His bitter smile mocked himself more than me. “I remember your visits from when we were children. You always convinced Tamin to play with you and that fireblood. You’d ride back filthy after making castles in the mud or climbing trees. You’re she, aren’t you? You’re Janel Danorak.”

“My family name is Theranon. You’re one of Baron Barsine’s pledge men?”

“Was.” A pained expression crossed his face. “But you are Danorak?”

The bandits had been a noisy gaggle of birds fretting over their leader’s injury, but with that question, all talking stopped. Every eye turned to me.

I sighed. “I’m merely someone who ended up in a Hellmarch’s path.”

He chuckled. “Humble too.”

“No, I’m not—” But I bit off the rest of my sentence without finishing. I had been warned my entire life never to tell what really happened at Lonezh Canton when the demons had rampaged through its borders. As a result, I never corrected people when they wove myths from my childhood horrors.

For those unfamiliar with Joratese history, Danorak was a fireblood. He rode Jorat’s length and breadth for a week straight—without food, drink, or rest. He warned the human and fireblood herds to reach high ground before Emperor Kandor flooded the Endless Canyon to force our tyrant god-king into the open, where he could be slain.

Once Danorak had saved everyone, he dropped dead from exhaustion.

The Lonezh Hellmarch had started because some witch in Marakor had summoned a demon more powerful than they could control. The results were predictable and only ended after a large swath of Jorat and an entire canton—Lonezh—had been depopulated.

People started calling me Danorak afterward. Word spread I’d run for days, a step ahead of the demons, to warn Emperor Sandus about the invasion. They meant it as a badge of honor. Instead, it served as a reminder of how my life, my reputation, was based on a lie.

No one outruns demons, especially not an eight-year-old girl.

I didn’t want to talk about the Hellmarch. So I turned my attention to Brother Qown, still patching up their leader. “Will she be able to travel?”

“I’m right here,” the woman said, struggling to sit.

“Stop that,” Brother Qown chided. “I haven’t finished setting your leg.”

“You touch my leg again and I’ll show you how hard I can kick with the other one.”

“I have to—” My priest turned to me for aid. “Count, please, would you explain to her that I’m trying to help?”

“Trying to get a peek at my legs, that’s what you’re trying to do.”

Dorna laughed. “He ain’t. Our Qown here is a gelding through and through.” Her grin widened. “They are pretty legs, though. I’ll look if he don’t.”

Qown closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

“What’s your name?” I asked the woman I had defeated.