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It is only then that Ryon notices the small bulge beneath her cloak, the outline of her ax through the woolen fabric. Dawsyn nods once to them all, turns, and walks from the room.

Ryon turns cold, as he does when he is overcome. Only when his guard is weakened does his Glacian blood, lurking beneath the surface, suddenly rear its head. He feels the blood in his veins turn icy as it pummels through his body, chilling his bones and organs and flesh until his skin pimples.

She is leaving.

She is leaving.

He bursts from his stool. Salem curses as the wood splinters against the bar. Ryon is never as strong as he is when glacial. He rushes past Esra, who stands, bewildered and – for once – speechless.

His feet slam out into the hall and over the stoop, and the whole way a voice in his mind begs him to let her leave.

But he cannot.

CHAPTERTWENTY

Dawsyn’s feet, now clad in well-fitted leather, crunch through the frozen leaves. She feels detached from herself. Her breath still fogs in the air, but it is thin and intangible. Her flesh still shrinks from the chill, but it is not met with an onslaught of frost. Her feet are steady on solid ground, but their steadiness is disorienting. There is a fist in her lungs, squeezing them in earnest and it feels like fear.

“Dawsyn!”

That voice. It worries her that it should relieve the pressure in her chest.

She turns. Ryon is jogging toward her, the inn no longer visible behind him.

As he reaches her, he slows, his shoulders relaxing, his eyes beseeching. “I…” He hesitates, huffs out a breath. “I wondered if you would stay.”

Dawsyn frowns. “Why would I stay?”

It gives him pause. Dawsyn watches the half-Glacian, a foot taller than her, his jaw flexing as he struggles to state his reason. That stubbled jaw and those dark eyes are unsafe to look upon for too long. Dawsyn knows she has begun to feel a comfort in them, become familiar with their spectrum. There is a glint in them that she recognizes when he looks at her, when she insults him, when she threatens to kill him.

Dangerous, that glint. Dangerous, the way his touch keeps lingering on hers. So, too, the way her eyes will not stray far from him. That is why she should leave. For all the ways she was taught to protect herself, she does not need a lesson to know she should stay away from a Glacian, even one with blood half-human and a face as distracting as his.

“The mage!” he blurts, the air fogging abruptly. “The mage will be here at dusk. You should wait. You are still wounded.”

Dawsyn’s stomach quivers. “I will manage.”

“If your wounds foul, you will not afford a healer.”

“I cannot stay here, Ryon.”

“Then, let me follow you a while,” he says, his voice turning rough. “Until you have found where you are going.”

She stares at him, and his eyes grow larger the longer she hesitates. She should tell him no. She should turn him away. She should have killed him long ago.

“I want to see the Mecca,” she tells him instead. “Perhaps… you can show me the way.”

A rough breath leaves him. “I can.” He nods, suppressing a grin. He holds out a hand, leaves it hovering.

“You can put that back in your pocket, Ryon. We’re not going to be friends.” But her voice sounds thin, even to her.

“No, that would be awful.”

She groans and strides off, taking the path that leads them away from the inn to the north. Ryon follows quietly behind, and when she turns to look at him, he answers with a smirk.

“Arrogant shit,” she mutters.

They wind through a sparse forest, and here and there, gravel paths lead from the main track to small lodgings. After a time, the trees thin, and then they are upon open fields, peppered with frost. Unbridled sunlight finds the earth with ease and lights the tall grass in waves of warm brown and gold. It is unsettling – the breadth of it all. Her eyes cannot find the edges. There are no barriers to block her path.

She is aware that she has remained still for too long. She realizes that to Ryon, it might appear that she is hesitating. She needs him to know that it is not fear that makes her pause. Fear has never made her pause. She needs to look, and to wait, as one does in the night, when shapes delay to take their dark forms. She needs to look her fill, and wait for her eyes to adjust.