I think about telling Lucien and Fione and Mal. But then I get a horrifying thought—if I can see through her, can she see through me? Am I endangering everyone? Again? But I have to stop her. I have to stay with them and stop her.

All I can do is put my boots on, one lace at a time.

The village is sorry to see us go.

They stand at the edge of the ruin that was once their home, a nauseating mixture of mud and blackened char squelching beneath so many pairs of boots. The mosquitos are out in full force, the air heavy and muggy with a looming thunderstorm, but they couldn’t care less, gathered as they are, waving their prince off down the road.

“We could’ve taken more cheese,” Malachite drawls, his arms packed full of paper-wrapped wheels of the stuff.

“You look ridiculous,” I tease. “Like you’re about to tip over.”

“Into a bed, hopefully, where I will stay for the rest of the season.”

“Nonsense,” Fione says as she passes us, cane thumping more easily in the drier mud of the road. “You have work to do. We all do.”

“Ravenshaunt is twenty-five miles northeast,” Lucien asserts, looking at a half-burned map the headman palmed to him before we left.

“Should we commandeer a horse? Or four?” Malachite asks, adjusting cheeses so his hand can twitch back toward the blade strapped to his spine.

“No,” Lucien says. “When we get closer, I can teleport us.”

“No, you will not,” I start. “Save your energy.”

Lucien’s eyes grow tired and thin as he looks over at me. “My magic is a tool, Zera. It should be used.”

“Yes,” I agree lightly. “But not for every little thing. We have legs, Lucien. We can walk.”

“It would be faster to—”

“I’m not going to have you lose another hand just because—”

I bite my tongue too late, and not hard enough. Malachite and Fione go still, the birds in the trees go still, and Lucien makes a clicking sound.

Malachite starts toward him, cheeses spilling. “Luc, you can’t do this horseshit so lightly—”

“It’s not horseshit,” Fione says evenly. “It’s magic.” She fixes her gaze on the prince, periwinkle-blue turning icy on the edges. “Which means it’s dangerous. You have to treat it with respect.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand,” I interrupt Lucien. “You’re important to us. You’re the one who ties us together—ties the whole fucking country together. Sacrificing parts of yourself to stop Varia faster is not how we do this.”

“Then, pray tell.” He snarls. “How do we do this? You obviously know better than I.”

of course we know better. The hunger grows louder, as if it’s echoing his anger. silly young thing, we’ve been fighting before you, shedding blood before you—