I remove my satchel from Yandor’s saddle and sling it over my shoulder, the strap resting across my chest. The troll-bone talisman bumps against my wrist. It helps if I approach this as one of Kendara’s tests, many of which would have raised the brows of even the most hardened sellswords. We will survive the Dead Wood, because as with Kendara’s training, failure is unacceptable.

“Keep your wits about you. Stay on the path.” The soldier leans forward, expression grave. “Walk fast.”

Prince Meilek swings down from his dragule’s back. He reaches into his own saddlebag and then presents me with a shoulder belt bearing two short swords sheathed in leather scabbards.

“Your Highness?” I say, uncertain. Despite the unusual circumstances, I’m still a prisoner. Does he really mean to arm me? I could cut down all three of them and escape right now.

Then I really would be a traitor.

“What we spoke about earlier. Just in case,” he says.

I dampen my lips. Just in case Ronin’s assurance of safe passage is no longer a guarantee.

I accept the swords. Strapping on the shoulder belt, I already feel more in control, even though it’s a false security. The prince nods to one of his Blades, who removes a plain sword and leather scabbard from his saddle. He hands them to Saengo. She wordlessly attaches the weapon to her belt.

“Weapons will not help you in there,” the soldier says.

“Perhaps not,” I say. “But better than nothing.”

Prince Meilek nods his agreement. “May the Falcon Warrior protect you on your journey.”

Saengo and I bow deeply in goodbye. When I straighten, I roll my shoulders, the swords resting comfortably against my back. My hand finds the talisman again. I look at Saengo.

She smiles back, betraying only the slightest tremor of her lips. “Together.”

We face the Dead Wood, and together, we march forward.

A gloom descends with unnatural swiftness. The trees stand so close that we can’t walk more than two steps without our shoulders brushing gnarled bark. The trees look stooped and frail, as if, rather than withering to dust when the shadows fell across the forest, they simply … grew old. The path we tread, our only guide, is hardly a path at all. The cobblestones are sunken, overrun with thick roots, devoured by the trees like everything else in this place.

Since the Dead Wood has born no leaves for so long, there is only dirt underfoot. Just as the branches shut out the sky, the roots overtake the earth. Some form strange jointed shapes, like deformed legs and severed arms. Only slivers of light penetrate the canopy. Dust motes dance in the tiny sunbeams and make those odd-shaped roots, muddy green-gray like the color of dead flesh, appear to tremble and strain away from the light.

Saengo glances over her shoulder. Prince Meilek and the soldiers have long since disappeared.