“I, for one, am not convinced,” another voice said, dry. Fie had heard that one before, grating through dust and smoke … Jasimir had called her Draga—

Her eyes flew open and saw only stone.

Fie blinked and craned her aching head about, tallying up the surroundings. Stone walls, stone floors, stone ceiling, diamond-shaped windows letting in near-sunset light. Dark figures at a desk. Another figure crouching by her side.

The weight of her swords was gone. Fie threw a hand to her throat and found the string of teeth untouched, Pa’s tooth yet humming.

Trust Hawks to take her steel but leave her teeth.

“Stay still,” the first voice ordered, the one who’d announced her awakening. A little sting of pain darted through Fie’s right leg. She blinked once more and found herself sprawled on a low wood bench. A bloody arrow lay on the ground nearby. Someone had cut gashes through her wool leggings—likely the Hawk woman at her side, who was frowning at the gore. Fie felt naught but a faint unpleasant tickle until the woman rocked back and stood. “All done. It’ll be stiff for a day. Expect flashburn scars.”

The healer didn’t address Fie, instead directing her report to the woman across the room. Now that Fie could see her plain, it was clear the master-general did not need the mammoth in order to loom. Draga hadn’t bothered changing out of her dusty leather armor; the only concession she’d made was a discarded helmet, which was leaving a rim of sweat on the parchment scattered across the desk. Fie saw the family resemblance between her and Jasimir at once: same dark gold skin, same sharp jaw, same lean build.

Where Jasimir fidgeted in a chair before the master-general, however, his aunt all but lounged against the desk, the picture of ease. “Good work, Corporal Lakima.” Draga nodded to the healer, who saluted and posted herself at the door.

She’d dealt with Fie’s wounds faster and more painlessly than Tavin ever had. He’d been right about being a middling healer after all. Fie sat up and stretched out her sore leg. “Where are we?”

“Inside Trikovoi,” Draga answered. “The fort’s commander has generously lent us his office. Corporal, please arrange for food and water to be sent up. The children look rather peaked.”

“I can escort you to a location more … suitable for the master-general,” Corporal Lakima said with the kind of delicacy that suggested the commander’s office had not been lent so much as commandeered.

Draga glanced at her, something metallic tinkling in her gray-streaked black hair. Her smile showed a few too many teeth. “I find this office suits me, corporal. I’d hate to refuse the commander’s generosity. Oh, and if you would? Send wine, too.”