Gray twisted his grip on the strap of his rucksack, his dark hair hanging in his eyes, and, against every instinct within him, he paused.

Ravestead town lay before him.

They were close enough to the coast that the air was changing from forest-scented to balmy, and the soil was changing to sandy.

Gray stood on the cobbled road that led down to the main gates - ancient gates carved all over with twists and axes and ravens - sand gritty underneath his shoes, the reins of Fudgie in his free hand, mouth open.

The noise coming from the town washed over him like frothing waves.

It was a roar of voices calling, hammers pounding in smithies, and livestock bleating. It was wheels clattering on cobblestoned streets. It was singers and fiddle players performing on the streets, and a hundred banners - depicting different shields, family shields - flapping in the wind.

Ravestead’s walls were built from black stone with spikes jutting from the top and were so tall that Gray, hell even Fudgie, looked like ants. The towering buildings beyond the wall were crammed so close together that their tiled roofs almost touched.

‘You’re so green it hurts,’ said Sorena. ‘Wait until you see Sirentown. Let’s go.’

Sweat beaded her forehead, and her platinum hair was a tangled mess. She sat hunched on Fudgie.

She’d fahrened them over three nights, and even with Gray’s limited knowledge of magic, he could see that she was really pushing it.

She couldn’t hide the tremble in her hands.

The thinness of her breath.

Fahrenning was brutal. It was like being drowned, crushed into darkness, tossed back and forth, and then being thrown gasping onto the ground of a strange place.

But, however brutal it was for Gray, Lyrie and Oliver, and however much the horses hated it, it was worse for Sorena.

‘You’re so rude it hurts,’ muttered Lyrie under her breath, so only Gray and Oliver could hear. ‘You go.’

Perhaps, she was getting too exhausted to fight with Sorena. She certainly looked exhausted, with her auburn braids fraying every which way and her complexion going damn grey. Her eyes looked less fierce with every mile they travelled.

Lyrie barely talked at all, unless it was to fight with Sorena. Oliver, too. Gray knew her family had commanded her not to talk due to whatever the reason was that was making the mages hide in the forest. Sometimes she’d watch the treeline of the forest when they got close, her hands tight in the horse’s mane and her shoulders drawn in.

‘Yeah,’ said Oliver, a bit too loudly. Oliver, Gray was learning, would back his sister to the death, even if she was wrong as heck. ‘You go.’

‘You’re so stupid I can’t even deal,’ said Sorena. ‘I will go. I’ll go, get out of the open and if you stay behind then father’s army will capture you.’

‘Did you just call my brother stupid?’ said Lyrie, edging her horse forward.

Sorena narrowed her cold hazel eyes. ‘I’m calling you both stupid, stupid.’

‘No one’s stupid,’ said Gray.

‘You’re all stupid,’ said Sorena, her voice pure ice.

‘This is stupid,’ said Gray.

‘You don’t know my father,’ said Sorena. ‘My stepmother. I need to get into a hotel. A nice one. Rest. And then keep going.’ She made to dismount.

‘No,’ said Gray quickly. He could only imagine how things would go if Sorena marched into that town, into any of the hotels, and started making demands. ‘Stay. I’ll sort it.’

-

Gray sorted it, after being buffeted on the busy streets, his shoulder bumped when he stood still for too long, disoriented by so many people and the mess of narrow streets.

He sorted stabling for the horses, sorted a cheap canvas cap for Sorena to wear to cover her distinctive hair and at least half shield her damn beautiful face.

And, after some effort, he sorted a place for them to rest for a few hours.

It wasn't a hotel.

He'd gotten turned away from every hotel he tried. Which, to be fair, would’ve been exactly what Barin would’ve done if a guest had turned up at the tavern as Gray was (covered in insect bites from sleeping in the open, the remains of faint bruising on his face, limping, no stat papers, and looking hunted).

Instead, he found a cosy pub in the centre of Ravestead, and it was plush enough with brightly coloured cushions and curtains, and a cheery fire in an enormous hearth, to be deemed nice in Sorena’s eyes.

They sat huddled around a small table and tried to be discrete.

Sorena ate a giant meat pie, chips and salad. She ate a bowl of onion soup and a hunk of bread. A giant slice of lemon and hazelnut cake. Her hands went from trembling to just a slight tremor.

She said she was almost ready to fahren them again.

But not quite.

And the horses needed more rest. Honestly, they’d be pretty screwed if the horses got injured.

That’s when the wine happened.

Because, as Lyrie pointed out, they couldn’t just sit at the table in this pub for hours and twiddle their thumbs.

They had to blend in. And cherries, Lyrie had said, were on the list of foods that strengthened a mage’s power. The pub didn’t have cherries, but it had cherry wine.

And now, the bottle of cherry wine was nearly drained, the girls were doing everything but blending in.

They were the damn loudest table in the pub.

Somehow, Lyrie and Sorena went from arguing in hissing whispers for three days straight to leaning their foreheads against each other and then laughing in about the span of one hour.

Gray watched them, his eyebrows knitting. Sure, they’d drunk a lot of cherry wine but it wasn’t strong. Maybe it was because they were all sleep deprived. Stressed. He himself felt frayed around the edges, but still, watching Lyrie and Sorena going from something bordering on hate to this sudden intense closeness was giving Gray whiplash.

Gray had such a racing sense of panic at being still so close to Krydon that he felt like he could hurl at any second.

He could feel the jinx.

Under his skin.

Pulsing, just slightly off from his heartbeat.

Killian was homing in.

Getting closer.

It would be so easy for Killian to stalk into this cosy pub, flip over the tables in a rage, and drag not only Sorena and the Ralphs, but Gray too, back into the nightmare that was Krydon.

Killian would be very, very angry.

And everything Gray had worked for would be for nothing. He was determined to keep the soldiers chasing them, drawing them further and further away from Krydon.

Gray tried to exchange a glance with Oliver - you know, a girls-am-I-right? kind of deal, to see if Oliver was feeling as confused as he - but Oliver was slumped against the back of his chair, fast asleep with his mouth open.

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‘Clochaint.’ Gray leant forward to catch Sorena’s attention. ‘Sorena?’

‘Forget the guild,’ Lyrie was saying to a very enraptured Sorena, who completely ignored Gray, ‘I just want to lay in fields and pick shapes out of clouds, and pluck peaches from trees. Is that too much to ask?’

‘No,’ said Sorena. ‘No, it isn’t. You’re so right.’

‘Have you ever had a peach straight from a tree?’ said Lyrie.

’No,’ said Sorena, frowning. ‘Everything I eat has to be tested for poison first.’

‘Gods, that’s terrible.’

Lyrie was crying now, and Gray was pushing down building panic within him, but only just.

‘Girls,’ he said. ’Sorena. We kind of have to focus. It could do badly if we don’t.’

‘Do you hear something?’ said Lyrie.

‘I,’ said Sorena. ‘I only hear the piping of an unbroken voice, and it does nothing to penetrate my mind.’

‘What the fuck,’ said Gray. ‘My voice has actually broken, I’m trying to not startle you-’

‘Only,’ said Sorena to Lyrie, ‘cherries would be better.’

‘Cherries?’ said Lyrie.

‘Not peaches,’ said Sorena. ‘From the trees.’ She swirled the dregs of the cherry wine, and they both laughed loud enough for the elderly couple at the neighbouring table to give them a very disapproving glare.

Gray waved an apologetic hand at the elderly couple and snatched the wine bottle out of their reach. ‘Is this spiked?’

It took two more goes before Sorena untangled herself from Lyrie and hit Gray with a very drunk, very hazy stare.

‘You need anything else?’ he said. ’To prepare you for fahrening again?’

‘Fahrening?’ she said.

Oh, gods.

‘Yes,’ said Gray firmly. ‘You need to fahren us again. As soon as possible. To Sirentown. Remember?’

‘Right,’ said Sorena.

She staggered upright, and Gray’s heart lurched. Why the damn had he let her drink? He knew it only took the barest bit of alcohol to turn her messy. He’d thought, at one point, that maybe the Sorena he’d met at the Tipsy Stag had been a very convincing act.

But, no. She could get very drunk off half a drink, let alone a load of cherry wine.

‘No, no,’ said Gray. ’Sit. Tell me, and I’ll get it.’

‘Myrtle tea,’ she said.

And, as Gray crossed the pub floor to ask if they had myrtle tea - gods he hoped so - Sorena yelled out, ‘And be discrete about it, little boy.’

Gray stiffly ignored the looks from the other patrons.

—

At some point, the girls got sleepy. They were too sleepy for them to do any kind of magic let alone for Sorena to fahren them. Oliver was damn impossible to wake.

Gray leant against the counter at the bar inside the cosy pub, chewing the inside of his lip.

The owner of the pub was an elderly woman with a tough squint to her eyes. She looked Gray up and down and then glanced over his shoulder, through the crowd that had trickled into the pub as the sun had set, and at Gray’s table. At the three slumped forms there.

‘Any room you have,’ Gray begged.

There was accommodation available on the floors above the pub. The sign outside said so.

This had not been the plan. The plan had been to eat and recover, and get moving again in a matter of hours. Half a day at most.

Damn cherry wine.

They were so screwed.

There was a twist to the woman’s mouth that told Gray he was about to be charged at least double the going rate.

She knew they had money. They’d spent a small fortune on food already between the four of them.

‘These rooms are pricey,’ said the owner.

‘How much?’ said Gray.

‘Two silvers, lad.’

Ouch. Gray clenched his jaw, and dug two silvers out of his pocket. He handed them over, his shoulders tense.

‘I don’t know,’ said the owner, tucking the coins into the front pocket of her apron. ‘No parents, no stat papers. It’s awfully suspicious, lad. I don’t want trouble with the law.’

She was smiling a smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a shark. Gray sighed and knew the next step he had to take in this dance. He slid a precious ardent coin across the counter.

‘Your tip,’ said Gray tightly. ‘For being so accommodating. I’m very appreciative, ma’am.’

The owner squinted at the coin and let out a sharp breath. Then, she snatched it up faster than a cat battering a mouse. ‘Room 202 is available. Second floor.’

-

It took a lot of work, and way too much attention from surrounding patrons for Gray’s liking, to get Sorena, Lyrie, and Oliver up the stairs and into room 202.

It was a simple room with floral wallpaper, rough timber flooring, and a window that looked out into the street.

There was a large double bed, and one-by-one, Gray poured them into it.

‘You know,’ said Lyrie, slurring in northern, ‘someone in Krydon said you were a sorcerer. Conor Griffin. You aren’t famous, are you? You’re not a sorcerer?’

Wordlessly, Gray settled her next to Oliver, taking off her boots. Her eyes were half lidded. He opened his mouth to ask her what he’d asked her two times already - why were the mages hiding in the forest?

As she was, she’d probably answer him.

And, in the morning she’d kill him.

If she remembered.

‘Maid,’ said Sorena, sitting lopsidedly on the opposite side of the bed. She held up her wrist. The cuffs of her expensive shirts had a complicated weaving of laces and buttons. ‘Attend me.’

‘Drink your myrtle tea,’ said Gray. ‘It’s right next to you.’

‘Maid.’ Sorena lifted both her wrists.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Gray.

‘You’re angry,’ said Sorena, narrowing her gaze.

Yes, Gray wanted to say. How had this happened, how the damn had they gotten blind drunk off one bottle of cherry wine?

They didn’t have time for this.

‘Go to sleep, Sorena,’ said Gray.

‘Maid. My laces.’

‘Do I look like your maid?’

‘You look,’ said Sorena, ‘like the portrait of Ryan Griffin in my father’s office. Only angry. You always have done. I suspected it, the moment I met you.’

Gray's stomach jolted. Suddenly, his throat was very dry.

‘So,’ he said faintly, ‘not your maid.’

He undid her damn laces on the cuffs of her wrists anyway, firmly pushing down rising anger and cold anxiety.

But, he couldn't curtail the sharp curiosity burning through him.

Sorena lay down, the loose laces from her cuff trailing over the blankets.

'Why does your father have a portrait of Ryan Griffin in his office?' said Gray.

She lay her arms over her head, resting her hands on the pillow. Gray had never seen her so unguarded.

'Why would I know?' she said.

'He's your father. You haven't asked him?'

'He's got lots of portraits,' said Sorena.

She blinked slow.

Slower.

She was asleep.

The three of them slept through the noise coming up from the pub. They slept through Gray pushing an armchair against the door. They slept as the night wore on and the pub below grew quiet.

Gray eyed the adjoining bathroom, desperate to bathe, but didn’t dare break his attention, not for a second. He paced back and forth in the room, his gaze alternating between the dark window and the barricaded door.

The floorboards creaked underneath his feet. Soft and subtle.

Spindly tree branches scratched at the window.

Oliver lay snoring next to Lyrie. Sorena slept so deeply and lay so still that Gray resisted the urge to prod her to make sure she’d not fallen into an unwakeable sleep.

There was movement in the street. Lismerian.

Heart in his mouth, Gray crossed to the window and peeked out.

Soldiers.

They were travelling fast.

And it looked like they were in small groups.

Gray scanned them for Killian.

For Codder.

But, it was dark, and the soldiers avoided the pools of light from the street lamps.

Gray was at the bed, shaking everyone awake, so fast.

Sorena was the hardest to wake.

Lyrie shouldered the rucksack and Oliver was tying his shoelaces, and Gray was still rousing Sorena.

She sat, slowly.

And stared at Gray, looking rougher than he’d ever seen her, her fingertips pressing to her temples. Her un-done laces from her cuffs trailed.

‘I see you’re yourself again,’ said Gray, pressing cold myrtle tea into her hands.

‘This,’ said Sorena, ‘is not myself.’ She stared down at the myrtle tea as though it was a cup of dirt.

‘They’re here,’ Gray said. ‘We have to go. You all right?’

Sorena gulped down the myrtle tea.

Underneath them, through the floorboards, was a tumult of voices.

Deep. Clipped. Lismerian.

Gray was pulling Sorena upright, and helping her with her shoes, while Lyrie drew the chalk circle on the floorboards. Oliver shoved Sorena’s wand into Sorena’s limp grasp.

’Now, Sorena,’ said Gray.

The soldiers were in the hall.

They were outside their door. Talking to the guest in the room opposite.

Killian - Killian’s voice barrelled through, ‘I expect your cooperation, ma’am’-

Gray’s insides froze. He realised they didn’t have time to get the horses from the stable, that the soldiers surely would be there, checking, waiting, and it was like a kick in the gut - no horses, no Fudgie, who had been Alistair’s favourite, Fudgie who was naughty and clever and had been so amazing through the brutal fahrenning, and he had to abandon Fudgie here in this town and Alistair would be fuming -

Sorena coolly muttered the words, as they all stood huddled together inside the chalk circle.

Gray glanced over at the barricaded door, just as someone - someone impossibly strong - kicked it open in one movement.

Killian was silhouetted in the doorway. His soldier cap was pulled low over his eyes, and the wolf fur collar was in immaculate condition, undisturbed by travelling fast and hard.

He stepped over the threshold.

For the smallest fraction of a second, Gray made eye contact with Killian.

Then,

CRACK.

They fahrened.