Powder Town itself is hidden behind a wooden defense wall that looms around the settlement. Sharpened spears are angled outward at the top, encouraging incomers to avoid climbing. Watch points are positioned along the wall also. It reminds me of a smaller Bedrock, and I wonder if I’ve simply traded one prison settlement for another.

The shrill cry of a bird pierces the afternoon.

Two birds now circle overhead, flying lower than the one that tailed us earlier. They are definitely falcons, and I’ve seen one of them before. It’s Rune, I realize with sickening dread. Reed’s bird. The creature turns a beady eye toward me and opens its bill. Another cry cuts through Burning Ground.

There’s a far-off response, eerie and foreign.

“Asher, do you hear that?” I tilt my head, listening. It’s like the beating of a million hearts, the flapping of a thousand wings.

To the north, a cloud of dust mushrooms, but it’s not a storm. It’s an army. I can’t make out the individual horses yet, or the riders—too much dirt has been kicked up—but I know it’s them. They tracked us with the birds, stayed north of Burning Ground and then turned south with the hope of cutting us off here, less than a click from salvation.

“Run!” Asher yells.

After two days in Burning Ground, my legs are all but useless, but I surge forward. My boots pound on the boardwalk planks. The frenzied hoofbeats of the Loyalist army rattle in my ears. I don’t dare check how close they are. Not even when the boardwalk ends and we’re running the final half click of wasteland to Powder Town.

When we reach the defense wall, we skid to a stop. It’s made from the same wood as the boardwalk, and here, two beams extend higher than the rest. A brace connects them, and a series of pulleys are mounted in the corners. I follow the ropes to the watch point. There’s a figure there, but they’re looking north, toward the army.

Asher pounds on the wooden wall. “Let us in!” he shouts. This section can be raised, I realize, much like the gates of the Barrel.

I risk a glance north. The Loyalists are only a few clicks off.

“You’ve brought trouble,” the figure in the watchtower shouts down. Her short hair is as dark as my lodestone. “We don’t want trouble.”

“Saph, please!” Asher says.

I’m as surprised as she is that he knows her name. Her gaze snaps back to us, then widens with recognition. “Asher,” she grits out. “You are not welcome here. You know that.”