It doesn’t smell as bad anymore. Or maybe I’ve gotten used to it.

I exhale sharply, chasing a fly from my nose. I don’t dare move a hand to swat it, not with the Loyalists so near. I can hear their chatter in the front of the wagon. Two men, it sounds like, joking above the clacking of their steeds’ shoes.

We climb the ramp to the dam, and I hold my breath as they speak to a guard on watch. Then the wagon is descending again. Leaving Bedrock behind. Traveling into the wastes.

I expect relief, and in some way I find it; I’m breathing easily again. But guilt coils in my stomach and dread stretches through my limbs. I am deserting everyone I love, and if I can’t find someone who can read whatever language makes up my brand, they will all be dead when I return.

If you return. You have to get out of this wagon first—and through the Barrel—unseen.

I clamp my eyes shut, thinking. Climbing into the wagon was the extent of my plan. I hadn’t considered how to get out of it. And now there are two guards. Two men, likely armed, while I have nothing but the clothes on my back.

We roll to a stop all too soon.

It’s ungodly hot in the wagon. Sweat beads on my forehead and is dripping between my breasts when the unmistakable scent of smoke reaches me.

They’re lighting the whole wagon on fire.

They’re burning the entire lot.

Panic seizes me. I’m about to throw off the blanket and run when the crackle of burning wood makes me pause. It’s distant. A dozen paces off, maybe more.

Footsteps approach.

“You can’t take off, Twill. How am I supposed to tow the wagon back with just one horse?”

“The wagon will be empty when you’re done with the bodies, dunce. One horse’ll be enough.”

“But it’ll take me twice as long to move the corpses working solo.”

“Good. That buys me more time to visit my girl. You know they keep turning down my request to get reassigned to the Barrel. This is my only chance.”

“They’re gonna ask where you went,” the first Loyalist says. “When I return alone, they’re gonna ask questions. We could both face the firing squad for this.”

“Then wait right here.” A shuffle of fabric. “Take my water rations, use the blanket to make a shade canopy, and I’ll meet you in a few hours. We can head back together. Tell them the tinder was wet and the pyre took ages to get started. Please?”

I bite my lip in the delay, praying the Loyalist agrees. One man, I stand a chance against. Two are out of the question.

“Fine,” he says finally. “Be quick about it. And you owe me half your dinner rations for the next week.”