Emptiness curdled where he’d been. Fie swallowed, then scrubbed her face dry with tight fists and coiled down in the lukewarm sand.

Sleep dragged her off despite the hurricane in her head and her heart, and didn’t let her go until day broke across her face.

Fie woke to a mouthful of sand, a sliver of dawn slicing through the sandpines, and a strange sound drifting through the cool air. The tide had come in, pushing waves up only a score of paces from their camp. At the copse’s edge, Tavin sat, eyes on the sunrise, humming. If it was a song, she didn’t know it, halting and uneven, a melody meant for one voice alone.

Fie rolled to her knees. Tavin looked to her, the song halting. Something flashed through his eyes, something neither of them had words for, still somewhere between I need you and I’m sorry.

Then his head whipped about to stare at Cheparok. He shuffled back into cover. “Someone’s coming,” he muttered, and shook Jasimir’s shoulder.

Fie crept to the edge, peering through the brush. Two figures emerged from the dunes, looking to and fro before settling on the sandpines.

The sand at Fie’s back hissed as the prince sat up. “I think the one in gray is a local,” Tavin whispered. “The other is Viimo. She’s one of Rhusana’s best trackers.”

Fie guessed Viimo to be the ruddy-faced skinwitch with a cap of pale curls who looked a few years older than them.

A skinwitch. A Vulture. Fie’s heart began to pound.

The woman shushed the man at her side, then reached for a belt of narrow iron cylinders.

A Vulture. One of Tatterhelm’s trackers. One of the queen’s best.

Jasimir inhaled sharp. “That’s a flare. She’s calling for—”

They never found out. Tavin thrust out a hand, and Viimo and her guide fell to their knees, frozen.

Fie stared. She’d forgotten the Hawk blood Birthright meant more than healing.

“Hurry,” Tavin gritted through his teeth, and she saw red blooming in his eyes as vessels burst. “Knock them out, tie them up, whatever you do—hurry.”

Fie’s heartbeat roared in her ears.

Jasimir started to climb through the copse. Fie beat him to it.

She hurled herself at Viimo, knocking her to the sand, a furious scream rising above the roar of the sea. Fie clawed and scratched and rained blows upon any flash of skinwitch she saw. Her own fists split at the knuckles, but she didn’t care, spitting curse after curse through the blood and the pain until Jasimir pulled her off.

She’d been in a handful of scrapes in her life; she’d lived a handful of scrapes through the teeth of the dead. She wasn’t a particular gifted fighter, for that did not a long-lived Crow make.