His first lesson had been one of necessity—learning to shield his esha from anyone who tried to scry for it. It had kept them safe from Pallas for the past two months. From anyone who might be trying to find him.

“What say the Prophets?” Ziga asked, passing Anton a bowl as he sat down beside the warmth of the fire. “Will the first snow come today?”

“That’s not really how it works,” Anton said, taking a bite of thick rice porridge.

“Ah, well, it was worth a try,” Ziga said.

Anton was itching to get to Kerameikos, but a part of him would miss the steppe. Its wide-open sky, the pace of a life lived wandering, even the people who, despite himself, he’d begun to care for.

Illya had once told him that their mother was a daughter of the steppe, a descendant of the tribes that had been taken over by the Novogardian Empire at its peak. He didn’t really know if that was true—if he shared kin with these people, if part of him recognized them. So much of his past was lost to him. His grandmother had only ever talked about Emperor Vasili and the legacy that guided their lives.

Thinking of Illya made Anton’s stomach clench, the prospect of breakfast suddenly unappealing. But Illya was a world away from him—in Pallas Athos, with Pallas, likely worming his way back into his good graces.

Pallas was another problem that needed solving. While Anton was growing stronger and learning greater control of his Grace here in the Inshuu Steppe, Pallas was using his control over the god—over Beru—to bend the world to his will.

But when he’d brought it up to the Wanderer, she’d just told him to stay focused on his mission. Get to Kerameikos.

“I’ll take care of the rest,” she’d said. “Well, not me. But I have my best people on it.”

Probably more members of the Lost Rose, then. That was good—they could keep Beru safe and the god contained until Anton secured the weapon he needed to kill it.

“Did you sleep all right?” Tomo’s voice asked softly to Anton’s left.

Anton thought about the soft rumble of Jude’s laughter and felt himself heat. “Yes. I mean. Fine.”

The Wanderer leaned toward him. “Let’s not get distracted now, Anton.”

Anton looked away. She could always tell when he’d been dreamwalking.

A week into their time in the Wandering City, he had come to her, asking her to teach him how to walk into someone else’s dream, the way she had once entered his. It had taken her all of two minutes to figure out why he wanted to learn, and two days for him to persuade her.