“There is a dish I think you would like, actually,” Aldrik hummed. “They take the peel of lemons and candy them with sugar.”

“That does sound delicious.” Vhalla smiled conspiratorially, remembering the lemon cake they shared in Aldrik’s garden.

“Perhaps we can find some at the Crossroads.” The prince removed his helm a moment to run a hand through his hair. Sweat made it stick to his head and Vhalla debated which style was better.

“And what about Eastern food?” Elecia asked, interrupting Vhalla’s admiration of the prince.

“It’s simple, I suppose.” In truth, Vhalla’s family had never had money for expensive or fancy foods. “I’ve never had a better bread than from home around harvest time. But I grew up mostly in the South.”

“Oh yes, library apprentice,” Elecia said matter-of-factly.

It annoyed Vhalla that this other woman just happened to know things about her and never explained how.

Vhalla opened her mouth to speak when a horn blew out from the south of the column. They were not more than a few hours into the march; surely it could not be time to stop. Everyone turned when the horn blew again in warning.

Vhalla heard Aldrik curse loudly before his horse broke into a run, sprinting through the ranks toward his father in the legion ahead of them. Elecia squinted at the horizon. Vhalla looked also.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to discern the reason for the sudden change in mood.

“It looks like a sandstorm. Mother save us.” Elecia’s head turned forward and back again. “There’re too many on foot ...” she mumbled and her head snapped to the right. “Larel!” Elecia called. Larel caught the other woman’s eyes. “How far out is the first barrier wall of the Crossroads?”

“An hour, maybe, of hard riding,” Larel replied, squinting over her shoulder.

“A closer town?” Elecia gripped her reigns.

“None that I know of.” Larel frowned, her face pulled taut.

“We’ll have to make a run then.” Elecia cursed and sped forward toward the Imperial family.

“What’s going on?” Vhalla was confused.

“It’s a sandstorm, Vhal.” Fritz looked back again uncertainly. “It’s far off, but we don’t want to be tangled up in one of those. They’re temperamental and fast. If we can make it to shelter, it may only kill a few from suffocation. There’s a lot here the wind could pick up and turn into projectile nightmares.”

“Is it that bad?” she asked in shock.

“The Western winds are known to be strong enough to rip trees from their roots and sweep grown men off their feet like ragdolls. They normally blow with the summer air. It’s abnormal for a winter one. We’re not prepared,” Fritz replied gravely.