“Don’t be absurd.” The genteel Oleander ran an idle finger over his mask, pacing slow about the camp. “These are Crows. They’re as dull as they are lazy.”

Heat simmered in Fie’s throat, in her belly, in her spine. Teach them to burn.

Smoke trickled through her fingers.

Then the Oleander lord snatched a torch from a rider and strode to the edge of camp, staring out into the dark forest.

He stopped dead beneath their tree. Beneath the prince’s trembling dagger.

The spark in the Phoenix tooth fell silent.

“They’re filth,” the lord said loud, thrusting his torch out into the night. He meant to taunt them, shake them from their cover. If Hangdog had stayed, that might have worked. “You hear me? FILTH.”

The plain, hard wooden face turned this way and that, scanning the trees. Torchlight oozed around the blade above.

Light puckered over the dagger’s jeweled hilt as it rocked on the bough. One end dipped. Fie’s eyes darted from the man to the dagger and back. Dead gods be kind.

“They’re the true plague of Sabor!” the man screamed behind his mask. “They extort us for our hard-earned property, then steal our children, our spouses, even our prince!”

The dagger slid a finger-width, then tipped swiftly back the other way. One branch above, the prince sucked in a breath.

“The gods weep for every breath we allow a Crow to take! And there will be no peace, no purity, until this blight is purged from our land!”

With a flash, the dagger slid off the branch.

Three things happened at once:

The Oleander lord turned on his heel.

Fie poured every ounce of her strength into the Sparrow tooth clenched in her fist.

And the dagger vanished in midair.

There was a tiny thud, and a razor-thin line where the point of the unseen blade jabbed into the dirt. The Oleander stopped, back to them.

Fie’s skull pounded, the camp swimming in her sight. Every bone rattled and whined. A copper tang singed her throat. Too far, she’d stretched the tooth-spark too far—but she couldn’t let go, not now—

The Oleander lord strolled over to the wagon.

“‘Feed the Crows,’” he drawled, disgusted. “Better to starve the damned leeches.”

With a flick of the wrist, he dropped his torch on the wagon’s top.

Fie cringed, her grip on the branch going white-knuckled as she fought to stay upright. Flames spread like a blanket over the dry wagon wood. If they were lucky, someone in the trees had smuggled out a stash of food. If not, they were in for a lean few days. Even a sack of rice …

A horrible thought near felled her from the tree then and there. No, there had been such a commotion before they took to the trees, for sure—

Her heart sank as a confused mew pierced the night.