The Empress spotted it too, and with only a wordless glance passing between them, they spun together and ran. Away from the sea, away from the warships, away from whatever strangeness the Well had brought out between them.

At the foot of the Origin Well, a jungle awaited. Thick with ferns and pines, overpowering in its sound: cicadas, birds, glowing insects Vivia didn’t recognize. For several moments, as she and Vaness staggered off the steep stairs that led to the Well, she had no idea where to go. She couldn’t hear the ocean, couldn’t hear the falls, and all around her was damp forest brightening with dawn’s first glow. What had once been a path was now overrun by stinging nettle.

And those several moments of confusion made all the difference. Right as she’d decided which way to run—which way was Noden’s Gift because the river, near and singing, slithered from that way—Yoris and his hunters coalesced from the trees. Tens of them, camouflaged and silent. Vivia might never have seen them if Yoris hadn’t stridden directly toward her, slashing at nettle with his cutlass and face gleaming with the humidity. There was just enough sunrise to see his scowl.

“A valiant effort, Princess.” He came to a stop fifteen paces away. “But ultimately a failure.”

Vivia blinked at him. She had no idea what nonsense he was spewing, and her attempt to count the hunters was failing. They blended too well into the jungle, and each time she reached twenty-three, she lost count again. There was no missing their crossbows, though. Or their drawn blades.

Not that those would be any trouble for Vaness, whose bracelets coiled and whose blood—like Vivia’s—now skipped with the power of a healing Well.

“Come peacefully,” Yoris said, “and my people won’t use their weapons.”

Vivia scoffed. She didn’t mean to, but the laugh simply burst out from her. “You think we’re trying to escape? We were attacked by Dalmotti assassins, you old fool. And no thanks to your guards, we managed to stop them.”

“Oh, we know about the assassins.” Yoris beckoned to some unseen hunter in the trees.

Leaves rustled, and ferns parted. Then two hunters stalked out, and clasped between them was a familiar Windwitch in black. His head hung limp against his chest. Every few moments, he mumbled something and drool slid down his chin. Eddies of harmless wind swirled around him.

Drugged, Vivia realized—the same drug they’d used on Vaness, presumably. But to make it worse, the man was wounded. It was almost invisible in the shadows, with his clothing pure black, but the wetness of his breaths gave it away. And once he was fifteen paces away, dawn light glittered over a bloody hole in his shoulder.