The arrival of the dark fae had been little more than tea spilled onto the map of her life, scattering the ink and dissolving her plans as her slate was wiped clean.

When Zaccai spoke again, it was with quiet resolution. He stared into the crackling flame as he said, “One day, it just happened. We were fine, and then suddenly, we weren’t. For the last twenty-some years, there seems to be a curse on the border. It doesn’t matter how we cross into the southern kingdom, how high we fly, how far around we deign to go—once we cross the border into Farehold, it happens.”

Their words were illogical. Amaris’s brows collected as her lower lip rose in disbelief. She asked, “When you cross the border, you look like monsters?”

Gadriel corrected, “No, when we cross the borders, we are perceived as monsters.”

“Then why cross the border?”

Irritation flooded her. She didn’t just want to know why they’d bother to cross the border if it held such a curse; she also wanted to know why they’d put her in this position, why they’d used their demon faces to turn her friends against her. Why had they followed her? Why hadn’t they stayed behind their border and stayed far, far away from anyone who might spy them? Instead, she allowed her original question to spread thickly between them, its weight hanging in the air.

They exchanged looks. Zaccai offered, “This spell hasn’t put a stop to things that have to get done on the continent. It’s just made it substantially harder to accomplish them.”

Gadriel scowled. “We’ve lost more men than I can count.”

Amaris returned to the fire, if only to keep herself from making more enemies. She was tempted to make a comment about how they must not be great spies or warriors if they were picked off like flies, but she thought better of it. The moment she’d seen the beseul, she’d possessed the single need to end its wretched life, if only for her own survival. When Ash and Malik saw these winged fae—particularly given the rude awakening that had startled them from their sleep with the ice of carrion and death—they’d surely felt the same. She gritted her teeth, doing her best to reach for whatever emotion was closest to sympathy.

“How often does this happen?” she asked as she gestured between them across the orange of the campfire. “How often can people perceive you?”

Zaccai had been speaking for most of the night, but Gadriel looked at her very seriously for a moment, holding her eyes as he answered, “Never.”

“Never?”

Gadriel crossed his arms and leaned back into his explanation. His deep, growling voice still sent the same chill of low, dark authority she’d felt in her ear when he’d held the blade to her neck, even if his words were amicable.