Jon climbed the sharp incline out of the healer village, thorned berry vines tugging at his breeches. Silent as a fox, he crept through the denser brush onto a smooth trail. The wind blew fierce without the trees to shield him.

Rakir scouts camped nearby, their large fire easy to smell each time the wind blew. If he didn’t silence them before they picked up his trail, he’d likely spend his next few weeks in chains as they dragged him back to the Tower of Idrér. The heart of Ìdolön’s power.

Jon would rather die than let anyone chain him.

He crept along a line of large, rocky crags, scrub trees growing through the gaps. A campfire flickered in an alcove, bordered on one side by a steep cliff.

Idiots don’t know how to hide their presence. Any scout worth his spit would’ve kept the fire underground to avoid detection.

Only one soldier sat near the flames, an older man with a bald head shouting at the two picketed horses. Scouts always traveled in pairs, so the other must be nearby.

Jon slid between a gap in the rocks as a second soldier joined the first.

“Picket the horses over here.” The older man gestured toward his companion. “They’re too loud, and I need me some sleep.”

“Move ‘em yourself. I’m going on watch.” Jack Bonin, one of the street patrol soldiers, spat at the ground. His tower and two moons emblem glimmered in the firelight.

Jon knew the symbol as well as the back of his hand. He’d been part of their ranks, his long years spent securing prisoners in cages. His body remembered the scent of leather armor and how the wool uniforms fit tight across his chest. While he’d never gotten used to the smell or the screams inside the prison, he’d been damn good at his job.

Jon despised men like Bonin, who was rumored to hold children ransom until their merchant parents paid him to ‘protect’ their shop. He edged into the deeper shadows as the bastard strode by muttering under his breath.

Slipping from the gap in the rocks, Jon shadowed Bonin toward his perch near a cluster of tall redwoods. Time to rid the north of one more asshole.

He stepped into the deep shadows and crouched low, whistling softly enough that the noise was barely a whisper above the wind.

Bonin perked up, a dagger clutched in his hand. He slipped between the trunks as his footsteps faded to silence.

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Jon kept still, the woods silent.

Rakir were trained to be smart, deadly. Only a whisper of wind on the back of Jon’s neck alerted him to Bonin. He twisted back, slamming his elbow into the bastard’s nose.

“You fucking cunt!” Bonin spat blood at his cheek and slashed his silver blade.

Jon dodged the blow and hooked his arm, swiping Bonin’s feet so the bastard crashed onto his back. He stripped the dagger and pressed it to Bonin’s neck. “One sound and I’ll slit your throat.”

Bonin’s mouth stretched into a bloodied grin. “Jon Ayers. I hear your sister screamed when they lit her on fire.”

The pain of his family’s death still too raw in his heart, Jon slammed the dagger into Bonin’s hand. The bastard was one of a thousand assholes oppressing citizens of the north, all in the name of serving the six—old, powerful rulers who imprisoned and killed anyone with a hint of magic in their blood.

He could never let them get their hands on Jàden.

Pulling the dagger out of Bonin’s hand, Jon punched him hard in the nose and pressed the blade to his throat again. “How many Rakir in these mountains?”

Bonin gasped for breath, pain etched across his features. “Thousands.”

Fuck. Ìdolön must have sent half its army to track him down. That bastard Éli Hareth would probably be one of them.

As if reading his thoughts, a devious grin curled Bonin’s mouth, exposing blood-stained teeth. “Commander Hareth has a message—”

Jon slid his dagger across the man’s throat before he could finish, his muscles tightening into a hard knot at the name.

He dragged Bonin into a shadowy thicket to hide his body, but his eye caught a half-muddied emblem chicken-scratched on a piece of paper—a perfect circle around a red orb, four silver leaves spread out from the center.

The bloodflower. Rakir were after his family’s pendant.

He stripped Bonin’s weapons and retreated into the darkness. Keeping tight to the shadows, he retraced his steps to the remaining scout who hadn’t bothered with the horses. Already he was curled up in his blanket, snoring loudly. The guy must be half deaf not to hear Bonin’s shouting, or he simply didn’t care.

There was nothing honorable about killing a man in his sleep, but Jon had tried to stay honorable over the course of his life and it got him nothing. Plus he didn’t have time to be picky.

He tromped across the small camp, almost hoping the man would wake up, but the bastard snored until Jon’s blade dug into his throat.

After hiding the body behind a knot of trees, Jon extinguished the fire and hid all traces of the inhabitants as best he could. If there were any more scouts on this ridge, maybe they’d pass right by and never find the trail. Likely these two were headed straight for the healer village and planned to be there by midmorning.

“Looks like you’re coming with me.” As he secured the scouts’ weapons onto the saddles, he mounted one of the horses and held the other one’s line as he rode back to the healer’s village.

He’d been up for two days now, and exhaustion tugged at him as gray streaked the early morning horizon. The horses hung their heads as he plodded past the statue of Herana, the sharp angles of the Guardian’s face so much like Jàden, or what he imagined if someone hadn’t starved her.

Feira came out of her hut, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to fend off the morning chill. “I thought you were leaving.”

Dropping to the ground, Jon placed the reins of both horses in her hands. “Here’s your trade. I’ll take those supplies now.”