“Delta, was it?” he asks, as though he doesn’t already know. As if his men hadn’t attacked my home. “Of where?” Two additional guards enter behind him, both wearing ram-skull masks like the gunner from the Barrel, and position themselves on either side of the door.

“I didn’t say.”

The General smiles as if I’ve made a joke, and it causes thin lines to appear around his eyes. He’s Ma’s age, probably, perhaps a bit younger. “Please, have something to drink.” He motions to a clay pitcher on the table and the small cup beside it, but I don’t miss that there is a second pitcher at the General’s seat. Two pitchers. Two different drinks. Asher’s warning echoes in my mind.

When I don’t move, the General’s eyes drift to my hands. He waves for a guard. “Cut her bindings, won’t you?”

“I’m not thirsty.” Even as I say it, my voice, parched and dry, cracks on the words. I can practically taste the cool relief the drink will provide.

“Cut her bindings anyway. She is no prisoner here.”

A guard moves forward and severs my ties with an Old World knife. I rub my wrists as the General sits opposite me.

His face is youthful, almost handsome, but I imagine it’s easy not to get beaten down by the land when you rule from a sheltered paradise. Dark hair is cropped close to his head, and a beard obscures most of his mouth, which makes me wonder if he’s smiling at me or sneering. The clothes he wears are impeccably clean: a spotless pale shirt tucked into neatly tailored pants. The long, sleeveless robe is the only article that has a patch—a strange faded symbol sewn over his heart. It’s an odd place to need mending. Seams tend to give out first, or holes find their way into the elbows or knees, none of which the long vest-robe has. He’s clearly never seen a day of work in his life—or at least not since he rose to power within Bedrock.

“It’s Delta of Dead River, sir.” A face pokes through the beaded curtain door—the gunner from the Barrel who brought me in. “The man trading her confirmed it.”

“Thank you, Reed. That will be all.” The gunner named Reed disappears, and the General’s eyes slide back to me. “Welcome to Bedrock, Delta of Dead River. Now please, have some water. You must be parched.”

I stare at him, unblinking. His falcon stares back with a beady, glass-eyed gaze. I pour myself a drink and raise the cup to my mouth. I fake a sip—feel the heavenly wetness on my lips—then swallow to sell the act. The General smiles.

“You must have many questions, such as who I am and—”