“I still have my tiles. We can send a false message, buy ourselves some time. If she flies back now, empty-handed, they’ll know something went wrong.”

I glance across the wastes, finding the bodies of the Loyalists and their horses half buried in rubble and grit, looking like little more than lumpy rocks from this distance. They suffocated, probably. I feel bad for the horses.

While Reed takes care of the falcon called Ember, I climb aboard the Gods Touched and survey the damage. Her sails are shredded, but the second set Harlie had stored belowdecks will serve us fine once we string them up. And the broken crossbeam that clipped Harlie isn’t beyond repair either. The real stroke of luck is that the wagon didn’t tip. We can get her sailing again.

I call for Asher, and we go straight to work.

By the afternoon, we’re on the move again, Harlie reclining on deck with a scarf wrapped over her eyes to help with the headache. Reed says we can probably go another day or two before the General will expect an update from Ember, so I tell him to keep the bird happy. I watch as he sits on the deck, tossing her small kernels of dried meat and laughing when she gets bored with the game and decides to fly in circles above us. His smile is genuine, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s thinking of his own bird, and part of me wishes I had spared it. Rune could have served the same purpose that Ember will, and it would have made Reed happier, too.

We need to stay on flat terrain, so we sail southeast for a bit. I glance in the direction of the General’s iron mines, feeling antsy. They’re numerous clicks off, no way for us to be spotted. “They won’t catch us even if they did somehow see us,” I mutter to myself.

“They’ll catch us if we’re not granted entry at Powder Town,” Asher says.

I shove the possibility from my head and check the horizon. A geyser explodes to the south. Burning Ground. We’re nearly there.

We creep up on Powder Town at dusk.

They see us coming—we’re impossible to miss—and every watchtower along the defense wall goes alight with torches. When they realize it’s me and Asher, the shouting begins.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Saph bellows down at us.

“We will not admit you again,” the Reaper says, but she’s staring at the wind wagon, curiosity getting the better of her.

“You will,” I announce.

“We owe nothing to deserters,” she says, more firmly this time. “We opened our doors to you, and you ran. Asher, twice.”