Before I can lash out in anger, the Dread vanishes. I curse the god’s name before tracing my footsteps back east. His words trail after me like ghostly things. Unlike your father. I want to dismiss it as a lie. Daddy has plans for me. I’m the face of his revolution. I’m a general in his army. I am meant to march on the Ashlord capital and lead us into a new era.

But he also taught me to be logical.

In the back of my mind, doubts loom. Daddy sent me here knowing what happened to the last Longhand. I’ve avoided poison. I’ve escaped a beating that should have killed me. What if the Dread’s telling the truth? I know Daddy wanted me to win, but I know him well enough to know that he’s planned for both outcomes. If I die, will he shout my name in the streets? Will my spilled blood be the fire that spreads like flame across the Empire? The truth leaves me cold.

I know my father better than anyone. He will have plans ready for any outcome. And that means he knows I might die down here; he knows I might never come home.

I reach my ashes. There’s no sign of movement in my chosen nook. My ashes haven’t been scattered or poisoned, because the crew that came for me thought they’d already done the job. Careful not to let my own blood drip down, I unlatch the cubes and start my first alchemical mixture. My body feels fine, but my head is still spinning. Looking down for too long just makes it worse. So I take a few pinches of the right components and scatter them blindly. It’s easy alchemy. After the work’s done, I clean the wounds that haven’t unnaturally healed already. Some sting like hell, but clean is better than infected, and bandaged is better than bleeding.

As dawn comes, I set my back to the stones.

It takes effort to remind myself that Daddy doesn’t want me to die. There’s a difference between planning for my death and wishing it into existence. I know the Dread is right. If the Ashlords actually killed me, Daddy would have wasted no time using my death to start his revolution. That realization almost knocks the breath from my lungs. All the years together, and it is the first stain painted over an image I’ve held of a flawless father.

Knowing is living.

I steady my breathing. None of this matters. Not right now anyway. I carefully set those thoughts off to one side and focus on what does matter. Pretty soon my phoenix will burst free of its ashes. I’ll saddle him and we’ll ride. I survived the first night. The pack stalking me has one less member. Now I get my turn at being the hunter.