They had invaded on black horses, spears dipped in wizard-wrought potions to make each death quick, to turn each nonlethal stab into inevitable destruction. They had claimed nearly all of the Eastern Steppes before they had met Ivinscont’s army, stronger and cleverer than they had anticipated. There had been death on both sides, violent, ugly death, each soldier facing their end with cold certainty. It had been the sort of war that could have no victor.

Seeing no end to the bloodshed, two kings signed a treaty for peace. They were the fathers of the men who now sat upon their thrones. The late kings had kept to the treaty. The new kings . . . well, there was really no way of knowing. So Ivinscont needed to be prepared, always prepared, in case those black horses rode from the east once more.

“Koravia?” James tugged at his chestnut curls, now gone entirely to frizz. “What, are we supposed to just go east? We’re fugitives!”

“We’re not going east.”

“But—Vel, was it?—Vel. That’s where Koravia is.”

Brella sucked her teeth. “We’ll explain on the way. We need to get into the forest before the sun rises and the King’s Guard figures out you’ve gone.”

“The forest?” James turned desperately to Scratch for support. “We’ll die there. We have no weapons!”

“We have weapons,” Vel volunteered.

James looked unconvinced. “Such as?”

“Bows.”

“And Scratch? I can handle a bow—” a gross understatement “—but Scratch is for swords.”

Vel tapped a thoughtful a finger against his jaw. “We have kitchen knives?”

“There isn’t time for this,” Brella snarled, a braid flopping over her shoulder. “If we don’t get out of here soon, it’s your heads.”

“Can I borrow some pants?”

Everyone turned. Scratch stood, picking at her waistband, her skin aflame. She didn’t know whether to cry or fight or vomit or lie down and let the exhaustion carry her away. In her chest, ribs squeezed around a ragged heart, too drained for fear, or perhaps beyond it. She was spent, her final stores empty. Anything she did from here on out would be drawing strength from muscle and bone, depleting her.

Everything had been taken from her. The least she could get in return were some comfortable pants.

“These, uh, won’t suit,” she continued. Brella’s eyes were narrowed, her gaze a burning thing. “If we’ll be riding.”

Brella shook her head. “We’re walking.”

“Regardless. Do you . . .”

Vel made towards a chest in the corner. “I’ve got something that might fit. They’re Leif’s.”

“Our brother,” Iris called from the couch. “He’s eleven.”

“Here.” Vel tossed her a wad of cotton. “You can change over there.”

She shuffled toward the indicated partition, keeping her back to the wall, and struggled out of her pant-manacles. Sure enough, a neat rip gaped in the seat like a dark, mocking mouth.