On the other side of the wall, there’s a muffled discussion. Reed arguing with another of the General’s Four, perhaps, whoever owns the second falcon we saw. Then, silence. The world goes deathly still as Saph cautiously raises her hands. They must have their weapons on her now.

Someone races past Asher and me and ascends the ladder to the watchtower opposite Saph with catlike speed. As fast as she’s moving, she’s seemingly silent, and when she reaches the landing, the rifle that was slung across her shoulders moves soundlessly into her hands. She aims at the army. “If you fire that weapon, your arrangement with Powder Town will be null and void, I can guarantee it. I can’t imagine that’s a risk the General would want you to take.”

“Says you, or the Prime?”

“Says I, though I know the Prime will agree. We bring you shipments once a moon, and you don’t meddle in our affairs. That includes not demanding that we hand over townsfolk.”

“And you are . . .”

“Luce the Reaper. One of the Trinity.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “I will see if the General would like to request an audience.”

“Good choice.”

And then, miraculously, Reed gives an order to move out. The hooves retreat. Overhead, the falcons lift back into the sky, screeching as they soar east.

The woman who called herself Luce the Reaper swings a rust-colored braid over her shoulder and gives a nod to Saph, who quickly descends the watchtower ladder. “Your declarations have earned you entry,” she says to me and Asher, “but to stay, you’ll have to plead your case to the Prime.”

I nod, dumbfounded. Who the hell are these people, and how do they have the power to turn away the General’s army with only a few words?

When Asher helps haul me to my feet, I find that a crowd has gathered in the clearing behind us. The group is made up of mostly women but there are men, also, and children. They peer from behind the legs of their parents, wide-eyed and curious.

Like Saph, their clothes are threadbare and mismatched, but something in these people’s eyes feels lighter, younger. Hope, I realize. These people haven’t lost hope. After Dead River, the wastes, the ilked-up state of the General’s workers, it’s a beautiful sight.

Behind the crowd, huts and shanties huddle together, separated only by crooked dirt paths that cut between them. It’s so quiet, I can hear the distant bleating of a goat and a gurgle that can only be the Serpent River Asher mentioned.

“High alert over,” the Reaper announces from her perch. “Everyone can return to their normal duties.”

The crowd disperses at that, chattering among themselves.

One girl lingers, blocking Saph’s way. She looks about five years old, and she wears a basket attached to her back with shoulder straps.