The Soot-Pines swallowed the light the way water drinks up ink. The carriage slowed, the noise of the wheels softening against the carpet of needles, and suddenly every sound seemed closer: the faint chime of harness metal, the wet rush of air from the horses’ nostrils, the rhythmic creak of Cassian’s saddle straps. Black streaks of old fire climbed the trunks – hence the name – resin glistened in the cracks, and a dark, tar-sweet scent clung to the lungs.
In the back of the carriage, Sera sat across from me, her back resting against my cloak, the bandage at her side fresh and clean where we had retied it before departure. I still held her wrist in my palm – by signal, “wrist” – and my thumb traced slow circles over her skin, over the tendons at the base of her hand, matching the rhythm o
