He didn’t stir, watching her. This time the look on his face said a solitary thing:

What do you want, Fie?

She knew full well how fast he could move. That if he wanted, Pa’s sword would be on the bricks and she’d be next to it. But he knew how many Phoenix teeth were in that bag. And if she wanted, she could light him ablaze, light this city ablaze, light Sabor ablaze from mountain to coast, all before she hit the ground.

Almost all of her wanted to. Wanted out, out of this city, out of the deal, out of the oath she’d danced her way into.

Crows had one rule. Look after your own.

Her own were on that bridge—

Her own were scattered across Sabor.

“Your father said to keep the oath,” Tavin said, staring down the broken end of the sword.

“Damn you,” Fie screamed.

He stepped away from the corridor.

What do you want, Fie?

She wanted to throw Pa’s sword so far, she could forget she’d ever seen it saw at a throat. She wanted to kick Tavin’s teeth out and use them to heal herself of everything Hawks had done to her today. She wanted to teach the lord-governor of the Fan the price for crossing a Crow witch.

Fie lurched forward. Caught herself. The hallway gaped two paces ahead. Her hand burned, bled on the hilt of the sword. She stumbled one more pace.

Give them fire, hissed the Phoenix teeth.

Get out, her gut hissed back.

All of her wanted to.

But it wasn’t her oath to break. It was Pa’s.

It wasn’t just her price to pay. It was every Crow’s.

She could burn it all down and run. But that was the way of dead royals who got what they wanted and didn’t have to give a damn who paid for it.

Fie stood, motionless, for a long moment.

Then she stuck the sword through her sash, slumped against the wall, and stuck out a bloody hand.

And at that moment, Fie found what her Chief voice sounded like.

“Fix my hand. And tell me where in the twelve hells we’re going.”

CHAPTER TEN

CHIEF VOICE

“The Marovar.”

“What?” Jasimir straightened. “We’ll never make it in time. And Aunt Draga hates me.”

Tavin carefully took hold of Fie’s arm once more. “She doesn’t hate you,” he said, brow furrowing. Heat burrowed into Fie’s muscles again. “She’s master-general of the King’s Legions. She doesn’t have enough time in the day to waste it on hating you.”

“Last time she made the march to the palace, she called Father gilded dung.”

“So she doesn’t like the king,” Tavin amended. “She serves him anyway. And that doesn’t mean she hates you.”

“She said I was so soft, they must not have gilded me yet.”