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Reluctantly making up my mind, I turn just in time to see a dark figure appear behind me. It slips from the trees, a nocturnal hunter focused on its prey.

I gasp, cursing myself as I step into the grass.

The ginden stalks forward, keeping its head low as it follows me into the moonlight. Light glints off its bared teeth—sharpteeth—and its tail whips back and forth. It’s shaped a bit like an overgrown rat, with short legs and a stout belly.

Except instead of fur, it has dark scales armoring its body. The beast is easily as long as I am tall. Its eyes reflect the dim light, bright yellow and focused.

I’ve never even seen one in person.

Slowly, I kneel in the grass, feeling along the ground for something I can use to protect myself, not daring to look away from the ginden for even a moment.

I find a puny rock, small but somewhat sharp. As I clutch it in my palm, I debate the best place to target my attack. Everything vital is protected by its scales.

Before I’ve made my plan, the creature leaps forward, screeching out a hunting cry that makes every hair on my body stand on end. It hits me like a beast of stone, easily knocking me to the ground. Using my rock, I strike the creature’s head, grunting with each impact…only realizing after the third or fourth hit that I’m not dead.

I’m not even wounded, though the weight of the ginden atop me is certainly not pleasant.

Before I can make sense of it, the beast is rolled away and replaced with a face I’ve dreamt of so many nights.

“Clover,” Henrik says urgently, kneeling over me. “Are you all right?”

Breathing hard, I stare up at him. “I killed it?”

He runs his eyes over me, looking for signs of injury. Once he decides I’m in one piece, he laughs. “Not quite.”

Groaning, I push myself up. Still in shock, I turn to face the beast, noting the way Henrik’s sword protrudes from its back. “Oh.Youkilled it. That makes more sense—not that I don’t think my rock and I didn’t have a fighting chance.”

Henrik sits back with a loud exhale, crossing his long legs under him. We’re surrounded by the tall grass, in a natural cocoon, safe from prying eyes.

I look at the ginden again. Henrik managed to slide the blade right between its scales.

“Impressive aim,” I say.

He breathes out a tired laugh. “I stabbed and got lucky.”

“Your arm?” I ask quietly, feeling suddenly shy. “Did it heal?”

I’ve longed for his return for months, and now that he’s here, I’m a little overwhelmed.

Henrik watches me in the moonlight for several long seconds before he clears his throat. “The elven physician did what he could. I still have little strength—not enough to wield a sword.”

I nod toward the dead beast. “It looks like you did a decent job of it to me.”

A smile crosses the commander’s face as he looks away. “I canstab…just nothing that requires more finesse.”

“Pranmore can heal you.”

“Perhaps,” he says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “But it’s best if Camellia believes the injury is permanent.”

Just hearing him say the princess’s name makes me angry. I drag my eyes away from his face, too cowardly to ask him why he was so cold earlier.

But I can feel him watching me.

Quietly, he says, “Camellia will kill you if she thinks you’re a threat.”

“Camellia will probably try to kill me anyway.”

“She has forbidden me from even looking at you.”