“Where are we?” I toss my ruined clothes into the grass, glad to be rid of them and the stink of fire. I want to wash the grit off my face, but I can’t bear seeing my eyes again in the water.

She points downstream. “If we continue that way for a few hours, we’ll reach the Stone Serpent.”

The Stone Serpent, a slender bridge connecting opposite sides of a gorge called the Hollow Sea, is a half day’s ride southwest of the teahouse. We must have ridden all night.

I tell her that we need to return to Vos Talwyn so that I can speak to Kendara. Saengo warily concedes that if anyone can help us, it’s her. It’s probably a terrible plan, but I don’t know what else to do. If we had more time, maybe I could think of a better one. Maybe I could stop feeling like I’ve been taken apart at the seams and put together again into something unrecognizable.

As I’m securing my bedroll to Yandor’s saddle, the sound of trampling feet breaks through the forest. Saengo and I dive for cover behind the trees.

Tipping my head, I close my eyes and listen. Judging by the pacing of their footfalls, there are three of them, and their noisy arrival means they want to be heard. My lip curls as I glance around the trunk and take quick stock of our opponents.

Three Evewynian soldiers have emerged from the forest. They spread out wide to close us off. Two look barely out of the Queen’s Company, but the third is older.

“Come out, come out,” the older one calls, caressing the hilt of his sword.

I have no idea where my dagger is, but I’ve no stomach to use it after seeing it embedded in Saengo’s chest. Behind a nearby tree, Saengo gives a slight nod, having come to the same understanding: if we’re to escape, we’ll have to deal with them first.

Only a day ago, I wouldn’t have raised my voice to a soldier. Now I will have to raise a weapon. Kendara will understand—I must do what’s necessary. In fact, as my fingers attempt to gouge the smooth tree bark, I find I’m all too eager.

I step into the open. Saengo follows my lead. At the sight of us, the two younger soldiers lift their swords. The third one cocks his head.

“What’s this?” he says. Black tattoos that resemble lightning bolts stretch from the outer ends of his eyebrows across his temples and into his hairline. “I thought we were looking for a pair of deserters, but it seems we have us a shaman!”

“Maybe we should wait,” says one of his companions, his earlier keenness flagging. The third soldier nods. “We weren’t supposed to find—”

“Don’t be such a coward,” Eyebrow Tattoos spits out.