The welts on my legs have settled into a steady ache. I always carry medicinal herbs with me, but I don’t know when I’ll have the opportunity to apply them.

“Are you all right?” Saengo murmurs. Her drake tries to lick her hair, and she swats at it.

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

A fourth-year wyvern walks on either side of the marching hatchlets. Two more are stationed at the front with the officit. Leading our whole party are four soldiers and a large wagon pulled by four drakes. The wagon is filled with supplies for the prison: simple but clean clothing, bushels of herbs and vegetables, sacks of rice, and even a couple of pigs that snort merrily as they jostle along.

When we reach the bend where the path passes through the woods and joins with the main road, I turn to look over my shoulder. The walls loom, green-clad sentinels patrolling behind the crenellations. Beyond, peering out over the stone are the shining marble domes of the Temple of the Five Sisters and each of their massive statues—the Demon Crone, the Mother Serpent, the Falcon Warrior, and the Twins. But they all cower beneath the spires of the Grand Palace. The structure rises from the city in gilded tiers of sculptured jade roofs and ornate gables, its towers and extravagant finials like lances that spear the clouds.

With ease, my eyes locate Kendara’s tower and the wide lip of her balcony. It’s one of the tallest among the dozens of towers throughout the Grand Palace. Is she still tending to her weapons? Sometimes, I’ll return to her workroom to find her in the exact position as I left her days prior.

I joke that she survives only on the crushed hopes and tears of her pupils, which incenses Saengo. Kendara’s age and high position warrants that she is spoken of with respect. Normally, I’d agree, except … well, she’s Kendara. As Shadow, she doesn’t just exist outside of Evewyn’s entire social structure; she exists above it, answering to no one but the queen. I’ve always found her remarkable for that alone.

“Hatchlets!” Officit Boldis barks, falling back to speak to the first-years. His voice is grating. “You’ll do well to remember that the Valley of Cranes is a prison. There is to be no interaction with the shamanborn, and I would advise against straying from the group.”

The first-years shift uncomfortably at the warning. These hatchlets would have been no older than six or seven when Queen Meilyr rounded up the shamanborn for imprisonment.

“I’m sorry,” Saengo says.

“For what? Lying?”

She winces. “I thought it would help.”