“When that dark-haired lad smiled at Neyve, I thought she was going to fall off her horse,” the scout said. “I had to watch to make sure she didn’t sneak away and ride back to have a roll.”

“Forget the pretty boys,” another woman said. “What about the wine cellar?”

Winter’s eyes closed, unstoppably, as though they had weights attached. The smell of food made her stomach rumble, but the lure of sleep was stronger, and the voices faded away.

“Isn’t that the colonel?” someone said in the distance.

“Let him rest,” someone else said. “He’s had a long day. He’s not used to walking with the rest of us . . .”

The drums the next morning woke her into a world of pain, cramps and bruises and aching muscles. The sky was lightening back into gray, trees and soldiers stark black silhouettes against it. Winter forced herself up, feet squelching inside the still-soaked boots she hadn’t had the chance to remove, and stumbled toward the nearest collection of officers.

“Good morning, sir,” Bobby said.

She seemed unaffected by the brutal march—more gifts from Feor’s naath, if Winter had to guess. She directed a mental glare at the Infernivore. Why can’t you give me the strength of a giant or let me fly or something like that? The demon made no answer, not that she’d really expected one.

“Morning,” Winter mumbled.

“We’re less than twenty-five miles from where Janus wanted us,” Cyte said. She looked as haggard as Winter felt, eyes feverishly bright above dark circles like bruises against her pale skin. She held up the map and pointed to something Winter couldn’t manage to focus on. “I think the officers should ride with the scouts today. We need to start laying plans for tomorrow.”

“Ride.” The idea of being on a horse, of not having to lift her own legs out of the mud, sounded like heaven, but Winter couldn’t bring herself to accept it as possible. “Don’t we need the horses for foraging?”

“Rich pickings yesterday,” Bobby said. “We got more than we needed.”

“And straggling has gotten worse,” Cyte said darkly. “Which means fewer mouths to feed.”

And, no doubt, more men and women left behind, collapsed on the road or abandoned in their blankets with the shaking fever. We haven’t got a choice.

The mention of food made her suddenly, ravenously hungry, as though her stomach had been waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Bobby directed her to the remains of a campfire, where half a roast chicken sat cold and greasy on a tin plate. Winter tore it to pieces with her bare hands, pulling the thin bones apart to suck the dark meat from them and licking the grease from her fingers afterward. When she stood up, she felt a bit more human, and brushed hopelessly at her muddy, sweat-stained uniform.