“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to just escape now?” she asks in a whisper. There’s no one to hear us but the trees, and yet … I can’t deny it feels as though they are listening.

I shudder and adjust the shoulder belt, glad for the comfort of the swords’ weight. Quickly, I explain my plan to her—that in order to prevent war and win back my place in Evewyn, our best choice is to secure Ronin’s help in uncovering the purpose of the attack.

Saengo tugs the cloak tighter around herself. “I’d thought about that, actually. Almost every family at Falcons Ridge has a soldier in the army, and most of those families have been under the care of my House for generations. If we go to war with the Nuvalyn Empire, all those families could be torn apart.”

“Not just the families. Falcons Ridge is too close to the northern border. Your lands would be devastated.” I skirt around a thick nest of roots. They’re so dense, the ground so uneven, I must take care where I step.

“I guess you’re right, then. We’ll have to see this through. And, Sirscha—” She rubs her hands down her arms as if she’s cold. Her fear transforms into something else, something more fragile. I can’t put a name to it, only that it feels like a breath of frost against the inside of my ribs.

Being privy to her emotions suddenly feels intrusive. I imagine a mental barrier between me and Saengo’s candle flame, something I can open and close at will, like a window.

“When we get to Spinner’s End, we should … talk,” she says.

“I know.” I’ve been a coward for not facing what I did—but Saengo had died. There hasn’t been time to press her about how she’s been handling it, and now, in this haunted place, we need to remain focused. “But maybe Ronin will know what happened.”

She shrugs one shoulder and gives a low-hanging branch an uneasy look. “Maybe? Let’s just get through this place first.”

“We’ve been through worse. Remember that time when second-years poured cabbage soup down the latrines?”

Her lips twitch. Through our connection, a momentary warmth flares through me.

“And it clogged the pipes, and the Company yard smelled like manure for a week?”

“See? What’s a bunch of old trees compared to that?”

They’re not just old, though. They’re ancient, their surfaces drab and brittle, their decaying innards exposed where patches of bark have flaked off. And yet, they remain standing. It’s peculiar how intact these trees are, given that they’ve been dead or dying for centuries. They should have collapsed long ago.