I don’t understand how he could leave Powder Town once, turning his back on safety to find our pack, only to abandon that very pack when he learned that saving them was too hard. Indie would say something like, People are complicated, Delta. Stitched together all sorts of which ways, and when they come apart at the seams, you can’t just patch them up like a pair of gloves.

Maybe Asher needs mending, or maybe he’s too far gone to be saved. I just know that if a pair of gloves keeps failing, you don’t stitch them up endlessly. Eventually you throw them out and make a new pair. I can’t rely on him anymore. He helped all he could, and this is where we part ways.

On the streets, Powder Town is quiet, a bit of moon lighting my way. Almost too quiet. For the briefest moment I consider returning to Cleo’s and waiting for the solstice to make my move. The town will be rowdier then, the guards more distracted. But everyone will also be awake late into the night come midsummer, and the thought of slipping away without Asher or Cleo or someone noticing my absence feels impossible.

I shuffle for the saltpeter beds, sticking to the shadows until I have to cut across the Serpent River. Once on the opposite bank, I crouch low, observing the foothills.

Torches flicker on the rise, the Reaper’s sentries patrolling Powder Town’s vulnerable perimeter. They are fairly spread out, the closest one a quarter click to my left. The next a bit farther to my right. If I just stay low and move slowly, blending in with the boulders, I should be able to make my way up the foothills without being seen. After all, Asher mentioned that he went west when he ran from Powder Town. Perhaps sneaking past these very guards. At the crest of the bluff I should be well out of sight. From there, I can scale back down as I head north. I’ve got my lodestone to see me true. Once I’ve put distance between me and Powder Town, it’ll get easier.

Grasping the straps of the stolen rucksack, I sprint for the nearest boulder and duck alongside it.

No shouts, no whistles.

I watch the torches a moment, making sure that they are staying at their posts.

Then I grab my rucksack straps and do it again. Soon my legs are burning from the steady ascent. But the torches wink far below me, almost out of sight, and I can practically feel the wastes calling to me.

I stand, face the hillside, and barrel into something as I begin to run. I go down hard on my rump. Pain shoots up my spine.

A shadowy figure bends down to inspect me. A broad-shouldered woman with a braid that encircles her head like a crown.