Myna’s horse veers left, and we follow without hesitation, tearing off the track onto a jagged, overgrown trail that plunges deeper into the dense woods. The trees become a blur as we weave between them, branches snapping against our shoulders and legs. My breaths come in shallow gasps, each one harder than the last, but I cling to the saddle, refusing to fall.
Myna takes a sharp turn ahead, her voice ringing through the night in a harsh, breathless command.
“Keep going!”
The shouts behind us fade, swallowed by the thick press of trees. The woods close in around us, dark and suffocating, but it feels like freedom. The wind bites less sharply now. The world slows.
This isn’t over. Not yet.
But tonight, we survived.
Even after three days ofriding south, the stormy clouds that hung over Vilea follow us, casting the forest in their gloomy shadow and turning the ancient trees menacing. I draw in another shaky breath, wrinkling my nose at the scent of damp grass and rot. I have never yearned for the tang of salt in the air like I do now.
The chill of the forest presses into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the cold that lingers at the base of my throat. I tug at the collar of my tunic, my fingers brushing the spot where the scar circles my neck like a brand.
On the second day following our escape from the court, we found a blacksmith in a small town. I didn’t want to stop, too concerned we were being pursued. But Myna insisted I couldn’t go much longer wearing the collar. We paid the blacksmith handsomely to carve away thegoiteíamarks, cut it from my neck, and ask no questions.
The relief was indescribable.
Overwhelming.
That night, I cried to myself, praying to the gods that the others didn’t notice. If they did, they must have taken pity on me and chosen not to question it.
I feel like I’m fading. Like a slow-acting poison is still running through my veins. I have no idea what was real or not during those days, every moment fusing together into a single feverish nightmare.
I don’t want to confront it. I prefer not knowing.
The blacksmith ended up referring us to a healer in the same town who helped with my wounds and the lingering effects of the mad honey.
She did her best but couldn’t remove the damage completely. The collar left me with a silver scar that circles the base of my throat, and dozens of faint scars now trace an artless map of trauma across my thighs.
The healer said they may very well fade with time, and I’m trying to convince myself I’m not bothered. Flawless skin isn’t important in the grand scheme of things.
But I hate them.
I hate each scar with the heat of the burning sun.
A permanent reminder of those torturous days—trapped and at Keres’s mercy—to haunt me.
I now wear a tunic laced all the way up and a cloak tied around my neck. The less I see my scars, the better, and I don’t want others noticing them and asking questions.
“How much farther?” I ask, prompting Nyssa’s arms to tighten around me. We have shared a horse for the entire journey, despite my protests that I’m fine and can ride on my own. She ignored me or told me I needed to reserve my strength. She’s right—though I’ll never admit it aloud. Even now, I can feel the weakness seeping into my limbs, a relentless reminder of my exhaustion. Desperation and sheer stubbornness are the only forces keeping me upright as Myna leads us toward one of the order’s safehouses.
“We’re almost there,” Myna says, flicking her reins to encourage her horse forward.
The air changes as we pass the tree line—a faint, cool brush against my skin carrying a scent that is both rotten and fresh at the same time.
Silence settles between us again as we navigate between the towering trees. And the deeper we ride into the forest, the more the silence thickens. It clings to us, filling the gaps between the crunch of leaves and the faint snorts of the horses. I glance up at the canopy, the shifting shadows above playing tricks on my eyes.
A branch snaps somewhere to our left—not loud, but sharp enough to make my heart leap. Nyssa shifts in the saddle behind me, her muscles taut as her head turns toward the sound.
But it’s nothing—just the forest settling—or so I tell myself.
“Keep moving,” Myna mutters, tightening her grip on the reins and urging her horse forward without looking back.
Pinpricks of light appear in the darkness ahead, like the luminous, watchful eyes of nocturnal creatures. They continue to grow as we approach, and the trees thin, a wooded veil parting to reveal a neglected homestead, forgotten and falling to decay amid the overgrown grass of a clearing. A barn in a similar state of disrepair crouches nearby, the entire structure on a lean, somehow fighting against the pressure to collapse. Its doors hang ajar, darkness looming within.
We draw our mounts to a stop a short distance from the dwelling, our eyes glued to the sight before us, and my throat tightens. The golden light spilling through the warped windows glows like a lure on the horizon.
