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The question is gentle. Too gentle. I don’t want him using that cautious tone that suggests he actually cares about the answer.

I flex my hand on Agnar’s bicep, trying to pinch flesh, but my grip isn’t strong enough. “Before everything.”

Before Mother died and the light went out of Father’s eyes. Before he stopped pretending the kingdom mattered more than his own accumulation of power. Before I realized no amount of effort would ever make me the daughter he wanted. Before the Withering and the Hushing Sickness.

None of that is Agnar’s business, though, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

As we continue climbing, the path grows steeper and loose shale shifts under our feet. We ascend for an hour, maybe more. This close to the peak, the trees thin and the winds strengthen.

Our trail soon narrows again, becoming little more than a goat track that inclines steeply upward through terrain too challenging for horses or wagons.

The hut appears around the switchback, a wooden structure tucked into the mountainside. Old planks form the front, and the rest blends into the surrounding stone. Blue shutters that match the door flank a window.

I stop so suddenly that Agnar collides with me, his breath warming my shoulder.

I know these mountains. Veradin made sure I learned every path, every shelter, every place where Wardens have hidden over the centuries.

No one should be living here.

The woman who emerges from the hut is beautiful in a way that makes me glad Agnar’s blindfolded. This unusual stab of jealousy sticks in my throat like a fish bone.

Her high cheekbones could cut glass, and her smooth skin gleams in the evening light. Everything about her seems flawless and symmetrical. There is something uncanny about her perfection, which draws my eye in like a reflecting pool.

Witches show up where they’re needed, always in times of great turmoil and change. Which begs the question, why is she here now? What omen, what portent, has she come to deliver? Unease gathers at the base of my spine, radiating outward like skittering spider legs. I don’t need any more turmoil and change, thank you very much. Agnar, the Withering, and the Hushing Sickness have given me more than enough to last a lifetime.

Leaning against the doorframe, the witch studies us with amused interest. Her dark hair frames her face in a shiny pin straight wave, rippling in the light. “Lost?”

“No.” The denial feels almost rudely abrupt. I try to paste a polite smile on my face. I’ve never met a witch before, but Veradin always talks of them with scorn, like they’re interlopers treading on Warden territory. “I apologize for intruding on your solitude. We will continue on our way and leave you in peace.”

The formality of a court language I barely remember comes across as hollow.

“No apology needed. Paths cross where they are meant to.” The witch remains in the doorframe, but her gaze drifts from me to the wolf, who’s gone still and watchful in the shadows, and then to Agnar. “Tricky path ahead, Warden.”

At her casual tone, a shiver travels down my spine. How does she know I’m a Warden? The dire wolf likely gave me away. Or she perceives my magic, weak as it is. Witches are rumored to possess senses beyond those of other magic users.

I tug on Agnar’s arm, attempting to back away without being too obvious, Veradin’s warning that witches only ever want to trick Wardens ringing in my head. “I know the way.”

The witch’s laugh tinkles like water over rocks. “No, you don’t. You have no idea where you’re going or how to get there. Your sheltered life is over, little Warden. You should unleash that one so you can see his darkness fully. Know what walks beside you before it’s too late.”

Agnar releases a low, dark chuckle. Around us, pebbles start to bounce and dance as he flexes his magic the tiniest bit. The witch’s intrusive comments clearly bother him as much as they disturb me.

His power raises every hair on my arms and neck, unnerving me more than the witch’s mockery or demonstration that she knows more about me than she should.

The witch raises a placating hand, a tiny smile on her face. “I mean you no harm, little Warden, nor you, knight. I merely intended to give you a warning.”

I nudge Agnar with my elbow, feeling how tight and rigid he’s become. “Thank you, but we’re full up on warnings. We’ve got places to be, so I think we’ll be on our way, if that’s all right with you.”

The witch continues on as if she didn’t hear me. “There will come a day when you need help, when you don’t know who to turn to because you can’t trust the people you thought you could. I know what your mentor claims about witches, but we all want the Withering cured, little Warden.” The witch’s voice sharpens enough that I blush.

I nod but don’t wait for more, instead opting to drag Agnar up the hill, away from the hut. The witch’s eyes sear the back of my neck until we round the next switchback.

We hike another twenty or so minutes before Agnar speaks. “Not a fan of that particular witch.”

“Me either.” I can’t stop hearing her words, can’t stop seeing the way she looked at Agnar, at me, at the space between us like she knew exactly what was growing there and found it entertaining. “What did she mean? She said your darkness⁠—”

“I heard what she said.”

All the teasing warmth, the playful banter, the man who made Mal laugh and carried Prim without complaint, vanishes like smoke.