Calenne’s steed crashed into the forest, resisting her every attempt to bring it under control. She alternated between sawing madly on its reins and clinging on for dear life. Uneven ground and the press of undergrowth transformed headlong flight into jolting, jarring torment.

At last, she could hold on no longer. The reins ripped from her hands, and she crashed into the underbrush. The hillside claimed her. She rolled over and over, the world a blur of light, muted colour and skinned knees. Branches tore her skin. Ravens cawed and took wing, disturbed from their roosts.

Her back struck something solid. With a heartfelt groan, she propped herself upright. Her whole body felt like one vast bruise.

“The Trelan luck’s holding true to form,” she muttered.

Then she remembered that Anliss was dead – Armund too, most likely – and felt ashamed. The Trelan luck had kept her alive. She should be thankful for that.

Hadari voices sounded beyond the ridge. Calenne pressed close to the statue that had broken her fall. She cursed her missing sword and shield, lost in the hillside descent. She counted to ten before standing. She clutched herself tight and wondered why she shivered so. It was only natural for it to be cool beneath the trees, even when the sun blazed beyond. But this . . . ? This was different.

She took a step away from the statue. Ice crunched beneath her boot, plunging her foot into the stream. She pressed a wrist to her mouth too late. Her yelp of surprise echoed up, deafeningly loud to her own ears. There were no cries of discovery, nor even the straining wings of panicked birds. Everything remained quiet and still. Even the ongoing roar of battle sounded like something raging on distant fields, rather than less than a mile away.

She caught her breath and took another step, this time onto the rocky stream-bank. Remnants of fluted columns and walls reached back through the brambles to a cave mouth buried in the hillside. And as for the statue itself . . .

It had once been a woman of stately build with a preference for figure-hugging dresses. The head was long gone and the body so overgrown with white-flowering briar that she could make no guess as to identity. Lumestra? Ashana? Some other divine presence?

There was something about the statue – headless and enswathed though it was – that seemed familiar. It called to her. She felt . . . She felt like she had the night Viktor used his magic on Anastacia. As if there was another skin beneath the one that puckered in the cold. It wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t anything. It simply . . . was.

Breath misting the air, she reached out. A raven alighted on the ruin of the marble shoulder with an indignant caw. Calenne snatched back her hand and glared at the bird. It peered back, glassy eyes curious but unconcerned.

“Do I have the pleasure of greeting Calenne Trelan?”