The heat of the sun beats down on the dusty roads as if personally offended by their existence. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, trailing a long unpleasant line down the ridge of my spine. Clouds gather in the distance but they’re far enough away that I don’t think we have to worry about them. Not yet at least. Though the weather here is often unpredictable. The sky can sometimes spit out a storm faster than you can find shelter. I mumble a quick prayer that this particular storm keeps its distance. I am miserable enough as it is without being caught in that nonsense.

Rather a long ride was putting it mildly.

“My ass hurts,” Ana whines. Her earlier anger has gone out of her. It was too strong to maintain for the hours we’ve been on the road. And honestly, I think what she needed was a purpose. A goal. She can be like a musket, my Ana. Full of gunpowder lying dormant, waiting for the right spark, waiting to be aimed at the rich target.

“You should ride more,” I say. “You’re sore because you don’t work those muscles enough.”

Ana affects an irritatingly high-pitched voice to parrot my words back at me. “You’re sore because you don’t work those muscles enough.”

“And yet, I’m still right.” I frown as the horizon behind Ana darkens. “That doesn’t look good.”

Ana follows my gaze and likewise frowns.

The clouds that I was fairly confident were far enough away are now alarmingly not far enough away at all. They’re far too close for comfort.

“Oh.” Ana’s hands tighten on her reins. Tornado whinnies, high and afraid, as if he can sense the change in the air. “I don’t like that at all.”

Rocinante tosses his mane, pawing at the ground.

I lean down, stroking his neck.

“Hush, my sweet.” I glance up at Ana. “He doesn’t like it either.”

My poor horse whinnies and neighs, shuffling in place as the sky darkens.

Ana tosses me a smirk over her shoulder. “For a horse named Rocinante, he’s awfully skittish.”

Normally, I’d rise to her bait. No one speaks ill of my baby. But right now, we have bigger problems.

“What can I say? He’s governed by his passions.” And right now, he is passionately afraid of thunder and, in the way only animals can, he can sense it brewing in the air. I pat his neck again. He leans into the touch, comforted.

“Steady on, Rocinante,” I say. “We’ll find shelter.” A quick glance at our surroundings is less promising. “Somewhere…”

A sudden crack of thunder rends the sky, booming so loudly it makes my bones shake.