I’d leave him lost in the streets, spook his horse into throwing him off, lead him down a dark alley and—No. He was right. I couldn’t do so much as scratch him, or he might end everything. Somehow, I had to stay calm, had to keep from letting him push me off the edge.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, I urged my horse onward.

We passed through the Kerova Wing, once home to the shadow crows. The clatter of our horse’s hooves echoed like an unanswered call, the hot air still and thick with humidity, making me long for the mist water crows used to trail in their wakes as they soared overhead.

“There’s not much to see here,” Ericen said. His rough voice stuck out like a dove among crows.

“Then let’s move on.” While Ericen saw nothing, my eyes found only shuttered windows and smoke-stained walls, all blurring with memories of a night filled with fire and blood.

We went through the Turren Wing next, once home to the battle crows. Smiths called prices above the din of hammers and conversation, standing behind tables laden with weapons or in open doorways to larger storerooms. Thick heat wafted from outdoor forges, now small and hand-fed. There’d been a time when the Turren smiths shared the heat and power of the central forge, a massive structure at the heart of the wing that had fed countless other forges. Without fire crows to keep it blazing, it now lay cold and dormant.

Ash smudged the stone and brick buildings, sparks crackling like snapping bone. I stuck to the center of the broad streets, well away from any flames, and focused on my breathing. We still had over half the tour to go; I couldn’t lose it now.

Ericen cast a disdainful look down at the beggars lining the streets. Half the shops were closed, many sellers ousted to small tables along the main road without enough money for rent. He had no idea what these people had once done, the magic they’d once created.

The first time I saw a battle crow armor up, its feathers turning sleek and metallic, I’d screamed. At four years old, I’d thought the crow was dying. Then it’d released one of its gold-veined black feathers like an arrow, and a Turren smith had dropped it into a melting pot over a simmering fire. When Estrel had explained it was how we made black gold, a rare metal stronger than the finest steel, I’d prayed to the Saints for a black gold weapon of my own.

Estrel remembered. She gave me my bow for my tenth birthday.

Ericen slowed his horse to walk alongside mine. “Does it unsettle you, knowing your people could betray you again at any moment?”

My head snapped toward him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”