Wren had hoped to commit every detail to memory as she carried her two leather suitcases through the waking streets. But alas, it was winter. As it did every winter morning, a thick fog had rolled off the river and devoured everything in its path. By the end of the day, it would be blackened with soot and smoke from the factories, and the whole city would reek of sulfur. For now, it only reeked of sewage and—

No, it was best not to speculate.

Bare impressions of her surroundings emerged from the fog as she walked. Half-burnt buildings, still unrepaired from the last Vesrian raids a year ago, slumped like drunks in the alleys. Cracked windows leered at her from high above, grimed by the hydrogen sulfide wafting from the fetid wells. Far in the distance, the spires of the North Tower lanced the too-low sky, solid black against heavy gray. It was the only new and unblemished structure for miles.

Wren slipped through the secluded back streets until she crossed the River Muri. Most everyone hated it—for good reason, since its acidity was liable to dissolve nearly anything brave or foolish enough to set foot in it. But Wren harbored an odd affection for the sluggish black waters. It was said the Goddess rose up from the Muri, many lifetimes ago. That queens in the age of heroes found her washing her hair in its shallows. It seemed impossible that anything so foul and unimpressive had witnessed so many legends, but as she leaned over the bridge and found her reflection, Wren swore something stared back from beneath its surface.

With war’s breath hot at her neck, that unfeeling black reminded her too much of Hal Cavendish’s eyes.

Shuddering, she pressed onward, following miles of the Muri’s oil-slick path through the city until it led her past the gates and into an open field. There, mist-veiled and crouched like a gargoyle in the shivering grass, was the abbey that housed the Order of the Maiden. The sight of it struck her as cold as the wind battering her face, stripped her down to a hopeless longing. When she was twelve years old, readying herself to leave for the military academy, she had gathered all her robes and sunk them in the river. Dramatic, admittedly. But it was as good as a promise to herself. She would never come back.

Now, facing down the enormity of it, Wren wondered how she’d ever believed she could escape the abbey’s gravitational pull. Her fingers and shoulders ached from cold and the weight of her luggage. Only another mile to go before she reached the abbey’s gates.