Page 118 of Bone Year

“If fissures open and close all the time, how does the professor know where to send us?” I ask. “What if we arrive and there’s nothing? What if the fissure closed and we walked all this way for no reason?”

He glances at me. A few strands of black hair have fallen from his bun and into his face. He brushes them away from his eyes. “I forget how little humans bother to learn about the world they live in. Must be nice, ignoring everything that doesn’t directly inconvenience you.”

My blood heats despite the cold. I could throw it back at him right now, remind him of the throne he walked away from, the duties he’s pretending don’t exist, but that particular weapon is worth more if I save it for when I really need it.

“Enlighten me then,” I say instead, “since you’re so knowledgeable and I’m so tragically ignorant.”

He’s quiet long enough that I think he’s going to ignore me, which would be predictable and infuriating in equal measure.

“Most fissures open and close unpredictably, but there are fixed fissures scattered across Valen. Permanent tears that never heal. Twisted creatures pour through at random, and someone has to be there to deal with it.”

“Vanguards and Veilguards stationed around the clock?”

“For the villages that can afford it.”

His jaw is tight, his gaze fixed ahead, and something about the way he said it makes me think there’s more than he’s willing to give me.

He lets his wolf out, the massive black creature bounding ahead into the trees without a sound. I watch him disappear into the shadows.

“Must be nice having a built-in scout.”

“Must be nice having an eidolon small enough to hide in your cloak when things get dangerous.”

“Poppy doesn’t hide. She strategically repositions.”

“She stole a muffin from Professor Nestor’s desk last week and then hid in your hood for three hours.”

“That was strategic. She was guarding it.”

“She was eating it.”

“Aggressively, like a predator.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh, if Draven Alucard were capable of such a thing.

We walk in silence, but it’s different than before, less like he’s tolerating my presence and more like he’s simply sharing space with me. I don’t know what to do with that, so I focus on putting one frozen foot in front of the other and try not to think about how tired my body is.

Holloweir sits in a bowl of snow.

We see it from the ridge before we see anything else, a shallow valley scooped out of the land like someone pressed a thumb into clay, the village tucked into the low point with a frozen lake glinting behind it. I can see a dozen roofs, maybe fewer. The smoke from three chimneys rises thin and gray, suggesting half the village is deserted or freezing.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“That’s it.”

“It looks like somewhere people leave.”

“Most of them did.”

Draven starts down the ridge without waiting for me, and I have to skid and slide to keep up. The snow is deeper on this side of the slope. It reaches my knees at the bottom, my thighs in the drifts, and by the time we reach the first house, my lungs are burning.

The first house is empty. I can tell from the door, which is hanging in the frame like someone left in a hurry. The second has a goat tied to the porch post. She watches us with large yellow eyes and doesn’t blink.

“Friendly,” I mutter.

“Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

“I love when livestock has better information than I do.”