It was always going to come to this.
Tavin had always known. So had she. Ever since she’d crawled out of Cheparok. No—ever since she’d fallen from the bridge of the Floating Fortress.
No—ever since Pa had thrust the chief’s sword into her hands.
What do you want, Fie?
Her caste, or her kin. Thousands of Crows, ridden down by day and night. Or ten of her own, dying by pieces.
That’s the game, get it?
The road had trapped her, and she couldn’t see which way was right. Every hope, every oath, every scrap of faith she’d had in Hangdog, in Tavin, in Jasimir, one way or another, they’d turned to arrow after arrow in her eye.
She stumbled. Smacked into a wall. Sagged against it.
One way or another, she would lose everything.
Fury howled in her heart. This was all wrong. She’d learned to fight like a Hawk. She’d learned to read and write like a Phoenix. She’d kept her head steady, burned her teeth, broken the only Crow rule. She’d near killed herself day after day, road after road, mountain after mountain, to keep the damned oath.
And she would still lose.
There was no way for her to win. There never had been.
How much more will you let them take?
She slid down the wall and curled there, shaking. This was the game. This was the true Money Dance: the rest of the castes could spin and whirl and scream at the Crows, take what they wanted, as long as they wanted, knowing that the Crows couldn’t do a gods-damned thing to stop it. Sabor had never once intended for her to win.
They didn’t believe a Crow could.
Far away, a watch-hymn eased into the silence. Fie ignored it.
Then the hymn wandered into a lonely trickle of notes. One she’d heard nigh every morning.
Fie scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. It couldn’t be Tavin—yet her unsteady legs pushed her forward, following the sound. He’d said his mother sang it—maybe Fie would never see Pa again, but at least she could make this much right—
She shadowed a Hawk through a door and stepped into the frigid Marovar night. Stars sprayed over the brutally clear sky above, crowned in the circlet of Crow Moon rising.
Dead ahead of Fie, a Hawk woman leaned on a watch post, staring into the mountains, humming a watch-hymn that sometimes splintered around a choked breath.
Dark as it was, Fie could still mark the razor flash of steel feathers in her hair.
She’s a mammoth rider in the Marovar, Tavin had whispered by a campfire a moon ago.
The question in Fie’s skull unwound.
Twin Talons.But how—
She knew what it meant.
For a moment she swayed in place, still cloaked in the Sparrow tooth, her head a-riot with a thousand threads that suddenly knotted and pulled tight.
Stitch by stitch, the tapestry unfurled, stretching on and on until she saw not a weaving but a wrathful way out.
How much more, the prince had asked,will you let them take?
This was the dance. This was the game. The one she wasn’t meant to win.
But now—she had fire. She had steel.
