When we arrive at Sab Hlee, soldiers line up to receive Ronin. The soldier who’d gone ahead, looking hollow-eyed but composed, rejoins us. Ronin’s soldiers swore their oaths knowing the risks, but still … my stomach churns.

At the center of the encampment, a group of bedraggled shamans occupy an array of dinner tables. There must be more than twenty, from elderly to children, enough to fill nearly every seat. Their eyes inspect our approach, especially Ronin’s.

I can imagine how he must appear, mysterious and intimidating, his tall figure resplendent in the afternoon light. And there is clearly cause to fear his power after he alone quelled those newly taken souls while the rest of us ran. I bite the inside of my cheek, the pain muting my shame.

Some of the shamans shift uneasily. Their thin bodies shrink into the shadows. For others, their sallow faces come alive, their bodies straining from their seats. I remain with Phaut, content to blend in with the soldiers.

Ronin pauses before the tables. Dirty dishes stacked along the ends indicate a recent meal. A much-needed one by the looks of them. Their clothes are threadbare, holes patched and then patched again. How had they managed to escape the Valley?

“How many others?” Ronin asks a soldier in a slightly different uniform from the rest.

The officit, a windwender, says in a low voice, “They don’t know. But they say some went south instead. This is what’s left of the survivors.”

“And those who did not survive?” Ronin asks. His words are a chill breeze in the warm afternoon that raises the recent memory of corpses strung to trees by remnants of flesh.

“We couldn’t recover very many,” the officit says, voice heavy. “But the ones we did …” She nods to the north side of the camp.

I squint in that direction and make out plots of freshly turned dirt. They must have been truly desperate to enter the Dead Wood. Maybe they were fleeing pursuers? The earthwender healer must have been among them.

“What should we do about …” The officit’s voice trails off, but she’s looking at the Dead Wood.

“Nothing can be done for them,” Ronin says, and I know the disappointed flick of his eyes in my direction isn’t imagined.

I wince and lower my gaze. His feet whisper over the hard-packed dirt, his jacket dusting the earth as he circles the tables.

“I cannot give you sanctuary,” he says to the shamanborn.

Instantly, several crumple to the tabletops in despair. A more daring shaman cries out, “We were told you accept the services of any who will swear allegiance to you.”

Ronin nods at this, to the mumbled confusion of the shamanborn. “I welcome the service of all who are free to make such pledges. You are not. You are Evewynian prisoners. To shelter you would violate standing peace treaties. You must leave for the north at nightfall.”