She remembered running from one tree to another as a child, skipping across their branches like she was flying, the moss under her feet and the sky in her large curls, looking down on the boat-filled waterways that glistened like jewels. She would close her eyes and listen to the song of the forest, the music of its branches and how the tune changed with her mood.

Now all she could think about was Creije, falling victim to Ashwood.

That was the city she had fallen in love in.

The city she’d met her best friend in.

The city in which they’d started this quest.

And they were primed to lose it.

“You’re my constant,” Saxony said.

She pressed her forehead to Karam’s, placing her hand to feel the steady drumbeat of her warrior’s heart.

“Coming back here hasn’t felt much like home at all these past few days, except for when I’m with you. With you everything makes sense.”

“Yes,” Karam said. Her breath tickled Saxony’s lips. “I am really quite amazing.”

Saxony scoffed, but she didn’t argue. She simply closed her eyes and inhaled the sound of Karam’s half laugh, memorizing the melody of it before she finally pressed her lips to hers and let the rest of the world fall away.

4

TAVIA

The forest was like a fancy cell. If cells had birds that woke you up before sunrise.

Not that Tavia hated it. The Uncharted Forest was beautiful, but she couldn’t get comfortable. Tavia was used to shadowed streets and a cautious moon, with bright-eyed tourists and endless possibilities of magic and mayhem.

There was none of that here.

Not to mention that they had been in the Rishiyat camp for over a week and the only real progress made in their war against Dante Ashwood, Kingpin of all that was unholy and bastard-like, was that they hadn’t gotten themselves killed.

Yet.

The forest was pretty, but it didn’t seem to be helping them. As it was, their army had a grand total of eighty Crafters, including the sixty they had rescued from the Kingpin’s island. Some followed Saxony’s amja, some followed Asees, but most of them just looked like they wanted to go home. Wherever home was.

They weren’t in good shape, even with the forty buskers Tavia had wrangled into staying on their side without Wesley to lead them. And if Wesley were here, then he’d probably tell her—when. When Wesley got here—he’d tell her what a piss-poor job she was doing at managing everything while he was away.

“You don’t have the authority for this, busker.”