They were close. They would beat Tatterhelm to Trikovoi, and Pa would be her chief again, and the prince would be someone else’s problem, and Tavin … she couldn’t dwell on Tavin.

She wrung out the sodden clothes and pulled on her dry spares, then padded back, sandals in hand. A bowl of dinner sat by the campfire; Prince Jasimir brushed past her, wordlessly bearing an armful of dishes and dirty clothes to the spring. Tavin was nowhere to be seen. She scowled. That meant he’d taken her watch.

The glamour still needed to be pasted on again, no matter how tired she was. Fie laid her wet clothes out to dry by the fire, then plucked the bowl from the ground and went in search of the Hawk.

She found him near the mouth of the cave, a handful of pelts at his side to ward off the frosty night ahead. Indigo pines carpeted the valley below them; threads of lightning stitched a sky plush with storm clouds.

Tavin glanced back at her, and something like the lightning flickered through his eyes. Then that old, practiced paper-screen look walled it off once more.

Fie decided the glamour could wait until after she’d eaten. She sat beside him, shoveling rice and pork into her mouth with dried panbread. The air’s chill slid down her waterlogged hair, clinging to her scalp. “This is my watch.”

“How far off are they?” he asked quietly.

Fie put one hand on a stolen fur, then called the Vulture tooth back to life. It showed her a clear path through the trees this time, somewhere beyond the storm. Less than a day off now. Creeping closer.

She pointed to the ridge. “Out there. They won’t reach us tonight, but…”

Tavin nodded. She waited for some new foolery: a jest about cave ghosts, a jibe about his cooking, anything. It didn’t come.

“I can hide us again,” she offered.

“They already know we’ve stopped here. Save your strength.”

“Then let me take watch.” A cold wind buffeted her, chased by a soft rumble of thunder.

Tavin winced. “It’s fine. You deserve a—”

“Talk plain,” Fie interrupted, chewing over another mouthful of dinner. “You don’t want to deal with the prince. What’s got you so riled up? None of what he said was a surprise.”

Tavin studied the horizon a long while before he spoke. “You remember the game I showed you? Twelve Shells?”

“Aye.”

“Remember how I said the palace plays its own versions?”

“Aye. What’s it to do with the prince?”

“How many castes are there in Sabor, Fie?”

Twelve. Twelve castes, all told. She began to see where he was going. “How does it work?”

“Each shell has a caste, and a value.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “The Crow shell is worthless.”

“And if there’s a draw … whoever has the Crow shell loses the game.”