Every few generations, Vesria put forth a soldier more monster than human, and Hal Cavendish was the worst of them all. Wren had seen him only once, when she was fifteen and newly deployed. Her memories of the war often crumbled into fragments when she reached for them: the clash of metal and the burst of gunfire; the sickening pull of her magic to everyone, everything; the way the river swelled in the rain and spat bloated, muddy corpses onto its banks.

But she remembered the Reaper perfectly.

It was the Battle of the River Muri, and Wren had hidden herself in a thicket to tend a woman too wounded to leave the battlefield. And there, through a tangle of yarrow and birch, she saw him. Just as she snuffed out her magic, a man lunged at the Reaper, his blade wet with blood and sluggish sunlight. Then, as if every muscle in his body seized, he froze with his knife barely an inch from Hal’s throat. Convulsions wracked his body, and he dropped in a heap, dead before he crumpled to the earth. Hal hadn’t even flinched; his gaze killed anyone who met it.

Wren wasn’t sure if she made a sound. Wasn’t sure if she even moved. But the next moment, Hal turned his chin toward her. His fola still glowed silver at his temples, but his eyes consumed all the light, as black as the ravens who glided hungrily above him. Worse still, they were empty. Remorseless.

Most nights, Wren still jerked awake drenched in sweat and gasping. Her dreams were lit by raging fire, the stench of burning flesh coating her skin and screams ringing in her ears. But did someone steeped in so much death even feel the weight of it anymore?

She wasn’t sure what possessed him to spare her that day. Maybe she’d only imagined his attention. Maybe someone had called out to him. All she knew for certain was that she never wanted to see him again.

“Hal Cavendish is as good as dead if I encounter him,” Una said. “I fully intend to bring you his head on a silver platter.”

“No.” Isabel lifted her chin, obscuring half her face in shadow. Although she wore no crown today, it was impossible to mistake her for anything but what she was. A warrior queen, cold and calculating. “The day we march on Vesria, you will bring him to me alive. His life is mine to dispose of, and I intend to make a show of it.”

“All the more reason why I need Wren to—”

“Enough.” The clocks tick, tick, ticked until Isabel broke the silence again. “You will leave tomorrow to pursue the boy. Without Wren. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Una said bitterly. “I understand.”

“And you, Wren, will return to the abbey until I decide what to do with you.”

“No.” Wren squeezed her hands into fists.