Three of the Queen’s Guard had vanished in the last four months while patrolling the border Danu shared with Cernos and Vesria, and Queen Isabel had tasked Una with finding out why. More accurately, with every rag in the city publishing invectives against her, the queen had demanded evidence that her greatest enemies—those so-called Vesrian heathens—were responsible. Although she’d brokered an armistice with Vesria a year ago, her subjects were still reeling and embittered from the surrender of a centuries-long holy war. Now that the fragile peace had splintered, the queen refused to appear ineffectual and passive any longer. No slight would go unpunished.

But after three weeks of searching, of bitter cold and sleepless nights, all Wren and Una had to offer Isabel was this boy, whose only crime so far was running from them. So much good it had done him.

Wren studied the grisly arc of his forearm, the unnatural angle of his thumb. The air had thickened with the too-familiar stench of old blood: saltwater and rust and sugar gone bad. Her magic bubbled up within her, eager to mend him, but she knew Una would never allow it. It was painfully predictable how it would all unfold, this moral debate on whether or not it was right to torture their prisoner. They’d known each other too long—five years now, after they met as recruits in the military academy. They’d trained together, taken their meals together, fought in the war together. And since then …

Well, things were complicated.

Una met her eyes, her braid falling over her shoulder like a spill of dark water. Wren turned away before she could decide what shimmered in her superior’s eyes.

Still, all Una’s bluster guaranteed was their prisoner’s slow death by infection. A winning argument on medical grounds, if not on moral ones. She’d just have to build her case carefully.

Steeling herself, Wren sidled as close to Una as she dared, her footsteps crackling softly in the thin layer of snow. From here, Wren could see the shadows of the bare trees curling like vines over Una’s wrists, deep violet against her ochre skin. She held a tattered notebook up to the light and pinned the fluttering pages down against the wind.

Wren gathered her cloak tighter and buried her nose into its fur-lined collar. They hadn’t been truly alone in weeks, and now that she had Una cornered, she hardly knew what to say. In the end, she settled on what felt most honest. “Are you alright?”

Una snapped the notebook shut. “Why?”

“Permission to speak freely?” she asked dryly. When Una cut her an irritated look, she continued, “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a hunch, considering you’ve been snappish and brooding all day, and now you’ve decided you don’t care about a child—”