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“Sorasa—”

The heavy jade shattered bone and flesh, until the green stone turned scarlet, and Sorasa’s own screams echoed through the silent woodlands. Dom had to pull her off the body, but she crawled away, leaving the bloody jade seal in the dirt.

She went to every corpse in the clearing, moving on hands and knees. Her violent screams faded into fervent prayers, indistinguishable to Dom’s ears. It did not matter if Sorasa killed them or Dom. She treated them all with equal care, speaking over them with whispered blessings, closing their eyes or touching their brows. She took trinkets from all of them. A scrap of their cloak, a finger knife, a ring. She even pressed her forehead to Luc’s own, resting their bones together for a long, quiet moment. What she said to him was for Sarn and Sarn alone.

Dom wanted to leave but found himself unable to abandon Sorasa in her grief. Even so, they could not stay. Night came on too quickly in the foothills, the shadows spreading to full darkness.

“Sorasa,” Dom murmured. He almost stumbled over her name. He said it so rarely, and usually in anger. This time his voice wasgentle, coaxing, worn with regret.

She ignored him.

Three times he tried to reason with her. Then gently, slowly, he took her by the shoulders and peeled her up off the ground. The last time he touched her in such a way, she threatened to cut his hands off.

She bucked in Dom’s arms like a fish caught on the line, her entire body fighting against him. He held her firmly, knowing her strength, her back braced against his chest. He let her rage through the black night. Every emotion she kept buried rushed to the surface, pouring out of her. The dam inside her heart burst, spilling rage and misery. She cursed in Ibalet and a dozen other languages he couldn’t place, but the meaning was clear. She mourned for the dead around them, for the only family she had ever known, for her single chance to return to their midst.

For the last pieces of herself, lost to the Ward and the good of the realm.

Her voice failed before her sorrow did and her lips moved in silence, running through prayer and curse alike.

Dom wanted to give her time to grieve, and privacy to do it. But they did not have the luxury of such things.

He braced her head in his hands, his thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. She felt so fragile between his fingers, her bones like eggshell. She tried not to look at him, her eyes darting in either direction.

“Sorasa,” he breathed, his voice low and trembling. “Sorasa.”

Her silent prayers continued, but she met his gaze slowly, reluctantly. Sorrow raged in her eyes, churning within thosecopper flames. It was like looking in a mirror, and for a moment Dom could not breathe. He saw himself, mourning for Cortael, the brother and son murdered at his feet. He saw his own anguish, too deep to dig out, impossible to overcome. Failure, loss, rage, and grief. He saw it in her, as he felt it in his own bones.

“Put the pain away,” Dom said, and her breath caught, the harried rise and fall of her chest stopping. She said the same words to him in the desert, her oldest lesson in the Guild. “Put the memory away. You don’t need it.”

She shifted in his grasp and squeezed her eyes shut. Her prayers ceased, her lips pursing together. Her breath returned, ragged and rasping. She turned her head weakly, trying to free herself.

Dom held firm, pale fingers bright against her bronze skin. Blood dried on her cheeks, sticking to his hands.

“We need to run, Sorasa.”

The others are in danger.

Sorasa’s eyes flew open and her head moved against his hands, forcing a nod. Her fingers closed over his wrists, her grip strong as she pushed him away.

They left the deer behind. There would be no venison tonight.

They sprinted back as fast as they could. Dom would not let himself fear the worst.More Amhara, more assassins.He leapt through the undergrowth, hurdling tree roots and dodging branches as they worked their way back to the hill.No, they came for us first, to pick off the rest after we were dead.Sorasa kept pace behind him, her arms pumping in time with her legs. Branches and undergrowth lashed against her, but she didn’t stop, even when they scraped at her face. The pain meant nothing now.

Her tears were spent by the time they reached the others.

The light of the campfire filtered through the trees, and the woods echoed with their voices. Laughter and gibes passed back and forth, as if the entire world did not hang in the balance and this were all some merry game. Dom slowed and let out a sigh of relief, the tension working out of his body.Safe,he knew, eyeing their shadows against the fire.

He only hoped Andry had the tea ready. Sorasa Sarn would sorely need it.

We look atrocious,Dom thought then. Bruises blooming all over his skin and his bloody knuckles, battered by the fight. His tunic and flesh were peppered with arrow holes. Blood smeared across Sorasa’s face like war paint, making her eyes stand out more than usual. Tear tracks worked through the gore on her face, drawing ragged lines down her cheeks. And her hair hung in a jagged line, sliced just above her shoulder. It stuck to her face and neck, clinging to blood and sweat.

Dom slowed his pace, if only to buy Sorasa a few more moments before rejoining their circle. She only sped up, ignoring her appearance. Instead she squared her shoulders and straightened. The others would not see Sorasa as he had, broken in two, her insides hollowed out. She’d shuttered the pain away once more, locking it behind clenched teeth.

“Clean your face at least,” he murmured. “The worse you look, the more they’ll ask.”

She answered with a glare over her shoulder, thrown like a dagger.

Wincing, he followed her into the camp, the gentle bluff lookingnorthwest across the plains. Night rolled on across the landscape, the distant western horizon only a band of dark red light.