Crier leaped from the saddle. Distantly, she registered the pop of a metal bolt fired.

She landed in a catlike crouch in the shallow tide. In front of Hook. There was a terrible sensation in her back, just a hand’s width away from her spine. It was similar to the pressure she’d felt in her shoulder earlier, like she’d been pinched, but this didn’t feel like a pinch. This felt like she’d been punched by a giant. Crier lurched forward under the force of it, just barely catching herself before she toppled onto Hook. Bracing herself with both arms. Pebbles and shells beneath her hands. The lake water was cold, lapping at her wrists. It felt like icy manacles.

“Ayla?” someone was saying in a high, frightened voice.

The sick pressure in her back was narrowing. Sharpening. Two points. The first, in the shoulder, wasn’t so bad. A twinge, a pulsing ache. The second—the second—

Crier lost her balance. She felt very fatigued all of a sudden, as if she hadn’t slept for over seventeen days, which would be a new record for her. She was sitting in the cold water now. Her entire lower half was soaked. Was she still upright? Yes, but not of her own doing. Someone else’s arm was tight across her shoulders, holding her up.

Someone—maybe the same someone—was saying something. Yelling something. “We weren’t even trying to cross. We’re Rabunian. We’ve done nothing wrong.” Loud in her ear. “You shot her. You shot her.”

“You’re next, maggot.” Another voice. “Secure the Varnian. The blade. Watch out, we’ve got a wild one. Wicked arm.” Coming closer. “Check the girl’s face. Could be a disguise.”

Closer still. Crier heard a sort of wet, rasping noise, and realized after a moment that it was her own breathing. That was unusual. What would cause that? Water in her lungs? The pressure in her back was turning to white-hot pain, like someone was holding a lit torch to her flesh. She squirmed, trying to get away from it. Stop burning me. She imagined her skin scorching, melting. What did Made skin look like when it melted? Stop. Please stop, it hurts.

“Ayla, don’t move—no! Don’t touch her!”

A rough grip on her chin, jerking her head back. Crier blinked up at the night sky, vision blurring into fractals, the stars smeared into long silver threads. She tried to breathe. The water in her lungs was rising. High tide. Something to do with the moon.

“No—no, it can’t be—”

“Captain?”

Her back hurt. She coughed and tasted something dark and oily on her tongue.

“We have to get out of here—she didn’t see our faces—”

“Captain, what—?”

“This girl is the sovereign’s daughter. You shot the sovereign’s daughter.”

Some part of Crier knew that was significant, but the rest of her was so tired, and she slipped into unconsciousness the way a body, drowning, slips beneath the surface of the ocean and sinks down, down, down.

Crier woke to a wash of red-gold light.