outstretched hand. “You are the vessel.”

“How do you know?” Adrian asked.

“Sorcha.” The man studied her carefully and then nodded. “Only the vessel would come to us after everything that’s happened. We knew you would come for him.”

“But you know my name,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “How?”

“Everyone knows. Your name was given to us as soon as your map ceremony began. Sorcha of the Golden Citadel, Vessel and child of the Saint.” A sheen of tears reflected in his eyes, and he pressed one hand to his chest. “I knew you would come, but I wasn’t sure I would be here to see it.”

“And the relic is with you?” she asked.

“Yes, I will show you. He’s with me.” The priest shuffled back the way he’d come, toward the light, motioning for them to follow.

“Stay behind us,” Adrian said, nodding to Revenant.

They followed the priest around the curve, coming across more open spaces in the walls, more dislodged bricks. But there were no bodies here. The light grew stronger, the air around them warmer.

“What happened here?” Adrian asked, keeping his eyes focused on the man.

“It was a long siege,” the priest said, picking up the pace.

“But the walls?” Sorcha waved at an opening as they passed it, pausing to peer inside. “It looks like a cell? Or room?”

“The altar is around this curve,” the priest said, avoiding her question. “We’re almost there.”

“Your priests are cannibals,” Revenant said, his words echoing along the corridor.

“Stay focused,” Adrian said, shooting his second-in-command a sharp look.

The corridor ended with an arch leading into a larger space. Candlelight illuminated everything, flickering and dancing in an invisible draft. A faint haze of incense covered everything, bringing memories of the temple to mind. It had been one of her duties as a child to light the incense that burned around the relic. It was different from the others burned throughout the rest of the temple. A richer scent, heavy with perfume. The same scent filled the air here, but beneath lay dark decay.

“Wait.” The man stopped, turning to face them. “Sorcha, please give me a moment to ensure that you are meeting him under the proper conditions.” The priest passed beneath the arch, muttering to himself excitedly.

She heard him moving things out of the way, something heavy hitting a wall.

“Kill him,” Revenant said.

“No.” Adrian shook his head, eyes straight ahead.

But he would have before. Sorcha knew he would have. Only her presence kept him from being the monster. But she could see his calm facade cracking.

The priest returned, shuffling forward, a wrinkled golden sash wrapped around his waist.

“Sorcha,” the priest said, clutching her arm, rank breath steaming out of his black mouth. “He’s here.”

“How long have you been down here?” She kept her voice low, focusing on the priest as she followed him, working to keep her disgust and horror from showing.

All around the room were bodies that had been mangled and chewed.

“Since the city was sacked. We hid and stayed underground for many weeks. We protected the Saint. Only afterward was I able to bring him back here.”

The priest gestured to where a large object lay beneath a swath of crimson fabric on a black stone altar. It was surrounded by hundreds of candles. When Sorcha didn’t step forward, the priest did. He grasped the edge of the fabric with a trembling hand and pulled it away.

Empty eye sockets seemed to fix on her, seeing her from another world, ready to join her in this one.

Vessel. It wasn’t a word so much as a feeling. The Saint’s voice, here in this place. She felt him in her bones, in the space between each rib. Her mind was awash with a tide of images—a battlefield, a golden man, a burning sword.

“He’s ready to leave with you. It will be a glorious return.” The man smiled, exposing rotten teeth and bleeding gums. He held up one finger and hurried to a dim corner where a low bench was piled high with unlit candles and books. “I have something for you.”

“Wrap the relic in the cloth. It’s time to go.” Adrian gestured to Revenant.

But the second-in-command was already moving, collecting the relic and grunting as he took the weight on his shoulder.

Sorcha skimmed the room again—chewed bones, rotten gums, the priest who looked more dead than alive. She would have given anything to leave this place behind.

The priest came shuffling back, carrying a bundle.

“A beautiful thing,” he murmured, unwrapping layer after layer of soft cloth. His eyes darted up, searching her face, and a faint smile touched his cracked lips. The priest held out a golden knife, intricate scrollwork covering the blade, the handle a dark polished stone. A ceremonial blade—one meant for ritual and sacrifice. “Beautiful, like you.”

“I have to go,” Sorcha whispered, stepping back.

Not here. Not now. Not after everything else that has happened.

“No.” The man shook his head, desperation in every line of his body. “You can’t leave. Not yet.”

Adrian grabbed Sorcha’s arm and dragged her back the way they’d come. She stumbled past the exposed cells, avoiding the desiccated bodies, trying to block out the priest’s cries as he followed. The tapping in the walls grew louder, as insistent as the man following them.

Revenant went ahead, calling to Thompson as soon as they reached the main area. Cool air blew away the stink of decay and the cloying incense. Sorcha shuddered, pulling her cloak tight as Adrian urged her ahead of him. Hurrying on, trying to block out the priest’s pleas, she rushed for the doors and began to make her way down the stairs.

“Sorcha! Vessel!”

I am not those things. I am not a killer. I am not the only physical tie to a god on this earth. I did not choose this. I will not let things end like this here.

Revenant was telling Thompson what they’d seen. Adrian was beside her. Ahead, she could see Epona, Nox, and the other horses. She wanted to ride out of this place and never come back.

Adrian offered no comfort, no understanding, in front of his men. Right now, she hated him for it.

With a jerk and cry of surprise, she was brought up short as she was grabbed by the clasp of her cloak.

The priest gripped the fabric with claw-like hands—pale as death in the muted light of the overcast sky, eyes sunken and lips cracked and bloody. He was already dead, moving through the temple without realizing it. It would be a mercy to kill him now, before he wasted into nothing, gnawing on the bones of his brothers and sisters.

“Please kill me, Sorcha.” The priest pulled at her cloak, the fabric straining and then ripping. “Sorcha, you must.”

Shaking her head, she stepped back as the tear in the fabric widened. “I can’t.”

“Sorcha, please.”

She wanted to cover her ears. Never again did she want to hear her name spoken this way.

“Keep going,” Adrian said.

The priest’s voice was shrill as he continued, one bone-thin finger pointed at her heart—accusation and demand in the gesture. “You will fulfill your duties! You are the vessel. You are his face in this world. How will you face his judgment knowing you left me this way?”

She shivered, tugging the torn cloak around her, looking up at the winter sky. He wasn’t one of the many who had lied to her—promising one thing while meaning another—but it didn’t matter. He was one of them.

He held the ceremonial blade out to her, hope filling his face, hinting at the man he might have been before the siege, before the deaths.

She took it, feeling its warmth from being held so close to his body. It was a heavy weight in her hand, full of expectation and intention.

“I will tell him how well you fulfilled your duties, Sorcha.”

“You don’t have to tell him,” she said. “He knows.”

He smiled, exposing black teeth and gums, fumbling with the soiled tunic and pulling it apart until he exposed his bony chest. Bruises covered his skin, dark discoloration that hinted at internal decay. It was kindness and mercy, the only thing left she could offer.

Sorcha plunged the blade into his chest, scraping against bone, hitting soft organs. There was little resistance, almost none, and it brought with it the memory of the priest in the prince’s court, the quiet determination of her family. A sob broke from her throat, and she gritted her teeth, fighting to keep it in as the priest sat heavily on the steps, the blade lodged in place.

Revenant and Thompson were whispering, the crows screaming. Sorcha closed her eyes, straining to hear the old man breathe, waiting for the moment it stopped. It didn’t take long. He was gone so quickly, so ready to depart.

I will tell him how you fulfilled your duties, he’d promised. But she hoped he wouldn’t, that she would never face the creature who had begun to dream with her, who’d crept into her waking hours.

She turned, leaving the man on the steps, walking past the group she’d come with, continuing without looking back and leaving them to follow.

The skull murmured to her, the words not yet distinguishable but getting clearer.

* * *

There were more and more birds. Black messengers called to witness a rebirth so they could carry it to the ends of the earth.

She looked up to watch a flock of starlings dip and rise, an amorphous shape moving across the sky, liquid in a solid form. In their movement, she thought she saw things—the future and past, the present and what might have been.

“Do you see something, witch?”

She brought her eyes back to earth, to the muddy, bloody place she stood in. Revenant was watching the flock, standing so near, though she had not heard him approach. He held his sword unsheathed in one hand, drawn and ready, sharp and deadly. Had he come for her?

She glanced around. No one else was close. The camp was far enough away that if she screamed, they wouldn’t be able to reach her in time to stop a killing blow.

“He’s not in camp,” Revenant said as if he read her mind.

“I wasn’t looking for him.”

“Weren’t you?” He turned to her, staring her full in the face. His own expression was full of an emotion she had no name for—disgust or fear, anger or pity. “In the village where I was born, we had a witch. She was ancient, crippled, and blind. But when she channeled the demons of the underworld, she would dance and sing, her clouded eyes cleared, her face smoothing out.”

Sorcha swallowed, an edge of fear creeping toward her, sidling in. “What happened to her?”

“I killed her.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason to kill a witch?”

“I am not a witch.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t believe you. He’s been different since you’ve arrived, lost the edge that made him worthy of the prince.”

“It’s your prince that wanted me here. I wasn’t given the choice.”

“And when you’ve served your purpose, I will kill you.”

She wanted to tell him. Shock him. Silence his threat. It was meaningless. She would die without his assistance. The idea warmed her, kept the fear from taking over. And there was a fierce pleasure in knowing she would deny him what he wanted. What he felt was revenge and justice for altering the man he’d sworn his life to. So, she shrugged, not giving him the satisfaction he craved, the fear he’d hoped to instill in her.

“Do you know about the Saint?”

“It’s a cult. A myth and lies.”

“Your prince doesn’t seem to think so.”

He shook his head, not wanting to speak the treasonous words. “You’re nothing more than a witch. A temple whore. I’ve heard the creatures speaking to you, temple girl and vessel. I know what you are.”

“You’ve heard them, seen them, so how can you deny them and believe the Saint is nothing but a story?”

Emotions battled on his face, his own personal beliefs at war with how he thought the world was, what he believed it was. Flat, black and white.

“You don’t have to believe in them for them to exist. He will come for you regardless of your beliefs.”

His grip tightened on the sword, fierce light in his yellow eyes.

“The prince believes. Others do too. You have no idea what I am, what is coming for you.” She took a step forward, lowering her voice. “He will devour believers and nonbelievers alike. No one will be spared.”

“Not even you, witch?”

He’d come to it without her saying it aloud. She didn’t respond, turning on her heel and walking toward the camp. Don’t run or he’ll cut you down. A hunting dog scenting blood, the nearness of a successful kill.

He laughed, hatred and triumph in it. “I’m looking forward to your death, temple girl.”

* * *

They came down out of the mountains and met the remaining Tomeis in the foothills. Sorcha barely registered it. Her mind spun around the priest’s death—relived the dagger sliding into his thin frame, releasing him from the world he desperately wanted to escape. She hadn’t even known his name. But he’d known her. How many others out there carried her name in their heads, waiting for her to perform magic she didn’t understand and give up a life she’d barely lived?

Adrian rode beside her, silent and stone-faced, one balled fist resting on his thigh. He’d retreated from her again, because they could only share themselves in the dark. It had been a mistake to think she could be happy with those stolen moments. Now that he’d touched her, she wanted nothing more than for him to do it again. But each time she spoke to him or lingered beside him too long, the Tomeis stopped to watch.

The landscape was vastly different from anything they’d seen so far. A world of sand and bare rock in shades of rust and faded red. The maps had shown volcanoes to the east and a collection of towering rock formations. Thompson kept checking the maps as they went, muttering to himself while the rest of the men remained quiet. By the time Prince Eine’s caravan came into view, Sorcha was relieved. With so many other people around, maybe Revenant would stop watching her with such intense hatred.

“Stay with me,” Adrian said as they approached the group of fifty or more.

Sorcha nodded, sticking close as the others fell back and took up places in the line of slow-moving horses and richly painted carts.

When the prince saw them, he called a halt, the long line of people and horses stopping to rest.

“You have the skull?” Eine asked without looking at her, his gaze focused on the barren horizon to the east.

“Yes,” Adrian said.

“Put it in the cart with the other relics.” Eine waved a dismissive hand.

* * *

Sorcha was aware of the other women traveling with the caravan. They rode on the litter with the empress, perfuming the decaying body and rewrapping the shroud as it was soiled. It was a constant process of replacing it and working to cover the horrific smell. Every few hours, they sprayed a cloying perfume at the swaying curtains surrounding them, then each other, and then the empress.

Despite this, no one wanted to be close to the litter. But it traveled in the front of the column, behind Prince Eine, and was unavoidable. Sorcha had been curious—watchful and waiting until an opportunity presented itself to approach them. She wanted information, wanted to know what had been happening in the world, and didn’t trust Prince Eine or the others to be truthful. And she missed Ines. More than anything, she wanted someone who would remind her of her friend.

They’d stopped to rest beside a stream, the horses taken off their leads, the men fanning out to relieve themselves in private locations. Someone had built a small fire.

Sorcha had gone down to the stream, wanting to wash her face despite the chill, desperate to clean her hands. The priest’s blood had been washed away, but every time she looked down at her hands, she saw it. Thick and red. The end of his life. A life she’d taken.

A woman had been alone on the bank, crouched at the edge to collect water. Sorcha had greeted her, hopeful for a connection—struck with homesickness. The woman had not responded, shrouded in her layered veils, features impossible to make out. She’d stood, the two facing each other without speaking, a heartbeat passing, then a breath, before the woman turned away in a swirl of red and walked back to the waiting horses.

Sorcha hadn’t tried to speak to her again.