Page 54 of Harbinger

I turn on my heel and march back into the trees, jaw clenched to keep my humiliation from turning into tears that I refuse to let him see.

I rest against a tree, trying to keep myself together.

A soft, choked noise comes from ahead. I push off the trunk and creep forward, afraid to startle potential game. A small, gray rabbit is caught in a snare, its paw twisted at an unnatural angle. It’s still alive, twitching as it struggles to free its trapped leg.

I crouch beside it and run my hand gently over its fur, whispering the way I used to when Andry came with me to slaughter dinner.

“It’s okay,” I say, stroking it. “Let me help you.” It settles a little, although I feel its tiny heart beating a frantic rhythm.

I break its neck as cleanly as I can, then carry it back to camp. Bishop is waiting by a pile of logs, sharpening his knife. He looks up when I arrive, anger lingering in his eyes. I toss the dead rabbit at his feet. He blinks as he lifts it by the ears to inspect my handiwork.

“You broke its neck,” he says, turning it in his hands. “Most people couldn’t do that.”

I brush my palms on my thighs, ignoring the dip in my stomach. “I’m not most people.”

“No, you aren’t.” He studies me long enough that my heart jumps. I swallow, and he tears his attention away, slicing the pelt open with two quick flicks of the knife. He guts the rabbit, hands moving with practiced indifference.

I’m not letting him off the hook so easily. “You aren’t surprised after I ran from a wolf?”

“You ran from a deer.” He tosses the entrails onto the logs.

I cross my arms. “I thought it was a wolf.”

He mutters something I can’t hear, then says, “At least you have some survival instinct. But to answer your question. No, I’m not surprised.”

“But I didn’t kill that oscen.”

“You weren’t hungry then.” He laughs. The sound is as brief and sharp as the knife in his hands. “Mercy is a privilege the starving can’t afford.” He spears the carcass on a stick and holds it out to me. “I’ll start the fire.”

I glance at the sky darkening overhead. Clouds roll across the rapidly setting sun, a heavy dampness thickening the air. “It’s going to rain.”

“It won’t be more than a drizzle,” he says, continuing to brace logs as the first misty drops hit my skin.

Without a fire, cooking might be a privilege we can’t afford, either.

But instead of a match, Bishop traces a nochtimetric pattern in the dirt with a stick. Nothing happens, and he curses, erasing the lines with the toe of his boot. I don’t know what he expects from damp soil. But when he draws it again, the lines flare blue, then white, and the wood bursts into flames even as the rain picks up a little.

“How?” I lean to study the markings.

“Military grade,” he explains. “Burns in any weather, but it can take a few tries. The magic is tricky but necessary. You’ll understand when we reach Vennaro.”

The name lands like a stone in my stomach. “That’s where we’re going?”

We’re already on the border of Florentia, close to the Stygia Mountains. I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me that he’s taking me there.

“It’s the only place no one will dare come after you.”

But I snort. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one being hunted.”

His eyes flash. “You think I’ve never been hunted?” For a moment, we just stare at each other until he adds, “You’ll be safe there.”

Because it’s his territory. The only way inside Vennaro—if you weren’t born there—is to volunteer for military service. The region is nearly impossible to reach from most of Antares due to the deadliness of the mountains. Its coast is fortified with Marius strongholds to deter any threat coming from the Baron Sea. And then there are the troops, trained like soldiers but guarding the territory like they’re little more than packs of the wolves embroidered on their uniforms. There will be no mercy for anyone who trespasses on his land.

I stare at the flames, watching the fat pop and sizzle as the rabbit roasts. “Have you ever had the privilege of mercy?” I ask him quietly.

He’s silent for so long I think he’s going to ignore me. Then: “Once.”

I wait, but that’s all he gives me.