She stretched and fished the laceroot seeds from her pack, letting their bitter pulp prick her awake. The pot went on the coals with a fistful of wild mint for tea. She settled beside it, running a hand through her dusty hair, and tried not to dwell on how she welcomed the quiet in the mornings now, with her two false Crows fast asleep.

Instead Fie’s mind circled round the moment, not long enough past, when she’d near done the unthinkable.

But this time, Tavin was the one who’d run.

Her face warmed, whether with humiliation or something else, she couldn’t say. Perhaps he’d thought twice on distraction with Tatterhelm on their trail. Perhaps she’d pushed his mummer’s bluff too far.

Perhaps he’d remembered she was a Crow.

She didn’t know what she’d hoped for. Oh, there were tales to be sure, songs of Sparrows and Hawks struck apart by caste law, beggars and queens, lords who gave up their caste for love of a Swan … but her faith in songs had long run dry. Only the gentry found happy endings in those songs. Only a fool would believe them true.

Only a fool would believe, for even the scarcest moment, that she’d walk a happier road with a Hawk.

She didn’t realize her stare had snagged on his sleeping face until a crackle from the embers drew it away.

Fie lost track of time as silvery light seeped into the dark overhead. Cricket-song trickled up through the grass. She sipped her mint tea and watched a lone wolf trail a cluster of shaggy goats, threading through a distant hillside of stone and brush and yellowing bramble. She’d no call to fear wolves in summer, not with fresh kill in their belly. The wolves of winter, though …

Pa’d taught her to watch the starving wolf. When beasts go hungry too long, he’d said, they forget what they ought to fear.

Now, in the dry chill of a gray dawn, Fie thought of the wolf, and then she thought of Hangdog’s tooth hanging cold on her string, and an arrow shot through an eye as the Peacock lord watched.

A twig snapped behind her.

Fie went still, every nerve flaring. When no sound followed, she let out a sigh, put down her tea, and picked up the pot.

Then in one swift twist, she flung its boiling water into the tree-barred dark at her back.

A man’s scream shattered the quiet.

A shadow broke from the trees, only to stumble straight into Fie swinging the scalding pot. He dropped. Six more shades erupted from the dark, flashing blades and teeth, but they struck too late: they’d already woken the prince and the Hawk.

The rest was a frenzy of noise, steel, and blood. One body fell, then another—and then, curiously, the last four assailants whipped back into the thinning dark.