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His eyes flare with panic, and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I’m staring. Not breathing. I’m struck by the worst kind of déjàvu as my world centers on those arrow points. The blood beginning to seep around them. A shout comes from somewhere distant, but I can’t move.

Maxon’s eyes go dull. He falls to the ground. His hand tugs free of mine.

Another whistle, and my ear explodes with pain. For a terrifying moment, I think this is it, that I’ve been shot in the head and my final thoughts will be nothing but terror and confusion. But no, my hand slaps to my head and comes away with blood. The arrow only clipped me, probably because Maxon’s falling body tugged me sideways.

I stop thinking. I run.

More arrows fly, but I duck and dodge and weave between trees. I know how hard it is to hit a moving target.

Pain explodes in my leg, and I nearly go sprawling. It’s the side of my leg, so I haven’t been impaled, but every step bringsa sharp tug of fire through the muscle. My thoughts feel fuzzy, and I can’t tell if it’s from blood loss or if I simply can’t breathe. I don’t often run for long distances, but fear is making for a good motivator.

Somewhere in the distance, a man gives a sharp whistle, then yells, “Sergeant! Let that one go. We’ve got enough to drag back to the Hold already.”

I keep running anyway, worried it’s a trap, that the instant I stop, a bolt will strike me right between the shoulder blades. I keep seeing Maxon’s face, the sudden shock and panic as he realized he was going to die.

It feels like I run forever, but eventually my legs refuse to work anymore. My breathing is ragged and uneven, a thin whistle of air into lungs that don’t want to work. I grab hold of a tree trunk and try to hold myself upright, then do my best to orient myself and find my bearings.

At first, nothing looks familiar. Farmhouses, a few distant buildings. I’m still in the Wilds, but I don’t know what part. I’m not even sure what sector.

But then I recognize a wagon. A front porch. A barn door with a flower painted on the side.

Violet’s barn.

Would she help me? Could I trust her? I’m not sure. I do know I can’t run much farther. When I try to walk, my leg insists on limping.

I glance down. The entire side of my trousers are soaked in blood.

I touch a hand to my ear and flinch. The flesh feels torn. My neck is sticky, too.

I swear. There will be no hiding this.

I limp through the grass, gasping with each step.

When I make it to the stump with the ax, I’m debating whether to hide in the barn until sunrise, or whether I should risk tapping at the door.

I don’t need to make a decision. Violet pops up out of the shadows like she waits for me every night.

“You came!” she cries. “I’ve been sleeping in the barn at night. Mama thinks I’m a bit addled, but I don’t care. I knew you’d come back eventually. You can’t—” Her eyes fall on my neck and she breaks off, coming closer. “Fox,” she whispers. Her gaze skips lower. “Fox.”

“Violet,” I say, and my breath is so thin that the word is barely audible. “I need your help. Can you hide me?”

“Of course! I’m good at hiding. I hid fromyouthat first night we met—”

“Violet.”

“Right. Yes. Oh, there’s blood everywhere. Here, put your arm around my shoulders.”

She’s as lean as a willow, and I rather doubt she could support my weight, but she tugs at my arm and half drags me toward the barn. “I do the morning chores, so no one will come in until the afternoon, when Will mucks the stalls.”

“Good,” I say. My thoughts are spinning. “I need you to go to the Royal Sector. I need you to carry a message.”

“To the Royal Sector!” she exclaims.

“Violet, please. Listen.”

“I’m listening.”