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Ryon’s hand comes over her forearm. “We are coming close to the palace. We should turn back.”

“No, I wish to see it.” She shakes him off and walks ahead.

“Dawsyn, it is not wise.”

She ignores him, following the cobbled road to a courtyard. Here, no one lingers.

When the palace is before her, she falters. Dawsyn turns her face to the sky and takes in the expanse of Terrsaw’s fortress, encased by a high stone wall. It is so much less grand than that of the Glacians, and yet it stuns her.

The land, the Mecca, the castle – all of it is so much more than her grandmother ever told her. An entire kingdom, living beneath the sun, with the remains of their Fallen Village forgotten on its fringe. She thinks of the Queens inside these walls, and is sure that they have never stripped bark from a tree to eat when food was scarce. They have never heated stones on the hearth to sleep against. They’ve never cut away the frost when it came to claim their toes or fingers.

Have they heard the slow drowning of lung sickness?

Do they wonder about the Ledge at all?

Beside her, Ryon appears, his eyes darting over the courtyard. “You will be the death of me, girl. We cannot linger.”

She does not hear him, does not feel the tug on her arm. She looks to the great oak doors in the wall, twice her size, and remembers her grandmother describing their details. The carvings have meanings, and though she cannot read, she knows them.

She might be of the Ledge, but she is of Terrsaw too.

She turns to Ryon, whose blood is half-here, half-there, and wonders which will win out in the end. She smiles wryly and then walks toward the palace doors, wondering if he dares to follow.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

She walks away, and his hand only skims hers as he makes to grab it.

Fuck.

She breaks into a jog, and he moves to follow, his eyes darting to the wall above.

“Dawsyn!”

Too late. Her closed fist collides with the doors once, twice, and after a mere second, it swings open.

The body of a guard fills it, and a singular eye skims Dawsyn from hair to feet. “Yes?”

Dawsyn’s hand snakes around to her back, palming the hilt of the ax handle hidden beneath her clothes. “I want to see the Queens,” she says clearly. If fear dwells in her, it does not reach her voice.

The guard laughs humorlessly. “Get away from the wall, darling, and write them a letter, like everyone else.”

The guard makes to close the door, but Dawsyn shoves her foot in the gap before he can.

“I’ve come a long way, and I wish to see the Queens.”

“Get your damned leg out from my door, girl, or you’ll be hopping around without it!” The guard withdraws a sword as spit sprays from his mouth, and Ryon rushes forward.

But Dawsyn is faster. The heel of her hand flies up into the guard’s nose, and as he falls back, she slams her way through the gap, ducking the downfall of his sword.

Cursing, Ryon goes in after her, his own short sword drawn, and brings it down on top of the guard’s, the steel clashing. “Wait!” he urges her, but Dawsyn is already taking a fistful of the guard’s hair, pressing her blade to the crook of his neck.

“I wouldn’t move,” Dawsyn says evenly.

Ryon stares at her, disbelieving. He does not doubt it was her plan all along to force her way in.

“I haven’t come to kill you, you fool. I only wanted to meet your masters.”

“Dawsyn!” Ryon warns, panic tightening his throat, but sounds of arrows nocking taut and glancing steel fill the air, and he knows he is too late.