As the hours wore on, Amaris grew increasingly lucid about the weight of her decisions and the consequences that may result from following an assassin into the woods. She shifted uncomfortably at the thought. She had spent no time around men. She’d known boys at the manor—both cruel and stupid. She knew the bishop—pious and crooked. She believed little of men, save for the certainty that the lesser sex had never given her a reason to trust them.

When Amaris didn’t respond, he tried again. “There’s a village not too far from here. It’s not big, but I need to meet a bishop about settling a debt. You should be able to catch a ride from there.”

“A bishop?” she asked, paling. The fear in her voice must have been clear.

“It’s not about you, girl,” he clarified. His thick brows furrowed curiously. “We help the kingdoms with… Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. When I speak with him, feel free to find yourself a ride. I’ll make sure you’re safely on the road to wherever you’re going before I leave you.”

“Wherever I’m going?” she repeated. Amaris hadn’t considered it. She had never planned to go anywhere without Nox.

The man’s frown deepened as he asked, “Where are your people?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t have any people.”

He considered this. “And the woman at the orphanage?”

“She was buying me for her brothel,” Amaris responded. She kept her eyes on the fire, her tone quiet and monotonous as if she didn’t dare attach feeling to her words.

He blinked. It had undoubtedly been clear that he wasn’t in a holy place, but this particular piece of information appeared to rattle him.

“Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

She let her lashes flutter to a close as her mind wandered to the only plans she and her friend—her partner, her person, her missing piece in this world—had ever made. She thought of the blue expanse of the sea and how it was said to meet the horizon in an endless, salty sense of openness.

“I suppose I want to go to the southern coast, where it’s warm.”

He nodded at that. They didn’t attempt further conversation.

Amaris took the time to wash the blood from her face as best as she could. She used the clean cloth as a compression against the gash that had skipped her eye but had otherwise marred her from her forehead to her cheek. Once she began washing the wound, she found even the simple tug of the cloth had reopened it to a fresh flow of blood.

“Good. Now that it’s clean, press some of the tonic directly into the wound.”

“But it’s still bleeding,” she argued.

“That’s a good thing. It’s more effective without the risk of dirt or infection.”