He gripped her shoulders. “You have to keep the oath, Fie.”

“No—Pa, I’m no chief, I can’t!”

“You have to keep the—”

An arrow pierced the flames from behind, striking Pa in the shoulder. He dropped to a knee as the fire sputtered.

Beyond the golden flames, Fie saw a towering shadow, crowned in a helmet ragged with notches.

“Get them out,” Pa spat.

Fie shook her head, frantic. “No, no—”

Tavin dragged Jasimir to his feet, wrapped an arm around Fie’s waist, and said, “Yes, chief.”

She’d forgotten how damned fast he moved.

Fie saw walls of gilded fire. A break in the flames. A saw-edged Vulture helm. Pa’s face cracking into desperation.

And then she saw naught but blood-soaked sunset as the prince, the Hawk, and the Merciful Crow tumbled over the side of the bridge, down to the black water below.

Part Two: Traitors and Chiefs

CHAPTER NINE

IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT

Fie had never expected to die quiet.

Young, maybe. On the end of a sword, also likely. And doing what she did best: picking a fight over something easier left alone.

She did not expect to die swallowed whole. But the Fan River had done just that.

The river churned with thrashing limbs and arrows like viper strikes, gurgling through the sides of her mask. Yet beyond her glassblack eyes lay naught but the bottomless dark of the reservoir sucking at her heels.

Then Pa’s bag of teeth floated past.

Something snapped. She fought to catch at the leather—but Pa’s sword slipped free—she couldn’t lose it, she had to get them back to Pa, back to the chief—

The blade bit into her palms and fingers, and red bloomed in the water. She didn’t care. She’d return Pa’s sword or die sinking to the bottom of this damned well.

Someone yanked at her hood, dragging her up until she broke the surface. The silence of the river shattered into howling alarm horns and a roar of falling water.

“Hang on!” someone shouted before a wave slopped over Fie. The river wouldn’t give her up easy, stuffing watery fingers through the mask and into her teeth, into her nose, drowning her in wet mint leaves. The current twisted her round and round until one hip slammed into a rough stone edge.

And there the river changed its mind, flinging her away, down into a slick blur of blue tile and reeling red sky. Some ironclad panic kept her bloody arms locked around the tooth bag and the broken sword, not caring that one wrong twist could gut her like a fish. She couldn’t lose Pa’s teeth, she couldn’t lose the chief’s blade, she couldn’t, she couldn’t—

Fie tumbled into one of the boys’ backs with a solid, wet smack.