Crier fought the urge to look away, to hide her face. She would not hide from this. What was it Ayla had said once? I’ll take it with my head up. “Yes. Though I no longer claim that title. I’m just Crier now.”

“As if that matters,” Bree spat, eyes flaring. “As if that changes anything.”

“Bree,” said Hook. “Not helpful.”

“My sincerest apologies,” she said, but went back to sharpening her blade in silence.

Hook sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Then he looked back at Crier, and where she had expected to see fury, or hatred, in his eyes, there was only—exhaustion. Regret, maybe.

She asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

He physically recoiled, eyes going huge. “What?” he said. “No. First of all, the only thing I kill in cold blood are monsters. Second of all . . .” He peered at her, and she felt studied, like she’d felt so many times with Kinok and the sovereign, but this was different. Under Kinok’s gaze she had felt like a specimen. Cross-sectioned, her insides laid bare in the worst way, for the Scyre to pick apart. Under the sovereign’s gaze she felt like her existence itself was a test and she was failing. Under Hook’s gaze, even now, she felt like a person. A person, messy but whole. “Second of all,” Hook said. “You saved my life.”

Oh.

“I won’t kill you,” Hook told her. “But our paths diverge here. I’m sorry, but—my people come first. Every leech in Rabu’s on the lookout for you. Your face is everywhere. I won’t have any of mine dying for the daughter of the leech king. I can’t. I can’t—lose anyone else.”

She nodded, staring down at the crushed white shells, not trusting herself to speak. Hook got to his feet and Bree followed. Bree stalked off without another word, boots crunching toward the mouth of the cove, but Hook lingered.

“Crier,” he said.

Crier couldn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her throat ached, even though she had not been wounded there.

Hook tossed a dagger at her feet.

“Find Tourmaline,” he said. “Take the Scyre down. And—don’t die, yeah?”

“Same to you,” Crier managed.

And she listened to him walk away, until even her Automa ears could no longer pick up his footsteps over the wind and the whispering lake.

She lay there for hours, waiting for the Automa healing to do its work, for her flesh to knit itself back together again. By nightfall she wasn’t fully healed, but she was able to move without getting dizzy. That was enough for now. The fear of another attack from the border guards forced her to her feet. She walked slowly in the dark, her back twinging with every step. Alone, helpless but for the dagger, she had no plan other than: find shelter.

The guards, terrified they’d accidentally killed the sovereign’s daughter, must have fled. Crier crossed into Varn undetected. To the south, there was a juncture where Lake Thea fed into the River Merra. Get to the river, Crier told herself, thoughts wheeling like crows. The pain was worsening, and it had become difficult to focus on more than one thing at a time. So she focused on the one thing. Get to the river. Find shelter. The riverbanks would be lined with trees, a thick forest. Plenty of hiding places there. Get to the river. She could clean her wounds, too. She could wash the blood and grime off her skin. She could wade into the water neck-deep and let the cold settle into her bones.