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My grip on the horse tightened, my heels urging the animal faster, farther ahead of the knights. I wanted her to confirm the worst. When she did, when she found me, her fractured expression assaulted my heart. After all that had been said and done, she still hadn’t expected me to turn on her.

Almost, I had to look away.

Rallying my defenses, I led my brothers and sisters from a gallop, to a canter, to a trot, to a halt. Without seeing them, I knew they formed a half-ring around me. I sensed them tracking my attention and locating the girl—a lumber maiden no longer.

Aspen stood above us, a target in mussed clothing and a curtain of hair tied into a low side ponytail. It was her favorite way to style the hip-length locks, always draped over her shoulder, beneath the feather hat.

She did not wear the hat now, nor her shawl. She’d relocated to her bungalow, yet her appearance suggested that she’d done nothing to tidy herself since I had left her.

She stumbled backward, her face spasming into a mute plea. I picked up on a draft of anxiety and anguish.

Had I ever seen her this shaken?

At the boundaries of my psyche, I also detected resistance. Mounted on my steed, I predicted she would try to run, and I would see her caught, strung up like a marionette. The image produced a cramp in my side.

The ring around my finger slid, a fraction of movement, a reminder ofwhy.

Rapture spread its predatory wings, wielding a degree of malice that I hardly recognized in myself. I stared at her while addressing my peers.

My words had claws. “Seize her.”

She twisted and ran. The chase proceeded.

Aspen retreated over bridges, around stairways, and across platforms, the soldiers bounding after her through the network of levels. She planned to either stash herself in a compartment someplace in the colony, or she meant to break for the woods and take cover there.

She would not succeed.

Crossbows angled toward her from either side of me, but they did not fire. They had been instructed earlier, as we mounted our steeds. “I want the girl unharmed,” I had ordered, speaking impassively.

As Aspen sprinted past Lyrik’s potion room, the squatter ripped open his door. “What the fu—” He jumped back, hitting the bungalow wall as two knights charged by.

Reaching the swing terrace, Aspen whirled to face them, rage tightening her features. She unclasped something from her nape. I stilled, bracing myself. My mouth opened to warn the men and women, because I had been training her, because I had done a moderate job of it thus far.

The axe flew, spiraling a great distance, nearly hacking off an arm. Only by the divine grace of the Seasons, did she miss. The hatchet lodged into a railing, and so, she kept running.

Later, I would chastise myself for the quirk of my lips, the unforgivable tinge of pride. Did I wish for her to lose her pursuers? Or did I wish for her to lose entirely?

I watched as if a spectator in a tournament, lacking the glory of triumph. I gripped my right sword, my fingers crushing the hilt, an internal part of me hollering protective things that I should not holler.

Another part of me observed the commotion from a place of detachment, for if I did not, there was no telling what the future would hold.

With his dagger, Lyrik intercepted a knight. Punk zoomed through the boughs, the spire of her beak aimed at random skulls.

From its perch, the watch hawk flared its wings, but I raised my gloved palm, halting the female. The mighty raptor would shred the woodpecker, an ending that I could not abide. The sidekick did not deserve such an attack, and I could never bring myself to harm it, nor to inflict that event on Aspen. I knew the scent and shriek of grief, how it wended its way under the skin, and I would not wish it upon anyone.

What I had not expected was Aspen’s silence. Not once did she call out, call out to me for mercy, call out for my help.

On that note, I had not considered what Nicu might do. It was only when he darted into the scene, bright with hostility, that my voice took flight. It shot through the forest, along with Aspen’s.

“Nicu, stop!” we both shouted.

He did not stop, throwing himself into the fray. Hurling his body in the path of a knight, his gut barely dodged the sweep of a sword—“Stay your weapon!” I bellowed—before the solider perceived him and froze.

Nicu’s fist rammed into the man’s jaw—once, twice, three times in succession. Bone-shattering cracks rent the air, sloppy blows but with enough zeal to fell the man despite Nicu’s compact size. I tore off the horse and roared Nicu’s name, and my friend stilled, cradling his wrist.

A furious exhale bled out of me. In the name of Mista, he could have been killed!

When a gravelly protest scraped the air, the wild greens of Nicu’s eyes swung toward Aspen, who squirmed in the grips of a male knight, who dragged her down the stairs. Fretting over Nicu had distracted the girl, allowing the troops to apprehend her.