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With no better options, I chose the direction the rogue phoenix had flown in, thinking that it might be stalking cattle in a nearby village, and started walking.

The rubbled ground turned to hardened rock and then gave way to a slip of a footpath through huge boulders that towered over me. They were crowded close together, their smooth surfaces almost touching in places, creating freezing shadows, and the wind tunnelled through them with such force, I had to reach out and steady myself. Moss crept over everything, turning the world soft and treacherous at once. Winter sunlight struggled through the gaps in the stone in pale shafts.

I hated how easy it would be to disappear here.

Or for a boulder to move ever so slightly and to be crushed and never found.

The silence never lasted long. There was constant movement in the Wilds—lizards skittering through rubble or insects skimming the icy air. By the third hour, my nerves were stretched thin enough that every sound made me reach for the knife at my hip.

Then wingbeats echoed through the passage. A thud of something—or someone—hitting the rock above me.

I dropped instantly, sliding between two rocks and pressing myself flat against the cold ground. The unmistakable creak of a Rider’s leather.

Barren Riders. It had to be.

Shadows cast on the rocky floor—four of them. I craned my neck to take a look. The men wore dark leathers banded with bronze, their faces veiled against the frozen winds, which made them look inhuman. One of them had a black and blood-red phoenix WingMark curling over his throat and disappearing beneath his collar.

A Rider. But not just any Rider. That was Draga, the Barren prince, and he was far worse than his powerful, bright red Fire Phoenix.

I pressed deeper into the shadows and slowed my breathing until my lungs burned.

“Search the eastern side,” one of them barked. “He wants her found before nightfall.”

Her.

Me.

A hard knot formed in my stomach. How did they find me so fast?

33

In the Ruckus, I had been protected from the Barren Riders because they feared the Celts shooting down their phoenixes. But in the Wilds, there was no protection from their tracker instincts. I was back to being hunted—this time not for my bloodline, but for murder. Although I was quite sure that as soon as the Barren King got his hands on me, I would burn for both. A blond Rider spat on the rock.

“She’s somewhere this side of the Canyon; that’s what they smelt. Ali says the scent of her is here.”

“Your bird is YuleMad now. It was the one that said the girl was inside the fucking rocks!”

“Talk shit of my bird again, please do…”

“Quiet…” Draga snapped. I remembered that voice. The Barren Prince, one of the Elite Tracker Flock, was here and hunting me. Fuck!

“Well, if we don’t get her, those rogues will tear her apart tonight.”

“I’ve told the flock to let them know there is fresh meat out here,” the first said.

Ugly, familiar laughter echoed around me. My fingers tightened around my dagger’s hilt. Riders still bled like the rest of us, as long as the blade was silver and you didn’t touch the skin while stabbing them. It was a complication, but the war had shown us that nothing was impossible.

However, right now I had four Riders on my tail and no clear path to strike without exposing myself. I had survived this long by understanding that keeping low and keeping my mouth shut held the best chance of survival.

One Rider jumped down onto the footpath, and I slipped further back and flattened myself to the ground deep in the shadow, my heart thundering and my mouth dry. “She’s probably gone already. Tracking’s harder this Yule. The scent is all off.”

The blond Rider raised his head.

That was all the warning I got.

A scream tore across the rocks, and I clamped my hands over my ears, trying to muffle the deafening cry that was so close I thought they had found me. Then a huge shadow enveloped me, and I was sure I was dead.

But the phoenix sped past. It flew so low that the wind from its wings hit my face and picked up every grain of dust in the area, covering me. Bright white feathers with silver edges. It was so close that I could make out the soft little feathers of an uncovered underbelly, free of a harness. A rogue.