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The Falcons circled the Companions like wolves running down prey. Their bright-eyed sand mares kept rigid formation, trained to perfection. Their flanks gleamed ebony, chestnut, and gold, their saddles worked into the shape of dark wings. The Falcons wore black robes—the loose outer layer trapped the desert heat, keeping their clothing and skin cool beneath. Their heads were wrapped in similar fabric, marked only by braids of gold, silver, and royal blue thread. No helmets, no armor. It would only slow them down in the desert. But each bore a brace of daggers, their fine leather belts crossed at the chest, with a sword lashed to each saddle. The blades were like Sorasa’s own, bronzed steel, but far more beautiful in their crafting.

The sand kicked up in a small whirlwind, hanging in the air even as the horses stopped short. They faced inward, their riders intent and alert. But the Falcons did not move to attack. Their swords remained sheathed, their mouths shut.

To Sorasa’s surprise, she saw no king among them, though the Falcons were charged to defend him always. Every man upon a sand mare was young and lean, forming a wall of keen eyes and still hands. Sorasa searched their faces for another leader, hunting for the telltale flicker of authority. Beneath their head coverings, Sorasa noted bronze skin, black eyes, and strong brows. These were men of the Ibalet coast and the Ziron River, the rich cities. Most were sons of wealthy lords, diplomats, generals, scholars. Given to the king, no doubt, pledged in hopes of gaining more favor.

Not like me at all,Sorasa realized.Taken from a wrecked slave ship, saved from death or chains.

A few riders stared back at her, not meeting her gaze. But they eyed her clothing, her Amhara dagger. Her tattooed hands and neck. Symbols of who she was once, and where she came from.

She watched them harden, black eyes turning to jet, foreheads furrowing with grim disgust. Guardians of the king held no love for assassins.One might even call us natural enemies,Sorasa thought. Her heart thumped in her chest, her pulse rising from its steady rhythm.

At her side, Dom shifted, his emerald gaze passing over her, a question in his eyes.He can hear my heartbeat,Sorasa knew, battling a swell of shame. She gritted her teeth, trying to calm her own heartbeat.He can hear my fear.

Forty Falcons will not hesitate to kill someone like me, even if I am no longer Amhara.Her jaw tightened in frustration.Even if I’m trying to save the realm from total destruction.

Then Dom opened his mouth and chased all her fears away, replacing them with embarrassment.

“We are the Companions, the Ward’s last hope,” he shouted, his greatsword drawn. The massive blade still looked idiotic to Sorasa’s eye. She winced as his proud voice boomed into the desert. “You will not stand in our way.”

A cloud of amusement crossed some of the Falcons, their eyes crinkling.

Sorasa wanted to smack the immortal.Does he realize how ridiculous he sounds?

“My apologies, but I do not know who the Companions are,” a voice answered from the line of riders.

Sorasa’s eyes flew to him, their leader. Nothing distinguished him from the rest, but he raised a hand, pulling the coverings on his face away. He was roughly handsome, wearing his forty or so years well. He had a strong, curved nose and a neat black beard flecked with gray. She noted the laugh lines around his mouth, carved deep by a life of smiles.Odd, for a Falcon. Odder still for a Falcon without a king to defend.

The fool Elder was undeterred. He shifted to stand in front of Corayne, guarding her from view. “I am Domacridhan, a prince of Iona—”

Sorasa’s elbow found his ribs. They felt like granite. “Let me do the talking, you stupid troll,” she growled under her breath.

To his credit, Dom took the insult in stride, his usual scowlbarely a flash on his lips.Either he’s getting used to me or he knows better than to argue surrounded by forty soldiers.

Charlie hissed somewhere behind them, fear lacing his words. “Then you’d betterstarttalking, Sorasa. I’m not just going to stand here and wait to be killed.”

“If they meant to kill us, you would already be dead, Priest,” Sigil answered, lazily stroking her ax.

Sorasa ignored them both, her eyes on the leader. She studied his face, trying to read his manner to no avail.

“The Falcons are sworn to protect Amdiras an-Amsir, King of Ibal, Grand Lord of the Fleets, the Protector of the Shirans, the Prince of Salt.” She rattled off the many titles of their king with ease. Her voice sharpened. “But I do not see him here. What wind blows the Falcons so far from their king?”

A muscle ticked in the commander’s cheek. He held her gaze, his lips pulling into a frown. The smile lines disappeared. “What contract sends an Amhara to slaughter an entire town?”

“You think that was me?” Sorasa half laughed, putting a hand to her chest. “I’m flattered, but you know that isn’t the Amhara way. Gallish soldiers, on the other hand...” Her voice hardened, teeth on edge. “They flatten cities for the love of their queen.”

The commander did not answer, his frown still pulled.

Sorasa pointed back to Nezri with her chin, her jaw tightening. “Go on, send one of your pigeons into town. Check the bodies. Check thearmor. You’ll find lions all over the oasis. And mind the sea serpents. I’m not sure we killed them all,” Sorasa added.

The commander did not flinch. Did not scoff or laugh or dismiss her. He did not even blink.

Corayne shifted behind the cage of Dom and Andry’s protection. She waved them back before they could stop her and stepped out into the blazing light, raising a hand to shade her eyes. Her palm was still an open wound, red with blood.

The pirate’s daughter looked over the Falcons, studying them as she would a map or a wax seal.

“That news doesn’t seem to shock you, sir,” Corayne said sharply.

Sorasa could not name the feeling in her chest, but she thought it might be pride.