“What do you miss most about your home country?”

“Why are you asking me this now?” she asks, voice breathy with barely leashed panic. She ducks a tree branch that is nowhere near her head.

“Because you’re going to start hyperventilating if you don’t calm down,” I say.

She scowls, but she also draws slower, deeper breaths. Long seconds later, she replies, “The sunflower fields.”

“They must be a common sight in an Empire that worships the sun.” I speak steadily, despite the racing of my pulse. I don’t want my fear to infect Phaut.

“They weren’t yet blooming when I was last in the Empire. Have you ever seen them?”

I shake my head. “I’ve only seen sunflowers in the markets in Vos Talwyn. How long have you served Ronin?”

“Countless decades. The golden fields are a rare sight now.” The furrow between her brows deepens. “My sisters and I used to sit in the oak tree that grew in front of our house, eating sunflower seeds until our fingers went numb from the late-autumn chill.”

Behind the nervous energy in her voice, I hear the melancholy, an ache of yearning that never really goes away. It tugs at my own. Although Phaut seems happy to be in Ronin’s service, I can’t help but think that Spinner’s End has been her prison for far longer than it’s been mine.

Although the conversation helps to distract her, Phaut isn’t a runner. Eventually, she has to stop speaking in order to breathe.

We run until her legs give out. She collapses, palms scraping over dirt, her chest heaving.

“I can’t,” she wheezes. “I can’t … keep … running.” She drags in lungfuls of air as I haul her back to her feet. It’s dangerous to allow the roots such easy purchase. “Give me … a moment.”

“We have to be near the Kazahyn border by now. We should be able to slow down, but we can’t stop.”

Phaut groans but doesn’t argue. We trudge on, much too slowly for my comfort, but Phaut just barely keeps up. Before long, the crackle of bark grows louder, more frequent. Her breaths come even thinner, weighted by both exhaustion and fear, but she can’t seem to make her body move any quicker, even with my help. I eye her height and weight, wondering if I could carry her the rest of the way. But with her on my back, I don’t think I’d be fast enough to outrun a determined root.

I stop. Phaut wavers, her legs nearly folding again before I can steady her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Her hand squeezes the hilt of her sword.