“It was. I didn’t want to be a farmer, though. I taught myself all I could about swordplay. My father was kindhearted. He didn’t tell me until I was much older that only those of the Imperial Court can become sun warriors.”

I frown. Evewyn’s customs are rigid and its social etiquette stringent, but even so, any soldier of the Royal Army may rise to become a Blade regardless of their station. Up until Queen Meilyr, that had included shamanborn.

“You did even better.” I throw back my shoulders and lift my chin. “You’re the personal guard of the Little Sun God.”

Phaut laughs and sits a bit taller in her saddle.

Over the next two days, we travel alongside the Dead Wood. We spot several small villages with squat houses lining dusty streets. This close to the trees, there isn’t a familiar in sight.

Likely, these villages were here long before they learned the trees crept outward. One day, unless something is done, the Dead Wood will overtake them and kill those unable or unwilling to leave their homes behind.

As the sky transforms into a fiery gradient, the ground slopes upward. When we reach the crest, the road descends into the northern grasslands, which unfold before us in green waves. Normally, herds of beasts big and small roam the vast expanse, numbering in the thousands. During a migration, the earth rumbles from one end of the grasslands to the other.

Today, the sunset gilds the crowns of thousands of tents. Rainbows of banners catch in the wind, bearing so many emblems I hardly recognize any. Drakes and people navigate between tents, trampling the grass and carving pathways.

“Wow,” Saengo whispers.

Phaut releases a low whistle. “This is incredible. I was expecting a dozen leaders, two dozen at the very most, like in the past. This looks like all of Thiy has gathered.”

My heart flutters at that. All these people, leaders from every corner of Thiy, here for a single purpose.

Although it looks a bit like arriving at a war camp, as we pass through the first cluster of tents, the atmosphere is jovial. Noise assaults us from every direction: the slew of chatter in various languages, the clang of weapons, and the rhythm of music, several tunes at once blending into a cacophony of sound. The tangled aromas from dozens of cooking fires infuse the air.

Servants and soldiers alike pause to incline their heads as we pass. Whether out of respect or fear, no one wants to insult the Spider King.

This morning, Saengo and I donned spare uniforms to blend in with Ronin’s soldiers. He doesn’t want anyone knowing who I am until I can be officially introduced. In a company made up of shadow-blessed, shamans, and humans, no one gives us a second glance.