A nightmare, to be attacked in the dark. It was hard enough for Crier to see, and she knew the two humans were basically blind. The three of them made it back out of the bottleneck, out of the cove and back onto the lakeshore, but—“On your right!” Crier gasped, catching a flicker of movement, a brief silhouette against the moonlit water. An Automa soldier, a border guard, quick as a jumping spider, there and gone. There. Another one. Two on the beach, a third shooting at them from the cliffs above. “Turn back!” Crier yelled, voice rough with fear, no longer caring what the guards heard. “Turn back!” To the guards, she cried out, “We mean no harm! We’re not crossing!”

But even through the fear, she knew something was off. Why the crossbows? The border guards weren’t meant to kill on sight. They were meant only to capture. Their prey was common smugglers.

Was it just cruelty for the sake of cruelty, then?

Crier wheeled her horse around only to find another guard already waiting, blocking off the beach the way they’d come. They were surrounded. There was nowhere to run. A flash of metal in the moonlight—Bree had drawn her weapon, a short curving blade. She was bent low over the horse’s neck. The animal was panicking, rearing up on its hind legs, Bree clinging on with the hand that wasn’t holding the blade. Hook was shouting something: “We’re Rabunian,” over and over again.

The snap of a crossbow release. Crier ducked, instincts taking over, and heard the bolt slice through the air where her skull had been an instant before. Somewhere to the left, Bree swore loudly. Crier straightened up just in time to see her hurl something at the guard blocking off their way back to camp—not the curved blade but a smaller weapon, a double-sided dagger. The guard sidestepped it, the dagger burying itself in the sand behind him, but that tiny distraction was enough for Hook and Bree to urge their horses forward, moving as one, efficient like they’d been that day on the riverbank, when they’d taken out the Shades. Crier kicked at her horse’s sides, go go go, and then a braying, gut-wrenching noise rang out across the beach. The scream of a wounded animal.

Hook’s horse buckled beneath him. Horse and rider hit the sand hard, Hook managing to throw himself sideways just in time to avoid being crushed. But he’d clearly gotten the wind knocked out of him, or maybe even hit his head; he was conscious, gasping, but he wasn’t getting up, he was lying crumpled at the tide line, fallen horse panting beside him, half in and half out of the shallows, where the tiny waves foamed.

The guard who’d shot at him raised their crossbow again, aiming it straight at Hook. This time, Crier knew they would not hit the horse. Her mind processed all of this, drew from the chaos two facts: Hook was about to die. Bree, his friend, his protector, could not save him.