So close. They were so close to Rhodaire, and there was so little we could do against them. Without the crow, without the aid of the other kingdoms, these soldiers would destroy us.

* * *

The air grew colder as we journeyed farther north, the nights even more so, until I had to sleep in sweaters or inside the carriage to keep warm.

“Why don’t you sleep by the fire?” Ericen asked me one day in the carriage.

“Why don’t you talk to your soldiers every night?” I returned.

We both fell silent after that.

The next night, I retreated to the carriage after dinner. Kiva came with me, though the seats were too short for her to lie across comfortably. The days of travel made sleep come easily, and I’d nearly drifted off when I felt it. A prickle at the back of my neck. A warning. Did the carriage feel warmer? My half-asleep brain fought to process the sense of heat building near my head.

My eyes flashed open. Orange coated the inside of the carriage, flames dancing in the windows.

The carriage shook, and my heart quaked along with it as I scrambled to sit up, to understand.

The carriage was on fire.

Move! The word ripped through my mind, but my body refused. In the firelight, I saw embers falling from the sky like rain. I felt ash coating my skin, my nose, my throat. I heard myself screaming.

The memories clung to me like smoke, refusing to let me breathe.

Kiva rolled to a crouch on the floor, seizing Sinvarra. People shouted, one voice above the rest. A familiar voice.

The fire vanished.

I sucked in a ragged breath, the sudden darkness startling me. My gaze stayed fixed on the nearest window, the afterimage of flames a vicious sunset every time I blinked. How could the fire just disappear?

I felt myself trembling as Kiva threw open the door and leapt out. I hesitated, afraid for one senseless moment the fire would reappear to claim me. Then Ericen yelled. The carriage shook again. I sprang through the door, landing unsteadily on my feet. Kiva seized my arm, holding me upright, and I nearly collapsed against her, relishing the bite of the cold, fresh air.

Ericen had one of his guards up against the carriage, one of the man’s hands pinned to the side, where it clutched an extinguished torch. Two other guards lay groaning on the ground, torches at their sides. Slowly, the scene came together.

The carriage had never been on fire. It’d been a trick. A cruel prank.