I smoothed out her tangled hairs, wrapping them around a finger like a ring of scarlet spider webs.

“Go,” I ordered the golems, and they were back in motion like they had never stopped at all.

Half an hour later, they turned east, departing from the main road and following a forest trail, a worn rut of smooth dirt that climbed upwards steadily, ascending towards the mountains bordering Foria.

The trail followed a slope under a thick canopy of trees, and I smelled it before I saw it, the entrance obscured by the thickening evening mist.

A mine shaft, the ragged entrance shored with old timbers, coated in decades’ worth of cold iron charms and protections.

It smelled old, deep. The ancient mineral belly of the world, gusting its breath down over the mountains, sending a chill up the spine of anyone who smelled it; it was a scent tinged with danger, with unknowable things. A scent I was too familiar with from my youth; the Fae had once walked those dark paths.

This close to Foria, they still might.

Fear prickled at the nape of my neck, my heart skipping a beat; my mind stumbled, tripping over a terrible thought—what if she’s in there what if she’s dead in that darkness—before the golems calmly walked under the charm-laden timber.

They still hunted her, so she lived. I clung to that notion as I followed, my eyes adjusting to the deep shadows in an instant.

And there it was again, her scent, as powerful as if she was standing right here beside me: it coated a lump of cold iron, dropped in the dirt.

I carefully maneuvered my claws around it, brought it to my nose. Flicked my forked tongue over it, tasting her fear and desperation.

Shredded in two, between blinding rage that she had been stolen, and the comforting knowledge that she had left this as a sign. Left it for the one person who could track her by blood or scent.

For me.

She had not run from me, she had been taken. My Cirri… somehow, I knew, she had not left me of her own accord. Had Miro forced her to write that letter? Had he threatened her, put a knife to her throat?

It was of no consequence now. The letter meant nothing.

She had left her petals, her hair, this cold iron, for me.

I wore no shirt; my body’s rippling conversion had shredded it. I finally did my best to tuck the cold iron into my trousers, torn and useless as they were, sloughing from my body with every step.

Every piece of Cirri, every clue she had left… I could leave none of it behind.

She was waiting, afraid and desperate.

Following the golems, my living compasses, I plunged into the dark.

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Chapter 43 Cirri

It was easy to hate cruel men, to hate monsters without a giving bone in their body. It was easy to hate wargs, and selfish little boys like Miro.

Hating Hakkon was like hating the sky for breaking into a thunderstorm. He simply didn’t care; my hate slid right off him, and from the very moment he decided I was of use to him, he was a perfect gentleman.

Led by Miro on the leash, surrounded by an honor guard of wargs, Hakkon led us out into the plains of Foria, leaving the fire and the horse’s mostly-eaten corpse behind.

I stumbled in the dark, my leather bag once more slung over my shoulders, my books tucked away carefully, but I couldn’t see a blessed thing on this cloudy night. Miro was charging well ahead with the lantern, once more holding his head up proudly as he spoke to Hakkon, telling him of my dead family and the estates he’d killed them for.

And why shouldn’t he? He’d narrowly avoided death, and brought Hakkon a true prize: the means to lure Bane over the border, right into a seething tempest of rage and vengeance, a whirlwind of twisted creatures ready to eat him alive.

So he was walking faster, trying to keep up with Hakkon as though he were an equal, a valued lieutenant, and I was left to stumble after him in the dark, tripping on stones and branches, once over an old barricade left over from the war. The tether occasionally pulled at my ankle, nearly upending me, and I’d have to make a dash to catch up with Miro’s steady march.

Until I stumbled over something bigger, plunging forward and just catching myself on my hands. I squinted behind me, seeing that I’d walked right into a half-burned log buried in the grass.

And there were more ahead of us, a whole pile of them; the foundations of an old cabin emerged from the grass, most of it burned black, but no creeping vines or plants had made a home of the ruins. It was simply an untouched pile in the midst of the flatlands.

Hakkon made a low noise, almost a snarl, and one of the wargs crept over the cabin’s remaining wall on all fours and began digging around on its floor, shoveling away at debris with spade-like claws.

Then he motioned to Miro. “Give that to me.”

Miro stared at him for a moment, face taut with strain, and Hakkon curled his lip. “The leash, boy. Give me the leash.”

Miro glanced at me as I picked myself up, not bothering to dust dirt from my palms—no doubt I’d be dragged along again—and licked his lips, clearly debating the merits of telling Hakkon no.

I saw the exact moment he realized it was futile; he no longer controlled the situation. He no longer controlled anything but the chance to save his own sorry skin.

Hakkon took the proffered leash, smiling at Miro in an unpleasant way. “You’ll go first, boy. Into the tunnel with you. Leave the lantern.”

The warg had not been digging at random. The scent of rotting wood filled the air; it had scraped away the trash from the cabin floor and pulled up a trap door with the squeal of rusted hinges, revealing rough-hewn steps. Miro stared at the descent, frozen in place.

“Any day now,” Hakkon said, amused. “You don’t need the little night-light.”

That did it; a vivid flush suffused Miro’s cheeks, and he snapped, “I’m not afraid,” clearly revealing his fear.

Strangely enough, I wasn’t afraid at all. Eight wargs surrounded us, unseen and unheard, but I knew they were prowling the cabin, boxing us in. Nothing down those stairs could possibly be worse than knowing I was watched and hunted at this very moment.

I watched impassively as Miro lowered the lantern to the floor and descended the steps cut into the earth, disappearing into the darkness. Several wargs spilled after him, jeering in high voices to push him along. Two of them carried the saddlebags in clawed hands: the jewels Miro had stolen from the Tower of Spring, stolen again by wolves.

Hakkon extended a hand, helping me over the burned wall.

As I passed over, I did my best not to touch the wood, not leaving so much as a fingerprint in the burned ashes. I wanted to mark it so badly, to leave the tiniest imprint that told Bane I had been here, that I was hoping he’d come; but I was torn down the middle.

One half of me prayed he’d stay in the Rift, believing in Miro’s letter. The other half screamed for him to come, to save me when I needed him most.

But the first half was winning, inch by precious inch, and I kept myself from touching the wood.

Stay away, Bane.

Hakkon grinned at me, noticing that I’d done everything in my power to avoid touching it. He leaned in close, warm breath on my cheek. “That won’t save him, redling. He’ll come for you, sure as the sun rises, and my children will feast.”

I glared at him and he laughed. “Down the stairs, nice and easy. Remember, my sons and daughters are ahead of you and behind you.”

I descended the steps. They went a good fifteen feet into the earth, and opened on a small and empty cellar. The only thing in the cellar was a dug-out doorway, a long, narrow passage just visible beyond it. Far ahead of me, I heard the wargs, the scratch of claws on stone, Miro’s curses as he stumbled in the dark.