She took her time returning to New Dawn. For one, she didn’t know exactly where the small settlement was hidden amongst the greenery, her sense of direction tangled up in knots after the golden-eyed creature’s wild romp through the forest. And secondly, a frenetic energy coursed through her, one that needed to be extinguished before she even considered making an attempt at sleep.

She walked in ever-widening circles to ensure she didn’t head in the wrong direction entirely. As she walked, she felt almost like she was floating. She wondered whether that’s how Sinna Marin felt all the time.

The reminder of the woman made her fists clench at her sides. She’d been in Northpoint. More power in her little finger than all the novices had combined between them, or so they claimed. And yet she’d done nothing but watch as her ma was murdered while Perfidy slept under a dry roof, safe and peaceful.

Eventually her strategy paid off, as the clearing appeared through the foliage. She stepped into it, craning her neck skywards to take in the sea of twinkling stars. Beneath their gaze, she felt incredibly small, like a speck of dust in a field.

Weariness finally tugged at her, the pain that had temporarily been chased away returning, sapping her legs of their strength. She headed toward the women’s sleeping quarters, but paused at the threshold, glancing in the direction of the small hut she’d been told never to go into. The silence was like a knife’s edge cutting into her as she listened for any sound. Was that a gentle scratching? The sound of breaths scraping from lungs? Somewhere, an owl announced itself. Crickets chirped.

Perfidy stepped inside, found an empty bed, and fell right to sleep.

That night she dreamed she was riding a sleek, black creature with golden eyes set between a pair of gold-leaf markings that matched her own. Later, she dreamed of her mother.

Interlude: Fallow Fields

Farmland South of Comman Dur, Finfalla

“Where in the void’ve ye bin?” Gorrison said, passing the small bottle to his friend as he approached across the field. “I’s bin drinkin’ alone fer an hour iffin it was a minute. Started feelin’ sorry fer meself agin.”

“Ploughin’ a field,” Lom said, reaching for the bottle.

Gorrison snatched the bottle back. “What rubbish? It’s dark outside!”

“Nooo,” Lom said, slowing down the word like a wheel trying to rotate through mud. “Ploughin’ a field, if ye git me meanin’?” He winked as if that would change the message hidden in his rather mundane words.

Gorrison rolled his eyes, silently wishing he had a better friend than this lump of a man. “Who is it this time? The tavern wench agin?”

“That was last week.”

“The blacksmith’s wife?”

“That was last year!”

“Then who? What other woman would be desperate enough to roll in the hay with the likes of ye?”