The sun burned white above the fields, turning the rows of earth into ribs of cracked brown, each one radiating heat like a blacksmith’s forge. Elowen knelt in one of them, fingers digging beneath stubborn roots. Every movement scraped against the raw skin where blisters had already burst and reopened. Dust clung to her sweat and turned her palms gritty.

  “Move,” the overseer barked.

  She didn’t look up. She’d learned better. The ones who looked up were the ones singled out.

  The roots they pulled from the soil were bitter, knotted things—turnips meant for livestock, not people. Most were thrown straight into the crates for market, but every now and then a small one was deemed worthless and tossed aside.

  Elowen paused when her fingers closed around one of those tiny rejects—barely more than a clump, soft and undergrown. Worth nothing to anyone.

  Except her.

  She hesitated only a moment, then hid it beneath the fold of her shift, tucking it against the line of her ribs. A pathetic prize. A broken thing. But it was something.

  A shadow fell over her.

  Her blood went cold.

  The overseer hooked two fingers into the back of her collar and yanked her upright so sharply her vision swam. Her bare feet scrambled against the baked earth.

  “What’d you take?” he demanded.

  “I—I didn’t—”

  He grabbed her arm, his grip bruising, and shook her once, hard. Something slipped from her shirt and thudded onto the dirt. The small turnip rolled lazily between them.

  Several slaves stiffened in the rows nearby, but no one spoke.

  The overseer’s lip curled. “Stealing. Again.”

  He dragged her forward by the wrist, hauling her out of the line of slaves. The hot air shimmered around them; the ground beneath her knees radiated heat like a bed of banked coals. He shoved her down beside the water trough.

  “Hands,” he said.

  Her stomach twisted. She tried to keep her breathing even. Tried not to let her shoulders shake.

  She extended her hands.

  The cane cracked across her knuckles before she could brace.

  White-hot pain lanced up her fingers. She bit back a cry. The second hit split across her palm. The third caught her wrist, reopening an old cut.

  Her breath hitched—sharp, animal, involuntary.

  “Look at you,” the overseer muttered, disgust curling in his voice. “A waste of skin.”

  He grabbed her arm again and dragged her toward the storage shed—a squat wooden structure that trapped heat like a kiln. He shoved her inside and slammed the door.

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  There was no window. Only a thin sliver of light bleeding through the warped boards.

  Inside, the air hung heavy and stale. Every breath scraped her throat.

  Elowen pressed her back to the wall, sliding down until she was sitting in the dirt, hands throbbing in her lap. Her vision dimmed at the edges. Sweat trickled down the side of her neck, disappearing into her tattered collar.

  The question she tried not to think about struck her hardest here, in the dark:

  Where is Lucan?

  Was he still alive?

  She didn’t know. She had no way to know. And the not-knowing was a different kind of whip entirely.

  Her throat tightened. Tears gathered, hot and unwanted.

  She pressed her injured hands to her chest, curling inward, trying to make herself smaller. Unseen. Easy to skip over.

  “I’ll be faster,” she whispered into the dark. “I’ll disappear. I’ll disappear.”

  The heat pressed closer, suffocating. The sliver of light flickered. The walls seemed to close in.

  Her lungs refused to move—

  Elowen jerked upright with a strangled gasp.

  Cold air knifed down her throat. The furs tangled around her legs. Her hands flew to her chest before she could stop herself.

  The tent, the brazier, the soft glow of embers—none of it made sense for a heartbeat. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Sweat chilled quickly on her skin.

  Then she saw him.

  Roderic. Sitting in the chair beside her bed, gaze sharp and steady, as if he’d been watching for exactly this.

  Her breath broke into a shiver she couldn’t stop.

  The trials had scraped old wounds raw—its cold, its fear, its helplessness echoing the life she’d clawed her way out of. Her body didn’t know the difference. Her mind barely did.

  She tried to steady her breathing. Tried to gather herself. But she saw his eyes shift—just slightly—toward her hands resting in her lap.

  Her scarred, trembling, battered hands.

  And something inside her detonated.

  Shame slammed into her chest, sharp and blinding. The shame of being seen, here, raw, now.

  Roderic rose from the chair, slowly, trying not to startle her.

  It didn’t matter. Her pulse snapped. Her ribs tightened.

  Her body made the decision for her.

  The tent flap hit her shoulder as she shoved through it, stumbling into the biting night. A blast of freezing air slammed into her face, shocking her lungs open in a raw, painful inhale.

  Snow crunched under her feet as she ran.

  She didn’t know where. Didn’t care.

  The panic was too loud.

  The nightmare too close.

  The trial’s terror still in her bones.

  Behind her, Roderic called her name—but the wind tore the sound to shreds.

  The storm rose with her panic, snow whipping sideways, wind howling in bursts that matched her shallow, frantic breaths. Her legs burned. Her vision blurred with cold and tears.

  The trials had chased her earlier. Now her own mind was doing the same.

  She didn't stop until the world simply ended.

  The ground dropped away beneath her, a black ravine yawning into nothing. She skidded to a halt, heart slamming hard enough to bruise. The wind screamed up from the depths.

  Elowen leaned forward and screamed back.

  Every terror from the field.

  Every humiliation.

  Every step of the trials and all that brought her to them.

  Every unanswered question of Lucan.

  Every silence from Theron, the kind that went on forever.

  Every piece of herself she thought she’d buried.

  Her voice tore through her throat until nothing came out.

  Until her legs buckled. Until she sank to her knees in the snow.

  The wind softened with her collapse.

  Footsteps approached. Roderic.

  He didn’t touch her.

  He didn’t speak.

  He simply set his cloak over her shoulders and lowered himself into the snow beside her, silent, a presence that didn’t demand.

  Exhaustion shook through her. Her lungs still burned. Her hands trembled in her lap, half-hidden by the cloak’s edge.

  He had seen others break under far less.

  Exhaustion made old wounds flare like fresh ones.

  Elowen wasn’t overreacting. She was breaking open. And breaking open was the first step toward something else.

  Toward choosing. Toward standing. Toward becoming someone new.

  Snow drifted silently around them.

  Elowen let herself breathe—really breathe—until the tremors eased.

  Roderic stayed beside her, letting the night settle, letting her settle, letting the pieces fall where they needed to.

  She wasn’t done running. She felt it still.

  But exhaustion pinned her—and that was the only reason she stayed.