I wish we could go slower. The trees whip by and I can’t drink it all in fast enough. There aren’t flowers with it being so close to winter, but I bet it’s gorgeous in the summer, green and lush and full of colors I’ve never seen.

“There tend to be more of them gathered by the city gates.” Henry’s voice is barely audible above the wind and the pounding of horse hooves. “We’ll slow down by mid-morning.”

When he said that the canopy is thick enough that the Drained lurk in the shadows, I’d assumed he only said it to inspire my cooperation, but the speed we’re traveling at and the wary glances of our traveling party suggest otherwise.

The morning is a blur of greens and browns and wispy white mist that is thickest at the low points of the forest. We only slow once to give the horses a quick rest by a stream just off the main trail, and we don’t linger long.

Henry is quiet, contemplative, not that I expect him to have anything to say to me. I know what I am to him because it’s the same thing he is to me—a burden I bear out of duty.

I’ve barely finished eating the light lunch before Henry is boosting me back on his horse and we’re off again. I knew it would be a long day since we need to reach the fort by dusk, but my hips ache from the long ride.

As we ride, I consider how they kept the rebuilt fort a secret for so long. It’s possible they had a glamourist who could cast an illusion and hide it all this time, but that would be a very skilled practitioner wielding a very strong blessing.

I wonder if the few tradesmen who traveled to town in recent years skipped it or knew that it was still alive with activity and kept their secrets. The more I learn, the less certain I am of who can be trusted, especially with how eager Henry was to learn about Rochelli.

Our group continues through the forest, Bryce and Carter leading the way with a contingent of four guards. Henry’s parents ride in front of us, and Gaven and three more guards follow behind us. Everyone else is engaged in quiet conversation, less tense than they were at the start of the journey.

“Feeling better?” Henry asks.

I bristle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He leans down so his lips graze my ear as he speaks. “I’m talking about how you were crying earlier.”

I grind my teeth. “I have terrible allergies, but I’ve acclimated.”

He chuckles, and his arm tightens around my waist as if to taunt me.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

I subtly arch my back, pressing my ass into him.

“Harlow,” he hisses. His tone is low, warning.

“You say my name like I’m a thing you’re cursed with.”

He makes a sound between a laugh and a hum of agreement. “Divine deliver me—that I may survive such a curse.”

“If they’re merciful, you won’t,” I say.

We ride in silence for a few moments, until the question that’s been crammed in my mouth finally slips out.

“Is it safe for me at Mountain Haven?”

His hand flattens against my stomach. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m trying to ask what it’s like.”

“Well, it’s not wild like you think,” Henry says. “We follow meticulous rules because that’s the only way to survive. Now, I know this will grate against your very nature, lovely, but there’s an expectation that as my wife, you’ll listen to me.”

I straighten in my seat, and he chuckles.

“Yes, I thought that might be your response, but you’ll find that strength is prized above all else there, which means that in order to stay in charge, I must appear strong and my wife needs to appear both strong and obedient.” He leans closer. “And before you take a swing at me, note that I said appear obedient. What you do in the privacy of our rooms is your business, but the easiest way to get killed at Mountain Haven is to belong to no one—and I don’t mean in a possessive way, though that’s part of it. I mean if they think you’re on your own, they will pick you off. While I have the support from most thanks to my exhaustive work securing our home, you know well that when you’re the ones risking everything and doing all the work, there are always people who think they can do a better job.”

That is something I am acutely aware of. I have no love for my father, but I have seen how hard he works to keep our people safe and the way they all think they could do better.

“What happened?” I ask. “During the attack ten years ago? How did the Drained get to you? Growing up, I always thought Mountain Haven was impenetrable—I heard the stories⁠—”

“Stone walls in front and mountain face behind?” Henry asks, his voice bitter. “Everything breaks eventually.”

I wait for him to say more, but he’s gone quiet and contemplative. I settle into the steady rhythm of the ride and the feeling of him behind me—solid, strong, protective. The arm he has wrapped around my waist occasionally tightens to draw me closer. I can’t tell if it’s out of discomfort or fear that I might fall.

At this point, he must feel my ease with the horse. My only tension comes from him behind me, breathing against the nape of my neck, crowding my space with his firm chest.

He sniffs the air just as Carter throws a fist up at the front of the group. Everyone slows nearly to a stop.

Carter holds up two fingers and everyone soundlessly falls into pairs along the narrow trail. The path grows darker, the dying shrubs and ferns pressing closer.

We ride down the incline, and the temperature plunges. The hair on the back of my neck rises, like I stepped through a ghost.

“What is this pl⁠—”

Henry’s hand clamps over my mouth. The group has almost stopped, everyone holding their breath. A faint red tinge colors the air. I squint in the dim light cutting through the thick, leafy canopy, trying to figure out if it’s something about the trees above us casting the light a strange color.

It almost looks like this place has a red aura.

Henry presses one finger to my lips in the signal to be quiet. I stare into the darkened forest to our right.

Henry sniffs the air, and his whole body goes rigid as a low hiss rises from somewhere deep in the underbrush.

“Go!” he shouts.

Carter and Bryce lead the way, taking off at a full gallop, no longer concerned about making noise. The time for caution is gone. Now we’re riding for our lives from some invisible force in the forest.

My heart pounds. I pull off my gloves and shove them in my pocket. My hands itch for a weapon, but I’m too afraid to drop my dagger in my nervousness. Henry fumbles in his pocket and then shoves a glass vial into my hand.

“Hold this.”

Henry yanks off his gloves and shoves them in his pockets. He unsheathes a vicious-looking sword and slows the horse. “Uncork it and pour it over the blade.”

I do as he says, with considerable difficulty at our pace, dribbling the liquid haphazardly over the blade. “What is it?”

“Well water,” he says, urging the horse on faster.

Our mount is steadier than I expected, but I place a hand on his neck anyway.

“Hold on,” Henry says.

I’ve learned about our history and the magic of the Drained Wood since I was a child, but reading a story in a book or hearing it around a campfire doesn’t do justice to the horror of hearing the deafening rush of the current of blood mist.

In the pub tales I’ve heard, it’s a magical current that flows through the Drained Wood in a seemingly random pattern, always with a horde of Drained coming just behind it. In reality, the mist rushes in like a furious river, giving me no time to orient to the path ahead before the red haze blocks out everything.

The air smells like iron and salt. I lean back into Henry, fighting against the suffocating smell of blood.

“Just breathe. We just need to stay on the horse and keep riding. But fear attracts them and your heart is pounding. Just take a breath,” Henry says.