The boreal forest seemed to change as the night crept on, an ominous wind rising and sifting through the branches. Severaltimes, Ramson thought he heard voices, blending sounds of the flora all around him. There was a malevolence to the air, he thought, one that he hadn’t felt before, when he had been traveling through forest with Ana.
It was several hours into the night that Ramson realized they were being followed. It started with a flicker of a shadow at the corner of his eye, one that he dismissed as a trick of the light. And then he heard it: the crunch of a boot, the snap of a branch.
Ramson made a gesture behind his back to Narron. Bending slightly to study the tracks, he noticed a few diverging to the side here and there, rounding through the trees and disappearing from sight.
He swore mentally. Fatigue had worn down his team’s attention; they hadn’t seen the signs.
Ramson spun around and drew his misericord just as the clinks of swords being drawn and the clacks of arrows being nocked sounded through the forest.
“Drop your weapons!” called a voice. A female voice.
Afamiliarvoice.
Slowly, Ramson let his sword fall and raised his hands, turning to face the source of the voice. His men stood frozen, but when Ramson spoke, his voice was calm. “I would’ve thought you’d be happier to see an old friend again,” he said, “Daya.”
A pause. From the depths of the trees, something moved. “Ramson?”
He blinked as a figure stepped into the light, the tension in his stomach unraveling into disbelief. She was thinner than he’d last seen her, muddy and disheveled, but her face split into a grin.
“Thank Amara,” Daya croaked.
He rushed over to her. She was limping, and there were cuts and scrapes on her face and neck that looked still fresh.
“We’ve been hiding in the forest,” she said, and turned. “You all can come out now!”
Shadows emerged from the trees—Bregonian Navy soldiers, their uniforms worn and dirty. He scanned their faces, and his stomach tightened. “Where is she?” The words left him in a rush. “Where is Ana?”
Daya’s face crumpled, and that alone nearly knocked the strength from his legs. “We were ambushed right before we landed. My ship was blown up, most of the others, too—they had trained fire Affinites—and we lost half our crew, Ramson. I couldn’t find her in the chaos—”
He looked away abruptly, a terrible pain seizing his chest, theindelible thoughts ofwhat ifgripping him. What if he’d chosen to sail to Cyrilia with her on that bright blue day one moon ago? What if he’d been there? Would he have been able to save her?
For Ramson knew with a burning conviction deeper than hislife that he would have held on to her this time, and never let her go.
“…and then we received a letter from her.” Daya’s voice reached him as though from a distance, faint and muted. “Ramson, she’s with the Redcloaks. She’s going to Salskoff to find Sorsha Farrald.”
He looked up sharply. There was a pressure in his ears; his heart slammed painfully against his rib cage as he reached for the parchment that Daya held before him. It fluttered between his fingers as he unfurled it, greedily drinking in every word on the page. He recognized her handwriting: eloquent, Palace-trained,with a flourish and ferocity that pressed itself too hard into the page sometimes.
Ramson might have laughed. Of course she would be alive, and of course she would be fighting. Ana was not the type of girl to let anything get in the way of what she wanted.
He should have known.
Ramson loosed a breath and steeled himself, his attention focusing.Sorsha Farrald.“You know, Daya, I’m searching for a half sister of mine,” he said slowly, looking up to lock gazes with her. Those familiar umber eyes curved in mischief. “I really ought to teach her some manners.”
Daya’s eyebrows crooked a challenge. “You and your…army?” she said, sweeping a gaze over the handful of his men that stood behind him.
Ramson tilted his head. “Me, and my army equipped withblackstone-infusedarmor and swords,” he clarified.
“Excellent,” Daya said, and stuck her hand out. “Well, then, fellow Captain, I propose a Trade.”
Ramson’s grin stretched. “You do learn fast,” he said with a wink, and grasped her gloved hand with his own. “By my calculations, we’re due in Salskoff by dawn, overmorrow.”
Daya hoisted her cutlass higher and turned. “Better keep up, then,” she called over her shoulder, and then called to her army. “Swords sheathed, boots laced! We’re moving out with Captain Farrald’s forces!”
Ramson signaled to his own men. As they began the trek again, the night suddenly seemed less lonely, the sky a little clearer and the stars a little brighter. He’d never felt more certain of anything in his life, with the steady crunch of his boots on snow, the compass solid and warm in his hands, its arrow unyielding.
They arrived at Bei’kin on the cusp of the fourteenth day of their journey, as the sky began to turn from deep midnight to gentle periwinkle and the trees began to thin. Ahead, between weaving trunks and shifting leaves, were glimpses of the capital city.
Linn’s pulse spiked. She’d only been to Bei’kin once, in her childhood with her Wind Masters. It had been to visit the Temple of the Skies, the greatest congregation of Temple Masters in Kemeira. Every wielder from all around the land came to be blessed by them: first as children before they began training, second as graduates initiating into Temple Masters.
