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My homesickness aches like a recently pulled tooth.

My captive, my only consolation to this night’s debacle, plods along. She trails a half-pace behind me, just within reach. Quiet and compliant and with her hands bound in front of her, she’s the perfect prisoner.

It puts me on edge.

Women like her, with sharp minds and steel spines, don’t go compliant. They conspire while their faces stay blank and their bodies move like golems. I’ve seen it before.

Hells, I witnessed Lark behave similarly when she was a royal prisoner. She wooed the court and acted like a model citizen, all while scheming to remain safe from King Jasper’s machinations and plotting her escape. Jasper, the king before her reign, had her kidnapped and sought to use her as a broodmare to prop up his weakening political power.

Now, Lark is our beloved queen, and Jasper is a rotting corpse. The woman beside me is even better at keeping herself still and calm. She doesn’t fidget or test the bonds on her wrists, doesn’t stumble or drag her feet to slow us down. Instead, her smooth, even strides match my pace without complaint.

She’s planning something.

I grin as I watch from the corner of my eye. I can’t wait to see what she comes up with.

The anticipation grows with every step, like water building behind a plugged drain. It doesn’t feel as good as flying, but at least my annoyance eases a little. Ruining her plan will teach her a lesson I prefer all my rivals learn quickly.

Not to fuck with me.

Why that matters to me, I’m not sure. And that bothers me too. I chew my cheek and mull the thought over before dismissing it. Screwing with a man who took on the gods and survived seems like asking for trouble, never mind the one who buried Blackwood Valley like it was nothing.

As the road bends east, the forest closes around us. Trees with thick canopies that blot out the sky and trunks the width of three men crowd us. The underbrush rustles with small animal activity. Rabbits, maybe. Or foxes hunting. Nothing big. Nothing threatening.

This is the Meridia I’ve heard about.

Verdant trees swaying in the breeze, thick grasses, and healthy game animals. Not the hovel of Edgehallow and the veiled Graywatch come to take people away.

I reduce my pace, orienting myself. We’re far enough away from town now to stop without risking discovery. I need privacy so I can interrogate my captive by whatever means necessary.

I spot a gap in the tree line, hardly more than an animal trail. Best to do this off the road.

Grasping the woman’s elbow, I angle us toward the path.

She follows silently. I’m forever aware of the space her tiny body takes up in the world, the smell of her—rosewater and pine needles—enveloping me, inviting me in.

The trail opens into a small clearing twenty feet across, ringed by massive oaks whose roots have broken through the earth in gnarled tangles. If we don’t rush, the patchy canopy filters in enough moonlight for us to see.

I release the woman’s elbow and stride forward, scanning for hazards. I’m careful to leave enough room to maneuver in case she decides to attack now that we’re out of sight from the road.

My boot sinks through the dense grass.

By the next step, I realize this isn’t a pleasant, unassuming meadow. The ground squelches underfoot. Muddy water pools halfway up the side of my boot, the muck below sucking at my foot. If my boots weren’t treated against the rain, my feet would be soaked.

An alarm bells through me as my muscles come alive to the danger.

Covered in leaf litter and moss like the rest of the forest floor, the ground here appears solid, but beneath the surface, it’s a fucking swamp.

I could raise soil from underneath the swamp until the quagmire is level and dry or press my palms to the earth and firm the soil enough to walk on.

Doing so could also collapse the ecosystem, depriving plants and animals of much-needed water.

After yanking my boot free with an echoing squelch, I check on my captive, expecting to find her panicking as she sinks into the muck.

Instead, she calmly stands on the same boggy ground, her boots barely bending the grass.

It’s like the earth holds her up while it tries to pull me down.

She watches me, her expression blank save for a trace of smugness. A sparkle materializes in the brown depths, and those lips I kissed so passionately before have a hint of a curl. I wonder what she’d do if I licked or bit them. Which would provoke a louder moan? Maybe she’ll answer my questions if I kiss her senseless. I remember the way her body molded to mine in the alley, the way she almost hungered for me.