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It’s nearly impossible to fall asleep slung across the stallion’s back, each pound of his hooves against the earth jolting through my bones like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. And yet, my exhaustion must exceed my discomfort, for when my eyes open, dawn is breaking, its pink fingers creeping across the sky.

Gods, I ache everywhere.

My body feels more wrung out than a damp washcloth. Limp and lifeless. With the strap so tight around my middle, it’s difficult to draw breath. I can see little except the lathered flank of the horse beneath me, the heel of my captor’s boot in a muddy stirrup, the ground below us a rush of color.

We are riding hard. Northwest, judging by the sun’s position in the ashen-gray sky. Away from the boglands, out of the forest—though I have no idea where. I rack my brain for any meaningful details the soldiers let slip last night. What was it Burrows said?

We’re off to the southern front at first light. King Eld has called for reinforcements.

King Eld of…

The Narrows?

No.

Dymmeria?

No.

Westlake?

No.

Curse my blasted memory. Curse myself for not being a better student. Curse Eli for not beating the knowledge into me with a stick instead of encouraging me with mild-mannered expectations.

My eyes threaten to well up at the thought of Eli. For two decades, he was my protector. If he were here—if he were still alive—it would kill him to see me thus. A filthy, broken doll in the hands of the very enemy he dedicated his life to shielding me from. I’m thankful I do not possess the energy to weep.

The sun slants higher in the sky as we ride, the stallion’s hooves a steady clop. I’ve not the slightest inkling what part of the world we’re in. Anwyvn is a vast land, and until the past few weeks, I’ve seen precious little of it. The isolated peninsula of Seahaven was my home from the day Eli found me swaddled in a basket on the white shore until the night the invading armies arrived with their flaming torches.

We’ve left the deepest part of the forest behind. Absent are the towering maples, the soaring ashwoods, that sheltered me for the past month. The trees here are set farther apart—a copse of sparse pines with pale copper needles that blanket the arid ground.

It’s nearly midday when we finally come to a halt. I’m so exhausted, I cannot even lift my head to take in our surroundings. I feel Scythe shift in his saddle, then listen to the dull thud of his boots hitting the earth. They step into view as he reaches up to undo the strap holding me in place, and I study their simple craftsmanship.

No spurs, no steel tips. A thick caking of dust on his laces. Leather well-worn from several seasons. That’s a surprise. I figure a soldier of his standing can snap his fingers and summon fresh gear whenever he likes.

“Get down.”

His deep voice is hoarse from lack of use and holds no kindness. I try to force my limbs into motion, but they’re too stiff to cooperate. I remain slung pathetically across the stallion’s rump, my spine an unnatural arch. I fear it will never straighten properly again.

Scythe sighs and, without an ounce of gentleness, gives my midsection a shove. A squawk of alarm escapes my lips as I slide toward the horse’s tail and, powerless to catch myself, tumble to the ground. I land flat on my back, sending a plume of pollen into the air. The impact is cushioned slightly by a bed of pine needles but still manages to knock the wind out of me. For quite a long time I lie there, unable to do anything except blink up at the anemic sky, moaning occasionally in pain.

Scythe leads the horse to a nearby crick. I listen to them both drinking deeply and my own parched tongue rasps against my lips in envy. A part of me—a small one, but a part nonetheless—wishes he’d killed me back in the camp. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for. Perhaps he plans to drag me along with him until the dehydration withers me down to a skeleton.

It will be a slow death.

A shadow looms suddenly over me, blocking out the sun. My captor has returned. My eyes flicker open and fix on his. They’re black, even in the bright midday light. He still wears his heavy helmet, concealing most of his features from view. The metal nose bridge tapers into a sharp point at the bottom, lending him an almost serpentine look—a dragon roaming loose in the countryside. As he stares down at me, his mouth curls at one side in either disgust or disdain.

Gods, I hate him.

A leather waterskin hits the ground beside my head.

“Drink.”

I don’t reach for it. I don’t move a single muscle. I’d rather die of thirst than follow his bidding. Foolish as it is, that tiny resistance is the only sliver of autonomy I have left.

“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, he turns on his heel and walks away. His next words drift back on the wind, almost an afterthought. “We won’t stop again until nightfall.”

It takes three distinct tries to sit upright, my strained limbs screaming in protest the entire time. I’m woozy from pain and lack of food, but somehow I manage to pull the waterskin onto my lap. My shackles clank, the iron biting into my ravaged skin as I lift it to my lips and take a deep pull.

It tastes like heaven.

I drain the skin in an embarrassingly short amount of time. My long-empty stomach protests at the foreign sensation of fullness, but I am still desperately thirsty. Eyeing the nearby stream as it gurgles over a bed of mossy rocks, I contemplate dragging myself to the edge for a few more restorative gulps. Properly hydrated, my head might stop spinning. If my head isn’t spinning, I might actually figure out where Scythe is taking me…and how to get away before we arrive…and…

Without warning, I’m yanked to my feet, the empty waterskin snatched out of my hands in a flash. My squeak of protest morphs into a hiss of fear as a large hand clamps down on my shoulder, tight as a vise.

“Time to go,” Scythe mutters, towing me back toward his horse. I dig my bare heels into the dirt, but it’s no use. He swats away my resistance like a bothersome insect buzzing at his ear. I don’t even have a chance to object before he lifts me off my feet and throws me back onto the stallion. The water sloshes uncomfortably in my stomach as he lashes me down with the same rote disinterest he might use in securing a sack of grain.

Once back in the saddle, he clucks his tongue. The horse responds instantly, breaking into a jarring canter I feel in every corner of my battered body.

Just hang on until nightfall , I tell myself, trying to ward off the despair. You can manage that, Rhya.

But nightfall is a long way off.

At some point, I become aware of the fact that I am quite ill. The fever has snuck in on the heels of thirst and exhaustion, disguising itself among the myriad other aches and pains plaguing my body. But as the afternoon wanes, there is no denying the heat that burns within my veins despite the cool northern clime through which we ride. My skin flashes hot, then cold, then hot once more. I find myself thankful for the strap securing me in place; the sheer force of my trembles would knock me to the ground otherwise.

I see no point in telling my captor of my condition. What would his response be?

Let’s make camp. I’ll bring you hot soup and stroke your hair until you’re well again, as Eli use to do when you were a child.

Somehow, I doubt it.

It is not quite twilight when we draw to an abrupt halt at the edge of the forest, where the trees yield to a wide dirt roadway. I wonder if we’re making camp early, but Scythe does not dismount—nor does he explain our sudden stop after the bruising pace he’s maintained all day.

I shift as best I can, lifting my head to get a better look, and in a fever-dazed voice mumble an incoherent, “Hnumph?”

Scythe whips around in his saddle. “ Quiet. ”

The order is delivered in a menacing whisper that makes my throat close up. I have no doubt that if I do not comply, he’ll have no qualms about knocking me unconscious. The reason for his severity soon becomes clear. Not thirty seconds later, my ears pick up the sound of voices on the wind. Another thirty, and the road before us is filled with a company of men marching in neat rows, shields held aloft, swords sheathed across their backs. Twenty-five, maybe more. Their uniforms are not green, like those of Captain Burrows and his unit, but bloodred. Their pennants bear the sigil of two interlocking torcs, scarlet stitches waving in the breeze.

They do not see us, concealed as we are by the camouflage of leaves and branches. Clearly, that is Scythe’s intention. For whatever reason, he does not want to make our presence known.

Perhaps…

A faint spark of hope flares within my breast but quickly sputters out. The fact that they are Scythe’s enemy does not make them friend to me. There is no guarantee they will not drive a sword through my heart the moment I call out to them for aid. And there is nothing to assure me Scythe cannot slaughter a full score of men as easily as he slew a dozen last night.

I watch the soldiers file past, my heart sinking as they disappear around a bend. We wait until their boots become a distant rumble, then fade altogether. When the world is quiet—only the sounds of Scythe’s steady breaths, the occasional twitching of the stallion’s tail, the low wail of the wind in the trees—and he is certain the soldiers are long gone, he spurs us across the road, out of the forest, and into the tall grass on the other side.

We have reached the plains.

On the flat-stretched fields, without the need to dodge tree roots and fallen debris, our pace increases from a canter to nearly a gallop. Each clap of the stallion’s hooves reverberates in my aching skull. Though he gives no verbal indication of it, I sense a new tension in my captor, an urgency that was not there this morning.

If my head were clearer, I might remember where I’ve seen that company sigil—those red interlocking torcs on black fabric. I might realize just how closely pursuit nips at our heels. But I do not. My thoughts are fuzzy edged. I am looking at the world through a bank of fog, my body on one side, my mind on the other. I cannot connect the two through the haze.

The plainlands seem to go on forever, an endless expanse of unsown pastures. Like the rest of the Midlands, this particular stretch is war ravaged. A veritable wasteland after two centuries of bloodshed. Fields where crops once grew are now mass graves, the men who once tended them long buried beneath barren soil.

We see no more soldiers. We see no one at all. Most travelers stick to the road, I suppose—taking advantage of a wayside inn at nightfall, sipping ale by a hearth with a warm bowl of stew, swapping out their tired mounts for fresh ones. With Scythe’s horse, there is no need for such measures. The great beast who carries us never seems to tire, no matter how many leagues he runs, no matter the terrain. In my delirium, I wonder if he might be descended from the great Paexyri steeds. Legend says they could run flat out for days, ferrying faery riders from one side of Anwyvn to the other without so much as a water break. Some believe they had great wings, for their speed was something closer to flight.

Such thoughts are absurd indeed, even to my feverish mind. If the Paexyri actually existed, they had all been slain along with their riders during the Cull. That bloody uprising spared none of elemental origin, from the all-powerful emperor down to the faintest fyrewisps. They, like all other maegical creatures, were eradicated with the same brutal efficiency the mortal men now wield against one another in their endless wars. Shortsighted paper kings, usurping and undermining, slaughtering and savaging, until there is hardly any land left fit to rule. Until they’ve reduced everything to ash, stripped away any beauty Anwyvn once possessed.

The only creatures we encounter on our way are undoubtedly ordinary—shaggy-haired cows and unshorn sheep, grazing in the sun—though even those become few and far between as the terrain changes from flat fields to rolling hills and finally to a sharp incline. Rock and stone soon replace grass and sod. As we climb, I suck sharp slivers of air into my lungs, unsure if my breathlessness is due to the progressing illness or our ever-increasing elevation.

My fever worsens as the sun sinks in the sky. By the time we stop for the night, I’m drifting in and out of awareness. I cannot recall sliding down from the horse and yet here I am, on my feet, the ground roiling beneath me. Or is that my legs, finally giving out? I can’t quite tell.

A steely grip catches me as the world tips sideways. Scythe’s stern face swims before my eyes. He’s glaring again.

“Gods, you’re burning up.”

Am I floating?

Is he carrying me?

Will he ever stop frowning?

A delirious giggle presses against the inside of my lips, poised to escape. I cling desperately to consciousness, but it grows more difficult with each passing moment. Darkness is closing in again—blacker than the night sky overhead, pulling me into its clutches.

“Stubborn fool,” Scythe hisses lowly, laying me down on a bed of stone. It feels blessedly cool against my skin. “You’re no good to me dead.”

Someone is giggling. It might be me.

“Hey.” His hand slaps my cheek. “Stay with me. Stay with me. ”

I blink hard, trying to keep him in focus. Perhaps it is the fever muddling my mind, but I’d swear I see something in his narrowed eyes that was not there before—a flash of worry, gone so fast it’s easy to convince myself it was no more than a delusion conjured up by febrile fog.

Those black eyes are the last thing I see as the clammy grip of illness closes its hand around my neck and squeezes until the light of the world peters out.