I lift my foot high to step over a raised root. It still bumps the heel of my boot. A minute later, I duck a low branch only to feel it brush the top of my hood. A chill races through me. I must have misjudged the distance. I continue telling myself that when I angle my body to slip between two trees, and the bark rasps against my shoulder.

“Maybe we could run a bit,” Saengo suggests, her voice soft and high with alarm.

“My thought exactly.”

We break into a light jog. The Company makes us run five laps around the Grand Palace every morning, so we won’t tire quickly. Kendara often made me run twice that in half the time. Even with my injuries, I should be able to keep up.

There is magic here as old as the Dead Wood itself. The longer I run, the stronger a sensation grows in my chest. It’s not the warmth of Saengo’s presence, her candle bright and strong even from behind the mental window I’ve placed between us. This feeling burns from inside me, hotter, more effusive, and slightly painful. It reminds me of what I felt after Saengo died, moments before I passed out.

After jogging a steady pace for over an hour, we slow so that we can withdraw our waterskins from our satchels. We drink quickly. My legs ache, and although I should be warm from the steady movement, I can’t shake the chill. A wrongness lingers in the very air; it seeps into my skin like a slow poison. A corruption beyond what can be seen. The sooner we get to Spinner’s End, the better.

As I put away my waterskin, something brushes against the backs of my legs, cold even through the layers of clothing. I startle, spinning around. Saengo hisses my name. There is nothing behind me but the serpentine lattice of roots and the trees, rustling gently.

There is no wind.

My mouth goes dry, despite having just drank my fill. With a glance at Saengo, we continue on, increasing our pace again. The slender trees take on the shapes of broken men—roots like legs bent the wrong way, bodies torn in half, arms locked at grotesque angles. I look away. I focus only on where I place my feet, but even that has become difficult in the swiftly fading light.

Something snags my hood. I whirl back around, my hands half raised to draw my swords. There are only the branches, low enough to block the path when only a moment ago, they’d been well above my head.

My breaths come quicker, louder. I almost don’t hear it. A high, hoarse wail, like when air pushes between the grooves of branches.

The trees are breathing.