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“Right now, we all fight for the First—and for the Protectorate.” The words are rote, dismissive, but I have no desire to distract the man with my own story.

I can’t tell how much he knows, and what he thinks is not my business, assuming he thinks at all.

Thinking is a rare gift among most soldiers I’ve met so far.

“You’re wrong about the path down, though.

Having come so far into these mountains, it’d be foolish to go back up the way you came.

How many riders are you? And how heavy are your horses laden down with packs? ”

“Five. And we can fit through wherever you take us, but?—”

I lift a hand to stop him, my mind still churning. Five, with no packs? What sort of scouting expedition doesn’t carry provisions?

Not a scouting expedition at all, I suspect. An advance party, more like, barely a few hours ride ahead of a much, much larger company.

Blood and stone . Dismay rips through me, as the truth of my missteps are laid plain before my eyes.

I’m alone on this mountain, and no one knows exactly where I went to help the sandworm offspring with their rite of passage.

I’m no longer Talia of the Tenth, skulking about in the shadows, but a woman with my own house and people to protect.

I still wandered off without retainers or a thought to my own safety.

I’m an idiot.

Forcing myself to focus, I whistle sharply, summoning my horse, Darkwing.

The gorgeous beast snorts, stamps, then strolls out from behind a wall of rock, as if he was simply passing the time away from the fray of weevishes, trying to keep his coat dry.

Truth to tell, my mighty warhorse can easily handle Divhs the size of mountains…

but the small ones absolutely unnerve him.

Upon assuring himself that no more of the small creatures—or the much larger wormlets—remain, Darkwing picks up the pace and reaches my side a few moments later. With a muttered apology for sullying his tack, I swing myself into the saddle, shedding bits of dried weevish gore.

Then I turn back to the warrior. “If you follow me, we’ll be off the mountain and into the forests of Maradeer in a matter of hours, making Trilion by sunset.

But you’ll have to ride in a single file until we clear the mountain itself.

If any of your packs are too heavy, you’ll want to reset them now. ”

“There won’t be any need for that.” He half turns in his saddle and looks back to the opening onto the wide ledge, then barks a command in the formal language of the Imperium.

My eyes flare, though I keep my face steady beneath its mask of sweat and dust. I’ve heard that accent before.

The priest of the Tenth House, Nazar, who has become my closest advisor, spoke with that same rich inflection when he first set foot in our home so many years ago.

Over time, as he became accustomed to the rougher angles and patterns of speech at the Tenth, Nazar adjusted his language and tonality to fit it.

But this man clearly has never felt the need to make such modifications.

One by one his small company of soldiers comes into view.

And they are soldiers, I can see that at a glance.

Not the biggest or strongest of men, but stern, sturdy, and heavily cloaked in dark gray.

Gray makes sense for marauders or outlanders, as any recognizable color they had chosen to wear would have marked them as one of the royal houses of the Protectorate.

Still, the wool of their capes is finely spun, the material rich and thick.

And their horses are well fed, shiny creatures that have maybe been allowed to get a bit too fat.

That realization puzzles me, though I can’t help expelling a soft breath of relief.

Their extremely healthy state seems a little surprising for animals that have made the long trek from the heart of the Imperium, but at least it underscores my belief that these are no marauders.

Even if they had just stolen these horses, they would have taken all the riches they could carry from whatever unfortunate house they plundered.

“Thin enough for whatever passages you’ll be guiding us through?”

The warrior’s words startle me back to focus, and I cut my attention away from the men and back to him.

There are no insignias or flourishes to mark any of them as Imperium, but I suppose there wouldn’t be.

And now that I’m at a level with the warrior and not peering up at him, I make another realization too.

He’s shockingly, ruggedly gorgeous , in a way both similar to and profoundly different from Fortiss.

They both exude a warrior’s attitude, practically oozing confidence and bravado.

But where Fortiss’s eyes are golden and his hair as black as obsidian—this man’s eyes are a clear, brilliant blue.

His face is square cut and chiseled, and his hair is a thick chestnut brown, pulled back at the nape of his neck, its full length hidden by the dropped cowl of his cape.

Unlike Fortiss, whose muscled ranginess speaks of speed and stealth, this man’s body is hard and heavy, almost too bulky.

He’s as tall as Fortiss, I’ll give him that.

Based solely on the way he sits tall in his saddle, I’d put this warrior’s height at well over six foot—a true warrior.

It’s too bad he’s Imperium-born. Had he been raised in the Protectorate and if his blood were true, he would have commanded a Divh by now…

probably a powerful one. Maybe I would have commissioned him to join my own growing stable of warriors, cloaked in silver.

Granted, I’d probably have to arm wrestle Fortiss for the man, given how sorely we all needed warriors in the wake of the disastrous Tournament of Gold.

But that might not be such a bad thing, either.

A little hand-to-hand combat with the newly minted lord protector would allow me to touch Fortiss again—to feel his skin against mine, to revel in the sharp crack of his laughter as I surprise him with a jab or feint, and maybe, just maybe?—

What am I even thinking? Fighting the urge to roll my eyes so far back in my head I may never find them again, I favor the stranger with a curt nod.

“They’ll be fine. The switchbacks are known as the Narrows, and they’re aptly named, but you should have no trouble with them. It’s just a shortcut through these mountains.”

“The Narrows,” he echoes, smiling at the name.

The sudden change of his expression causes a strange prickling of awareness to skate along my nerves, and I pull Darkwing around a little roughly, murmuring my apology as we start to move.

I don’t look back. Can’t. Because if I did, I might see something in his eyes that would send my mind haring off down paths I have no time to tread.

“Stay close, but not too close,” I say over my shoulder, heading for another crevasse in the rock wall at the far end of the ledge.

If the man replies, I don’t hear him. Instead I push my thoughts out ahead of us, forming the image of Gent, my glorious Divh, my battle partner and the creature closest to my heart.

I hear the faint sound of his returning roar, sounding a little too delighted for the fearsome creature that I know him to be.

But I can’t waste our connection. I focus my mind on the five men trailing behind me, praying that they’re not even now drawing swords or bows.

I make the pictures in my mind as detailed as possible and then imagine a second Divh, beautiful and fierce, a blue scaled dragon with an injured wing.

Szonja is Fortiss’s Divh. And even if our new lord protector has been far too busy to even spare me a glance these past few weeks, I need to warn him of the possible trouble I’m bringing his way.

“ We’re coming ,” I think to Gent.

A long, crooning howl of joy echoing through my mind is his only response.