Six draws his sword, and the rangers spin to put their backs together—to me, boxing me in with their weapons held out before them. The soldiers rush us, pouring out of the trees—six, seven, eight of them, and who knows how many more. How did they get behind us? The Awnian unit should be closer to Andred, unless—if Brayam already found them, if he was bringing them back to the fort—

One of the soldiers lifts a crossbow, and my thoughts scatter. “Gale,” I shout, drawing on my fear and fusing the word with a punch of power. Papa used to tell me a story of his days as a soldier, when he was sent to guard the Awnian ports and spent most of a year on a ship. He told me about the gales that would scream through the rigging with what seemed like enough force to rip the world apart, and the memory rings in my ears as the winds gather to obey me.

I taste sea spray as a torrent of wind slashes out from my hands. It cuts down the crossbow bolt aimed at us, then hurtles out against the soldiers, flinging them aside like dandelion seeds.

I stagger as the wind blows itself out. Six catches my arm and pulls me forward. “Go!”

The others follow, breaking formation to sprint between the trees.

“How many are there?” Redge pants.

Six’s grip on my arm tightens. “If it’s the unit from Andred? A couple hundred.” He breaks off, glancing over his shoulder, and jogs to a stop. “We need to split up, make them divide their forces. Cut east until you find the ferryman’s hut on the outskirts of Andred. We’ll regroup there and—”

A crash sounds through the trees, followed by shouts in Awnian.

“Partners,” Six says. He reaches for me, but a crossbow bolt splits the air between us and sends me reeling backwards.

“I’ll take her,” Thare says, drawing me toward him. Six’s eyes stay on me until Iorin drags him away, following Orami and Redge as they disappear into the trees.

Then we’re running. We slip between a pair of aspens, Thare’s hand still on my arm as he guides me across a path he changes every few steps. He takes us south before turning east, then south again, then cutting back, always running farther and farther from the river. I’m careful to follow his footsteps exactly, avoiding the frequent patches of mud, leaving the fewest footprints possible.

Before long we break into a clearing, and Thare pauses to listen. “We have to go east again,” he says. “Otherwise we’ll—”

He grunts and stumbles as a crossbow bolt thuds into his leg. I jump back, spinning to face the three soldiers stalking into the clearing.

“Surrender,” one of them says, shouldering his crossbow. The other two only have swords, which they lift wordlessly.

Thare forces a rough breath through his nose. “Ielics aren’t trained to surrender.”

“You’re outnumbered.”

“Just the way I like it.”

Thare hauls me backwards as the three surge across the clearing, knocking aside one sword—two—dodging under the last. He slices one soldier across the neck, twisting to keep his back to the trees. To me.

He staggers as the two remaining soldiers renew their attack, and I summon the wind again. I try to direct it around Thare, but it tears at his clothes and drags him forward a step before he catches himself. The soldiers are thrown away from him, blown off their feet to smash into the earth, their swords tumbling from limp grasps.

Thare faces me, panting and sheathing his sword. “You’re getting good at that.”

“Plenty of practice,” I say. I reach for the bolt in his leg, but he stumbles away.

“Later. We have to go.”

Though I’d prefer to at least examine the wound, he’s right. The bolt will help stop the bleeding if we leave it where it is, and I can treat him when we’re safe. I duck under his arm to help support his weight, and we step into the trees.

Pain flares across the back of my neck. I slap my hand to it, flinching—but no, it isn’t pain—it’s the presence of another Wordweaver.

“Brayam is here,” I gasp. “We have to—”

A blast of heat makes me cry out and shield my face, and Thare’s arm tightens over my shoulders as he tries to pull me aside. The air crackles around me and then stills, the rush of power past, and I look back to the fallen Awnians with my heart pounding in my throat.

A woman stands over the fallen soldiers, flames circling her forearms. She lifts one hand and grins. “That was a warning. My next won’t miss.”

I gape at her, my words failing.

“Go on,” she purrs, beckoning me with a finger. “Try something. I’ve always wanted to fight another Wordweaver.”

Another Wordweaver. Another female Wordweaver.

I stare at her, taking in her split riding skirt and fur-lined jacket. Her clothes are too fine for the woods, but she wears them as if she’d be out of place in anything else. And her voice… ice blue and colder than the longest mountain winter, with a power that creeps through me like frostbite.

And the fire hasn’t stopped burning. It laps over the bared skin of her forearms, stopping just short of her elbows without risk to the lavish fur. But… she spoke. She broke the connection to her Wordweaving without losing control of the fire.

Thare spins his sword. “If you want a fight, all you have to do is ask.”

The woman’s laugh crackles like lightning.

“Don’t, Thare,” I whisper.

He glances at me as the woman lifts her blazing arms. “Come on, then,” she says.

“Don’t,” I repeat.

But apparently she wasn’t talking to us. As her arms rise, three soldiers appear from the trees at her back, each holding a drawn bow. “Take their weapons,” the woman says. She clenches her fingers into fists, and the fire races to her hands before burning out with a hiss.

Or rather, hand. Her right arm ends in a stump at the wrist.

Thare shifts his weight, growling as the soldiers advance on us, but I stand mountain-still. My skin is still itching, covered in the pricking feeling of spider legs and rats’ nails. This woman is dangerous. She isn’t like me, or even Brayam—the power she wields should not be possible. There’s nothing in the fryrs’ records that even hints at this kind of ability.

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I can’t fight her. I know it instinctively, and the certainty is sharper than any sword.

She’d kill us without a second thought.

The soldiers bind our hands behind our backs and push us into a march through the forest. I try to commit the path to memory, but there’s no trail to follow. We duck low-hanging branches and fallen limbs, doing all we can not to trip without the use of our arms for balance.

All I can tell for sure is that we’re traveling south, away from the river and anyone who might help us.

“Listen,” Thare murmurs, pretending to stumble into me. Or maybe that was real—when I glance down, I find blood staining the cloth around the bolt in his leg. “There’s no time to train you properly,” he goes on in a low voice. “But you have to be prepared. They’re going to question us. No matter what they say, remain silent. Anything you say, however innocent, might give something away. Stay silent at all costs.”

I swallow and nod, trying to control the sudden shaking in my arms. “You’re already injured,” I whisper.

“I’ll be fine.”

“The others are still out there. They can—”

“The others will leave us if they have any brains,” Thare interrupts. “We have to expect that no one will save us. You agreed to do this for Six. Are you prepared to die for him?”

My breathing hitches.

He nods. “You’d better figure it out soon.”

The woman leads us to a clearing. A single tent is pitched between two red pines, and beside it, two more soldiers stand at attention, both bleeding from fresh wounds. One has a cut across his upper arm, and the other presses a piece of cloth against a gash above his eyebrow.

I frown. Is this it? Where’s the rest of the unit—where’s Brayam? The clearing isn’t big enough for more than a dozen people, and counting the one Iorin killed, I’ve only seen ten soldiers.

Dread pools in my gut as understanding sinks through me. I thought I was sensing Brayam, and we separated based on the assumption that he was with the Andred unit. If I was sensing this woman instead…

We’re not the only captives. Redge kneels between the soldiers, his hands tied like ours, a purple bruise marring his cheek. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says in a flat voice.

“Shut up,” grunts one of his guards, punctuating the words with a boot between Redge’s shoulders.

“Anyone else?” the woman asks as Thare and I are shoved to the ground beside Redge. Thare grunts as he goes down, and I strain helplessly against my bonds. I should have healed him when I had the chance.

“None, Lady Alarra,” answers one of the soldiers. “There’s a patrol out searching for the rest.”

I snap my head up. Alarra? Six mentioned that name, back in the Ielic camp… he was talking about…

Ieldran. Is this Six’s betrothed?

“Did you capture the one who killed Lorn?” the woman asks, oblivious to my reaction.

The man on the right shakes his head. “He escaped. But Malgren hasn’t returned yet, so he may yet be caught.”

“Good,” Alarra says. She looks down at me, her eyes bright and cold. “At least I have captured the Wordweaver. That is the real prize.”

I try not to shrink under her gaze. She smiles, but the expression lacks any hint of warmth.

“What is your name?” she asks.

I glance at Thare and clench my jaw shut. Alarra waits a moment, then crouches until her eyes are even with mine. “You don’t know me,” she says in a low voice. “So I will forgive your rudeness. But I will not ask a second time.”

Creeping blue tendrils twist through her words, and I can almost picture them reaching out to wrap around my throat. It isn’t quite a threat, but it doesn’t need to be. Her power speaks for itself.

Her hand turns palm-upward, and she reaches toward Thare without breaking eye contact with me.

“Brennr,” I say in a strained voice.

She stops, hand still extended, still staring at me. “Brennr is a mountain name,” she says. “A man’s name. And I think we both know it doesn’t suit you.”

My heart stutters in my chest.

“I heard you speak earlier,” Alarra goes on. “In the clearing, when you Wordwove. You used your real voice then. Tell me the truth now, or...”

My eyes dart to Thare, and she flashes a chilling smile. “Don’t let him distract you. Here, I’ll go first. My name is Alarra Ambritten. My father is the Grand General.”

Ieldran save us. I study her with the same attention she’s just given me, fighting to control the frantic pounding of my heart. She’s younger than she appeared at a distance—less than ten years my elder. Ash brown hair frames a pale face dusted with freckles, which give her an innocent quality completely countered by the hard gleam in her dark amber eyes.

“Your name,” she repeats.

I press my lips together, trying to force slow breaths through my nose.

“I can sense your power,” Alarra says. “So you must be able to sense mine. I don’t need to tell you how the two compare.”

Still smiling, she reaches out and rips the bolt from Thare’s leg. He jerks forward, biting back a curse and hissing a breath through his teeth. Redge shouts and gets another kick to the back.

Before I can react, Alarra presses the bloody tip to my throat. “Your name.”

“Ynria,” I whisper.

She tilts her head. “Ynria. It means ‘snow’, doesn’t it? Names are something of a hobby of mine. Especially mountain names. My mother was from the mountains.”

I can only stare at her, trying not to focus on the point of the bolt barely touching my skin. “We are a match, Ynria,” she goes on. “My name means ‘winter storm’. Do you believe in fate?”

I draw in a painful breath and say, “Ieldran has a plan for us all.”

“Hmm, yes. Ieldran’s plan.” Alarra lowers the bolt, twirling it absently in her fingers. “If you believe in that, you must agree we’ve been brought together for a reason. I can help you, Ynria. Wordweavers are so rare that I have only met two before you, and they’re both men. Men have such a dull way of looking at things. They view Wordweaving as a hammer and the world as their anvil.”

She leans forward, her eyes burning. “But you and I know better. I felt it as soon as I looked at you. Wordweaving isn’t just a tool—it’s a part of us. It is the way we think and breathe and exist. You and I are not bound by the same rules as the men. We’re different.”

Fear shivers through me. “What do you mean, not bound by the same rules?”

She grins. “All in good time, my friend. But first I need something from you. You have a mountain name, but you’re here with Ielic soldiers. Why?”

“We’re just travelers,” I say.

“Travelers who go armed through the woods?” she says. “Who shoot Awnian soldiers? Who dress like—” She breaks off, her gaze sweeping over the clasp of my traveling cloak. Ice shoots up my spine, freezing me stiff as she reaches slowly for my neck.

“Ah,” she says, her voice a violet whisper. She presses one finger to the hollow of my throat, then trails it down along the cord tucked into my shirt. Or it was tucked into my shirt—but her finger brushes against the cloak’s clasp and pulls the cord free from where it was caught against the metal. “What is this?”

She lifts Six’s ring between us, her gaze never leaving mine.

“Nothing.” My voice shakes, but I push on. “A gift from my suitor.”

“Your suitor?” Alarra says. She jerks her hand, and the cord snaps against the back of my neck. “I think maybe it came from mine.”

Ieldran… then it’s true. Six was betrothed to the daughter of the man who killed his family.

“Where is he?” she asks.

I shake my head, my heart throbbing in my chest.

“Come now, Ynria,” Alarra says, her voice like moths’ wings against my skin. “Don’t you see we have to stick together? Two women standing on our own in the world of men. If we don’t help each other, no one will. Don’t you ever get tired of being told you can’t do something because you’re a woman?” She flicks her gaze over me. “Of course you do, or you wouldn’t be dressed as you are. What would the world be like if we could be who we were meant to be without fear, without hesitation?”

Her shrewd eyes bore into mine, and I know she reads the longing there. A gentle smile works her lips. “How many more of us do you think there are, hiding their talents because they’ve been told they can’t exist? Perhaps female Wordweavers aren’t rare at all. We could make a new world for them. A world where they wouldn’t have to be afraid.” She reaches out her hand as if to help me up. “That’s the world my father envisions. You can help us build it. Just tell me where to find the prince.”

I swallow. “I don’t know where he is.”

“But you can help us find him. You can help us end his family’s tyranny once and for all.” She leans closer, her breath brushing against my cheek. “You owe him nothing. But pledge your loyalty to me and my father, and I can promise you the freedom you’ve always dreamed of.”

What would freedom under a murderer’s reign look like? I wouldn’t have to hide anymore—Alarra is proof of that—but at what cost? I feel Thare’s and Redge’s eyes on my back, waiting for my answer, and my mind whirls back to what Thare asked me earlier. Am I willing to die for Six? If I don’t agree to help Alarra now, that’s what will happen. I feel it with the same certainty that I know she is more powerful than me, that fighting her would only postpone the inevitable.

“You will help us find him,” Alarra says, her voice sweet as poisoned wine. “Won’t you, Ynria?”

She wants me to choose—to verbalize my promise.

I close my eyes. “No.”