She hadn’t frozen to death. She hadn’t bled out. She wasn’t in Farleigh. She wasn’t with Millicent. She was alive. From one morning to the next, everything in her life had been made new.

Odrin wasn’t chatty as they mounted the horse, and she didn’t mind. She didn’t feel like talking either. The only sound was the mount’s hooves on the brittle, fallen leaves.

The gradient was beautiful as the sky transitioned from grays and blues to lavenders, soft peaches, and eventually a vibrant shade of orange. Still freezing, Amaris no longer feared touching the assassin. He’d given her the saddle again as he sat behind her. He’d draped his cloak to capture their body heat, a trick so effective that Amaris nearly cried from the small warmth. The trees thinned, giving way to great, rolling hills. Deep green, ruddy orange, and thick brown foliage that may have been mosses and lichens clung to huge stones spotting the hills. Now that the forest was no longer blocking the horizon, she was able to see the deeply violet mountains in the distance.

“Are we headed north?” she asked quietly.

“That we are. Well, northeast.”

“To the Dark Kingdom?”

He laughed. “Who educated you, girl, folklorists? Only superstitious villagers who’ve never spent a day in a classroom call it such things…though I suppose you had little say over either the lessons or the ones teaching them,” he amended. Then he said, “Call the northern kingdom by its right and proper name.”

She felt a surge of bile rise in the back of her throat and tried the question again. “Are you taking me to Raascot?”

He seemed satisfied with her question this time but shook his head.

“No, girl; we’re bound for the border, just past the village of Stone.”

She perked, however dully, at the familiar name. She fixated on the purple mountains on the horizon as she summoned a memory. “One of the matrons was from Stone. She was nice, if a bit naive about the world. She said guardians lived in the cliff protecting their village.”

Odrin smiled at that, which was rare from what she knew of the man. He’d had the lines and crinkles that vouched for a life of easy smiles, but during his time with Amaris he had remained guarded. Warmth now colored his voice as he answered her.

“That is a bit naive, I suppose. I don’t think anyone outside of Stone would call us guardians.”

So he was one of them.

She sat on the horse with one of the very assassins Mable had fondly referenced. She felt her body shrink away from the man, clutching her hands into the sleeves of her cloak. Amaris didn’t mean to show cowardice, but she felt herself speak with a hollow, empty response.

“You’re one of the assassins, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “We prefer to be called reevers.”