I stared at the boy's face. The sadness frozen there.
"False hope," Brannick muttered. "Kills more soldiers than swords do. My old commander used to beat that into us.Kill false hope before it kills the ones you love." He glanced at me, something hard in his eyes. "That boy didn't die from the cut, little flame. He died because he believed."
Something about the phrase snared me and didn't let go.
Kill false hope.
The air in the cave seemed to drop ten degrees. I looked away from him, staring into the heart of the fire, but all I saw was Eryndor’s face. The subtle changes in his expression I had cataloged, convincing myself they meant mercy. I had built a castle out of those crumbs. I had looked at a monster and hoped for a male, and that hesitation had almost cost me everything.
It tasted like ash in my mouth. Bitter and cloying.
"I know," I whispered.
Brannick reached out, his hand hovering near my boot before retreating. A rare hesitation. "Hope isn't the enemy, Amaria. But the wrong kind? The kind that makes you hesitate when you should strike?" He nodded toward the dead scout. "That's poison. Real hope is wildfire. It burns everything down so you can start over. Don't confuse the two."
The distinction settled in my marrow. Eryndor was the hesitation. This—the mission, the people who'd bled beside me—was the wildfire.
I started to answer, to tell him I was done hesitating, but a trilling whistle blew through the wood. Three short bursts. A pause. One long.
Brannick froze, his head snapping toward the cave entrance. The cynicism vanished, replaced instantly by the soldier. "Douse the fire."
I didn't hesitate. I kicked dirt over the small flame, plunging us into absolute darkness just as the sound of hoofbeats scrambled up the shale outside.
"It’s a relay," Kaelen announced, moving to the edge of the overhang. He whistled back—two high notes.
A figure burst through the brush on a horse that was done. The animal's sides heaved, each breath a ragged, wet sawing. Foam clung to its neck in thick ropes. The horse's legs buckled the moment the rider slid off, head dropped to its knees, too spent to even startle at the strangers.
The rider hit the ground hard, caught himself on the rock wall with a palm that left a smear of mud. Border scout—mottled green cloak torn at the shoulder, one boot split along the sole. His chest pumped like he'd been breathing through a straw. His eyes were too wide. The whites reflecting the moonlight.
Around me, the camp changed. Brannick was on his feet with his blade drawn before the horse had stopped moving. Maxxwent still in that particular way that meant he was already calculating exits. Dreadscale’s fingers closed around his weapon.
"Kaelen?" The scout's voice came out shredded. More wheeze than word.
"I'm here." Kaelen grabbed the scout’s arm, hauling him upright. "Breathe, Jaren. What is it? Patrols?"
"Worse." Jaren fumbled inside his tunic, pulling out a crumpled, damp piece of parchment. He shoved it into Kaelen's chest. "The orders changed. It hit the relay station an hour ago. I rode straight through the brambles to beat them here."
Kaelen unfolded the parchment. In the dim light of the moon, I saw the heavy black seal of the King.
"They aren't looking for a prisoner anymore," Jaren said, looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. "The bounty for 'Live Capture' is gone. And they released the Hounds, Kaelen. A whole pack. They have her scent."
The temperature in the shelter seemed to drop.
"How far?" Brannick barked.
"Half a day's ride behind me. Maybe less." Jaren swallowed hard. "They don't tire, Brannick. They don't stop."
Kaelen's face went rigid as he read the scrawl. "Kill on sight."
He looked up at me, the paper crumpling in his fist.
"There's more." His voice was flat. Controlled. "The King is telling his people that killing you will heal the Veil. That your death is the sacrifice the prophecy demands."
My hands went numb.He'd twisted it. Taken the prophecy—myprophecy—and turned it into a death warrant.
"The King knows you're close to the rupture," Kaelen continued. "He's done playing games. He doesn't want you back, Amaria. He wants you erased. And he's convinced half the realm that your corpse is the cure."
Serenya caught my hand. Her fingers were ice-cold and shaking, and she held on like she was the one who'd just been sentenced.
