They left Blackthorn beneath a sky washed clean by dawn.
Ravka and her warriors marched west toward Elias with banners newly bound, while Azaliyah’s smaller party turned east through rolling highlands stitched with silver streams and wild violet grass. For the first time in days, no shadows chased them. No horns sounded. No blood stained the road ahead.
It felt suspicious.
Misha led with steady purpose, staff tapping stone whenever the path narrowed. Camron walked beside Azaliyah carrying the white-bladed axe across one shoulder as if it weighed nothing and he had not nearly died three separate times that week.
She noticed he limped only when he thought no one was looking.
“You’re doing that face again,” he said.
“What face?”
“The one where you pretend not to care while clearly admi
