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Ryon laughs and the sound is laced with violence. He steps toward the Splitter, and it serves to illustrate how much taller he is, how much more imposing. Nevrak swallows and holds his blade up again.

“I’d be more concerned by herpets,” Ryon says.

With the magic in Dawsyn’s palms pulsing, she leads Ryon back toward the creek, where many are huddled to drink or douse their faces. Dawsyn breathes through her nose, reimagining the sounds of Abertha’s cries.

“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.”

Ryon’s voice slides over her shoulder. He is looking down at her, brow furrowed.

It isn’t an accusation, nor a reproach. She frowns. “Perhaps I should have.”

“No. The last thing we need is a revolt.”

Dawsyn supposes he is right. The miracle of rescuing the people from the Ledge will be for naught if they cannot herd them to the Chasm’s end peaceably.

“I only mean that I expected to have to stop you,” Ryon elaborates.

“You mean that you expected to tear me off him, kicking and screaming.”

Ryon grins. “Yes.”

But Dawsyn cannot find the humour in it. Men like Wes walk amongst them still, when they should have been left to starve on the Ledge. Instead, she will personally escort them to their freedom, should the Mother bless them all.

“You did what was necessary,” Ryon tells her.

But Dawsyn can’t help feeling that necessary acts so often contradict with what is right. Wordlessly, she reaches to take Ryon’s fingers in hers. They are warm to the touch, and she shivers.

Without needing any further prompt, he wraps both arms around her, forearms resting against her chest, and pulls her into the enclave of his body. “We’ll make it, malishka” he says, lips glancing her neck.

Dawsyn shivers again. “Whatever comes?”

She feels him grimace. “Whatever comes.”

CHAPTERSEVEN

A strange ache seizes Dawsyn as the hours trickle by. It begins in her stomach, a small, muted pulse, easily ignored. She barely notices its presence among the other small pangs of foot travel – the sting of her heels sliding within her boots, the pull of the sacks she straps to her shoulders, the strain of her eyes as she tries uselessly to peer through the unending dimness.

But, insidiously, the ache spreads. It reaches her muscles and makes each step laborious. It shortens her breath. She finds herself coughing with the exertion.

And she is not alone. The Chasm is full of the sounds of ragged breath and dry coughs. Dawsyn wonders if it is something in the air that parches their throats and turns their breath to sand.

Esra walks close by her side, and he eyes her suspiciously as she coughs again. “You sound like a goat,” he says. “If a goat were to choke on its own testicles.”

Dawsyn snorts. “I wonder if you work to be indelicate or if it comes by you naturally.”

“Pariahs are renowned for their shocking indelicacy.Princesseshowever–”

“How many times must I denounce that! My grandmother was a princess, not I.”

“No,” Esra agrees. “You are, in fact, a goat.”

“I’ve been accused of worse,” she says with a grin, then coughs again, her eyes watering.

Esra frowns, but he does not raise further concern. “You would make quite a monarch, you know,” he remarks, stumbling over a half-concealed boulder. “A great one.”

Dawsyn sighs. “Of what kingdom?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches a few moments longer than he would usually allow. “Any kingdom,” he says eventually. “All kingdoms need fair leaders.Moralleaders.”