I can’t see the Iron Road from this ridge—the trees are in full leaf, obscuring the paved avenue—but we’re not watching the Road today. We aren’t gathering intelligence from troop movements. We’re going to talk to the troops themselves.

My internal clock tells me they are late.

“Could be a trap,” Tristan mutters, always eager to voice his panicked opinion. He keeps his eye firmly pressed to the scope in warning. He’s been expecting a trap since the moment Will Whistle told us about his army contacts. And now that we’re going to meet them, he’s been on edge more than usual, if that’s possible. Not a bad instinct to have, but not a helpful one at the moment. Risk is part of the game. We won’t get anywhere if we think only of our own skins.

But there is a reason only three of us are waiting,

“If it’s a trap, we’ll get out of it,” I reply. “We’ve beaten worse.”

It’s not a lie. We all have scars and ghosts of our own. Some drove us to the Scarlet Guard, and some were because of it. I know the sting of both.

My words are for Tye more than Tristan. Like all who escaped the trenches, she’s not at all happy to be back, even if she isn’t wearing a Lakelander’s blue uniform. Not that she would ever complain about this out loud. But I can tell.

“Movement.”

Tye and I crouch lower, whipping in the direction of Tristan’s gaze. The rifle nose tracks at a snail’s pace, following something in the trees. Four shadows. Outnumbered.

They emerge with their palms out, showing empty hands. Unlike the soldiers on the Road, these four have their uniforms turned inside out, favoring stained brown and black lining over their usual rust colors. Better camouflage for the woods. Not to mention their names and ranks. I can’t see any insignia or badges of any kind. I have no idea who they are.

A calm breeze rustles the grass. It ripples like a pond disturbed by a single stone, its green waves breaking against the four as they approach in single file. I narrow my eyes at their feet. They’re careful to step in the leader’s footprints. Any tracker would think only one person came this way, not four. Smart.

A woman leads, her jaw like an anvil. She’s missing both her trigger fingers. Unable to shoot, but still a soldier, judging by the crags of weariness on her face. Like the willowy, copper-skinned girl on her heels, her head is shaved to the scalp.

Two men bring up the rear. They are young, both probably within their first year of conscription. Neither is scarred or visibly injured, so they can’t be masquerading as wounded back in Corvium. Supply soldiers, most likely. Lucky to haul crates of ammunition and food. Although the second, the one at the very back, seems too slight for manual labor.

The bald woman stops ten feet away, her palms still raised. Too close for both our liking. I force myself to stand from the grass and close the distance between us. Tye and Tristan keep still, not hidden, but not moving either.