Travel that day was slow but uneventful. I spent the morning swaying on the makeshift stretcher carried by Dugan and Castille. By noon, I found the strength to ride. Without a horse of my own, I rode behind Dugan on his gelding. As the sun crawled across the sky, the ambush Castille feared did not happen.

  Before night, we struck camp a few hours away from the road. The surrounding woods were full of wildlife, giving Castille plenty of game to hunt. She used her longbow with deadly accuracy to bring down a stag. She and Dugan field-dressed it with practiced efficiency.

  Isla and I could only watch with wide eyes. Between her experience as a highborn lady and my experience as a street rat turned rogue, watching was all we could do. She always hovered near me now, another lesson on Landbound Magic on the tip of her tongue. I was beginning to enjoy her lectures. They had utility: I learned something new, and it distracted me from reliving Cynthia’s last moments. She found a useful prop as we sat around the fire to eat venison stew.

  "Think of this bowl as the amount of land you own."

  She held the plain wooden bowl with both hands.

  "The more land you own, the bigger the bowl. The stew is your will when you use your abilities."

  She positioned the bowl near the pot as Dugan poured a serving of stew with a steady hand.

  "The amount of land you own determines how much magic you can output in a single moment. It’s your cap. But the will you use determines your actual output. A well-trained mage can control how much they fill the bowl from moment to moment. If your bowl is very big, you may never fill it completely."

  I chimed in.

  "So, it's possible to not have enough stew to fill your bowl. What happens if you have more stew than the bowl can fill? Does it spill over?"

  "No, it means you can stay at your capacity for a longer time. Like what happened with you."

  My mouth went dry as I remembered the pillar of fire shooting up to the second story of the watchtower. Isla said it had lasted for hours.

  She looked at me with a mixture of concern and guilt.

  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bring that up again."

  "No. It's alright…"

  I grasped for something to say to change the subject.

  "Your bowl must be huge."

  Brilliant.

  On the other side of the fire, Castille laughed. She paid closer attention to Isla’s lectures than me—always with her hand close to her sword hilt.

  Isla's face flushed.

  "It’s not that big. I-I grew up near a lake in the countryside."

  "Cut the crap. We all saw what you did the other day," Castille said.

  "And you've been staring at me like a Dahlgeshi stares at a bathtub. Why do you hate me, Castille?" Isla asked.

  Castille's face twisted into a mocking smile.

  "You’re a noble and a powerful one at that. Your shy girl act might fool Dugan or Jacob, but I know your type. You’re using us. We’re pawns in some game and don’t even know it yet. It’s what you nobles do."

  "You don't know me, Castille! What I've been through?! Who I've lost?!" Isla shouted.

  The pain in Isla's voice cut familiar wounds in me. Her eyes became glossy, and the stew in our bowls rocked back and forth like waves breaking on the shore.

  "WALK. NOW."

  A voice like distant thunder cut through the tension in the camp. It took me a second to realize the source.

  It was Dugan.

  The stocky man set his calm gaze on Castille. Their eyes met for a lingering moment before she stood up.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Aye, I’ll walk.”

  She stood up and bent in a mock curtsy in front of Isla.

  “Use us, my Lady, because I’ll be sure to use you.”

  She looked down at Dugan, who had gone back to doling out another serving of stew to Thor. She snarled, storming off into the darkness outside the campsite.

  I sat stunned.

  Dugan could speak.

  # # #

  We spent the rest of the night in silence. By the time Isla and I turned in for bed, Castille had not returned. The tent we shared was not meant for two people, at least not two people in separate bedrolls. We positioned ourselves on the opposite sides of the tent, leaving a patch of grass between us that had just enough space to build a single brick wall.

  The awkwardness was its own wall. I shifted in my bedroll, focusing on a corner of the canvas tent. Cynthia’s body wasn’t even cold, yet another woman had already found her way into my quarters. Her burned corpse flashed in my mind, and I fought to keep down the night’s stew.

  Cynthia. No one can replace you. Not this blue-eyed wannabe. Not Cindra.

  Cindra? I lifted my head off the bedroll. In Cynthia’s memory, she escaped the assassin. I thought back to my meeting with Alden.

  “Only four bodies,” I whispered.

  Cindra was alive!

  Was she OK? Where is she now? How do I find her?

  My mind raced at the new possibilities. Cindra survived and… and…

  I failed her.

  The thought made my stomach sink. I broke my promise to keep Cynthia safe. There was no way I could face her. Not now.

  I curled into myself. It was going to be a long night.

  "Hey," Isla whispered.

  Fabric rustled as she turned in her bedroll.

  “Yeah?”

  "Do you hate me too?"

  I despise you.

  "Why would I hate you?"

  "Because I'm a noble."

  "I shrugged under my bedroll. When I was on the street, nobles ignored me just like everyone else—they just wore fancier clothes. Then, I became a noble or at least I thought I was. It was the happiest time of my life.”

  "Why?"

  Images of Gren, Cynthia, Mr. Reeves and Mrs. Dulldrey around the kitchen table flashed in my mind.

  A weapon…

  A weapon is not sentimental.

  I laughed.

  “It was fun to boss people around.”

  She giggled.

  “Really? I never got around to that.”

  "Then what kind of noble are you?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Before I could answer, warning calls from Thor cut through the silence that settled over the camp.

  Castille was right. We were about to get ambushed.

  I slipped out of my bedroll and got dressed on my knees, turning away to my side of the tent so Isla could do the same.

  I grabbed my cane and stuck two fingers between the tent flaps to look outside. Through the tent’s narrow sliver, I could make out the middle of the camp. The campfire was still lit under the stew pot, but Dugan and Thor were nowhere to be seen.

  I froze, holding my breath as three figures stalked out of the darkness. Their upper bodies were bare. Thick, dark fur covered that should have been exposed skin. The tattered, bloody remains of clothes wrapped around their waists, stolen from their last victims.

  Beastkin, the native inhabitants of the Abyssal lands and the first victims of the Old Elven Empire. I didn’t expect to see them roving this close to the capital and so far from their reserve.

  I pulled away as they came into the light of the campfire, avoiding their searching feline eyes. Beastkin looked like humans with catlike features, although it was more accurate to say humans looked like beastkin, as much as they hated to admit it.

  Isla crawled up beside me.

  “Who is it?”

  “Three beastkin: Two males and one female.”

  Isla chewed her bottom lip and nodded.

  I exhaled, calming my nerves and poked my fingers through the opening to take another look.

  The lead beastkin male walked to the campfire, sniffing the air as the other two followed. Of course, Dugan's fine cooking drew them to our camp. I smiled to myself, examining the wooden spears in their hands. This was going to be easy.

  I turned back to Isla and recoiled at the ball of water hovering above her hand. It was the size of my head.

  She nodded again, this time with more confidence.

  “Whenever you're ready.”

  I turned back to the beastkin huddled around the pot and had an idea.

  I raised my right hand, focusing on the campfire. Landbound Magic was different than I expected. There were no magic words or funny hand gestures. It was like using a third arm you didn’t know you had; it was awkward at first, but natural. As I focused on the campfire, my hands burned—phantom pain from the night before when I was drawn into Cynthia’s memory. I grit my teeth through the pain, adding heat to the campfire. The stew pot bubbled, drawing the attention of the beastkin who looked over it—exactly what I was waiting for.

  The campfire exploded in a pillar of flame as I unleashed my will. The stew pot launched into the air. The beastkin screamed as the hot metal bowl collided with their faces, the steaming contents scalding their fur.

  “Now!” I said, bursting through the tent flaps.

  Isla made her move, crystalizing the ball of water into ice and launching at the lead beastkin's head. There was a dull thud as the projectile knocked him unconscious, followed by a sharp crack as the ball of ice exploded into shards that bit into flesh and punctured the eyes of the female beastkin.

  I charged through the hail of ice, tackling the second male beastkin to the ground. I willed my dagger into my hand and… froze.

  It should have been simple: a quick slice across the carotid artery, as I had been taught. But I hesitated long enough for the beastkin's green eyes to fix on me. Without a second thought, he slammed his forehead into mine. As I blinked away stars, my world turned upside down. He threw me. I rolled several feet, stopping short of slamming into a tree.

  Why did I freeze?

  As I shook off my daze, the beastkin charged. Half his face was burnt an angry red from the spilled stew, while shards of ice jutted out of his right shoulder and arm. I was numb as he pulled back his spear to stab me through the heart.

  That’s when the tree I was thrown beside opened its eyes.