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“The dead man was lironi,” Eavus went on. “A free person. Not a slave.”

“What does that mean?”

“He has no mark of dismissal.” Eavus powered through the thick trees like a god was snapping at him from behind, pushing aside branches Revni had to dodge. “He’s a soldier, a working soldier. Sent with the slaver to protect him, most likely, but on duty. It’s murder. I’ve committed murder.”

Revni swallowed hard. She didn’t feel guilty for the deaths, but that Eavus should take the blame…

“How would they know it was you? They think you went east.”

“Sure they do. Until one of those little face-painters runs off to Triconum and rats me out.”

“They wouldn’t do that. We freed them.”

“Ten gold coins. Ten gold coins for aiding in the capture of someone who murders an Aleterian soldier.” For the first time, he paused, but only long enough to give her a withering look. “You don’t think one of those prisoners would turn us in for the chance at ten gold coins? Even with his brand. A short sentence he could serve out at Triconum, and then enough money to last a year.” Eavus continued crashing forward. “You’re in danger, too. They know your face better than mine.”

“So what do we do?”

“We move. If I can get to Norbucum ahead of schedule, I can deliver my message, and hope to the gods that everything that happens after makes them forget about one dead soldier in the south.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I’m executed for treason.”

“And what if you don’t get to Norbucum in time?”

“I’m executed for desertion.”

“So. All good options then.”

Eavus huffed, something resembling amusement cracking through.

“So this is north?”

“So the man said.”

“The Isfolj are north.”

Eavus flashed his whole grin.

“So they are.”

“Sa,” Revni smiled, trying to sound content, but inside, everything was turmoil.

The Isfolj. Now? When her steady feet had just been ripped from beneath her yet again?

The slaver didn’t have her ring. The panic of him taking it had never fully set in. She would get it back, just as she had from Eavus. The gods were with her. Like Kyrianos had been with her on the path.

But then the slaver’s purse had been empty, his fingers bare, and it was as if her very soul had been ripped out of her. It wasn’t the land or the title or the money the ring offered—though it was. She had spit on Aleteria for their slaves, but Isfolj had them, too. Thyl meant “servants”—a different word than they used for foreign captives, a name that meant Isfolj-born but with no ties—but the reality was much the same. A family might take you in, but only to work, only so the cold didn’t kill you. There was no hope at the end of that tether—no glory in battle, no freedom to choose your own path. Revni thought she had lost everything, so many times—her parents, her clan, her freedom. But the loss of her ring…

Without the ring, she was no longer Revni Hyldyttr. By the laws of the Isfolj, she was nothing.

She knew what it was to be nothing now.

And the worst of it was, it wasn’t Eavus that had done that to her. It wasn’t even the Aleterians, or the slaver. It was herself. Her own fear. Her own doubt. The gods willed everyone to a purpose: seer, warrior, mother, king. Revni’s heart hurt with the clarity of who she was meant to be. She had stood before the too-hot fire on the day of her Soti Faes and didn’t move when the hands pulled at her scalp, giving her her first braids, and didn’t lick her lips when the blood-mud ran. She didn’t even need to close her eyes to taste it still—salt and iron and earth. That was the fate the gods had called her to.

And then they’d taken it all away.

Gon of the Golden Scar. Jurl of Faen and Isfjold.