The outside of the carriage was a dull, scratched-up black, so as not to draw attention, but the inside was like a miniature version of the queen’s palace: white-walled with a carved, gemstone-set ceiling, velvet seats. Ayla felt like she was riding along inside a heavily decorated skull.

Of course, she wasn’t traveling alone. Aside from the driver, she was accompanied by four of the queen’s personal guards—the Automa women with deep green uniforms and shaved heads—who sat in the carriage with Ayla, plus another two guards who rode along behind, plus two scouts who rode up ahead. It had already been three days on the road, and the Varnians had yet to display a personality. Ayla had never been so bored in her life. Not for the first time, she wished she could read better. She wished she could have brought along a pile of books to keep her occupied. But she had nothing of the sort, and all she could do was stare out the carriage window as the world slipped slowly by. In the beginning the view was gold: the miles of hills surrounding Thalen. As their party traveled farther north, toward the border of Rabu and Varn, the hills became shallower, like small creases in the earth, and the yellow grass became shrubland, with short scrubby trees sprouting up like burrs on an animal’s hide. The sky became paler, the air colder. Sharper in the lungs.

They were riding parallel to the River Merra, headed in the general direction of Lake Thea—one of the bigger points of entry into Rabu. Along the Varnian side of the border there would be plenty of small towns and villages; along the Rabunian side, villages and the southern estates. The farther away from Thalen they got, the more nervous Ayla felt. Despite the queen’s insistence that this was a beginner mission, no risk. There was no such thing as no risk. And she couldn’t stop thinking about the way Storme had pulled her aside right before she’d left, as the queen’s servants stocked the carriage with a week’s worth of food and heartstone, clothes, coin, even wine. “Be careful,” he’d said, eyes grave, scar pale in the morning light.

Ayla had almost replied with something snarky—I thought your queen said there was nothing to worry about—but held her tongue. “I can take care of myself, brother,” she said.

He shook his head. “Just . . . promise me you won’t do anything reckless. Promise me you’ll stay in the carriage, in the villages. Never alone.” He touched her shoulder just once. “Those monsters . . . whatever you’re imagining, whatever you’re expecting, they’re a thousand times worse. Please be careful, Ayla. Promise me.”

“I promise, Storme,” she’d told him.

Midafternoon on the second day of travel, Ayla asked one of the guards for paper and charcoal. She knew they’d brought both along, in case they needed to send missives back to the queen. The guard gave her a piercing look, as if trying to figure out what nefarious scheme Ayla could possibly pull off with a scrap of parchment and a nub of charcoal, but evidently came up with nothing, because she gave in to Ayla’s request, and even handed her a thin, leather-bound notebook instead of a single piece of paper. Right—the guards were wary of her not because she was a human, but because they were dedicated to protecting their queen, and according to rumor, Ayla was a violent fugitive. It was a pleasant change, being distrusted for something reasonable.