Wren slumped into the yellowing litter of pine needles and groaned at the tension headache blooming in her temples and the damp chill of the earth seeping into her skirts. Overhead, the trees dripped with melting icicles and glittered with a delicate crust of snow. Now that they were alone, she stole a sidelong glance at the boy. His white, freckled face was bloodless, as sickly pale as his exposed bone—and nobly but unconvincingly stoic. Even from a distance, the trembling of his shoulders revealed him for what he was, a scared child holding back tears.

Be detached, Wren reminded herself sharply. Be strong.

She would not be moved. Not by a Vesrian spy.

This close to the Vesrian border, it made perfect sense that his people had abducted their soldiers. While neither side had officially broken the armistice, Wren knew it was only a matter of time. She’d grown up alongside war, could smell it brewing like a storm on the horizon. And once it came …

Danubians lived by the core tenet of the Triplicate Goddess, the Threefold Law: Whatever is done unto you, let it be repaid thrice over. Wren had seen enough during her military service to know what happened next. Entire towns burned. Entire battalions slain. Blood repaid in blood until there would be none left to spill.

Neither country would survive it this time.

A muffled sob drew her out of her thoughts and twisted her traitorous heart with pity. She should have been desensitized to this by now, but her magic made it too easy to empathize, to feel the throb in his mangled arm. It hurt, all of it. It always had.

This is so wrong, she thought. If she let this boy suffer until they brought him before the queen to answer for his crimes, how much better was she than the Vesrians?

Una’s backpack lay in the snow-dusted grass beside her, its front pocket enticingly open.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, she decided.

Before she could change her mind, she took the key. In her hands it was a weapon, catching the sunlight like something sharp and deadly. As she approached the boy, he glared at her with an intensity that turned her stomach. It was a look as wild and vicious as an open flame—one she’d seen only on the front line.

Hatred.

“Stay away from me,” he growled.

His accent stilled her. It wasn’t Vesrian. It wasn’t like anything she’d ever heard. Then again, she’d never listened to Vesrians speak much. Their language was a distant memory, its rhythms indistinct echoes in her nightmares. Shaking it off, she said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a healer.”

He pressed himself flat against the tree. “I don’t believe you.”

“Alright, then.” Wren sighed impatiently as she tossed her medical bag on the ground. She rummaged for a painkiller. “Got a name?”