Nathan scrubbed his forehead raw before dawn, and the ash would not come off.
He tried river water, then sand, then the rough edge of his sleeve. The gray smear stayed, a faint thumbprint between his brows. It didn't smudge or fade. It sat on his skin like something painted there, patient and unbothered.
"Hold still."
Mira caught his chin and turned his face toward the thin morning light. She had listened to the whole story in silence, sitting on the edge of an upturned barrel with her blade across her knees, and when he finished she had said only, "Show me."
Now she studied the mark with her jaw set.
"It's not paint," she said. "Feel how it's warm?"
"Yes."
"The Ash Chorus put it there." She released him and wiped her fingers on her trousers. "They didn't hurt you. They could have, easily. That worries me more."
"She said I have very little time."
"I know what she said." Mira stood and began shoving her bedroll into her pack, faster than she needed to. "We're still going to the capital, Nathan. We need that page. But from now on, you don't sleep apart from me. Not an arm's length. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And you cover your head."
She tied her spare scarf around his brow like a bandage and tucked the edges beneath his hood. He looked, he thought, like a boy recovering from a fight. It would have to do.
---
They reached Aurenhold on the eleventh day.
Nathan had imagined the capital many times, and every version had been wrong. The city rose from the plain in tiers, ring after ring of pale stone walls climbing toward a great white hill crowned with towers. Banners hung from every battlement, blue and gold for Veyron, crimson for Ardent, silver-green for Solenne. The wall at its base was so tall that its top vanished into low cloud.
"Gods," Mira whispered.
The caravan joined a line of wagons creeping toward the outer gate. Hundreds of travelers waited ahead of them, merchants, pilgrims, guild parties, noble houses in gleaming carriages. A row of Veyron guards worked down the line with a polished crystal on a pole, touching it to each person's palm.
Nathan's stomach turned over.
"They're ranking everyone," he said. "At the gate."
"Haldis said it was new." Mira's eyes were fixed on the crystal. "Since the bounty."
"I can't touch that. If it breaks—"
"I know."
They were five wagons from the front. Four. Nathan could feel the cold place behind his ribs shifting restlessly, like a dog scenting a storm. If he reached for it now, in front of two hundred people, he'd lose something worse than a taste. He might lose Mira entirely.
"Mira," he said quietly. "If it goes wrong, run."
"No."
"Please."
"No." She didn't look at him. "You don't get to decide that."
"Three wagons!" a guard shouted. "Palms out, all travelers!"
Nathan was breathing too fast. He tried to count, the way his mother had taught him when he was small, but his mind kept sliding back to the crystal in the great hall and the dust lifting from his robe.
"Next."
It was Haldis's wagon. The caravan master climbed down with a grunt, hauled her papers from her belt, and strode up to the lead guard as if she owned the road.
"Haldis Brandt, Calder salt guild, forty wagons, thirty-one hands, all registered at Harrowgate and Calder Reach. My ledger's right here. You've inspected my papers six times a year for twenty years, Sergeant. Are we really doing this?"
"New orders, Master Brandt."
"I'm sure they are. Do your crystal on the hands who aren't known to you, then. These two are cousins, escorts, B-rank and her kin. Registered." She tapped the paper in his hand. "I'll vouch for them myself. Sign it."
The sergeant hesitated. Haldis stared at him until he looked away, and then, grudgingly, scratched a mark on the page.
"Pass," he grunted. "Next wagon."
They rolled through the gate, and Nathan let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"You vouched for us," he said later, when they stopped to water the oxen in the first ring. "Why?"
Haldis shrugged. "I don't like crystals. And I don't like being told what to do by men who've never carried salt in their lives." She eyed his scarf. "Besides, a woman learns to recognize when someone's running from something. Not my business what."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Pay me the fifteen silver I'm owed." Her gruff tone softened. "Watch your back in the upper rings. The Guild's crawling with examiners this month."
She was right.
As the caravan drifted up the second-tier road, Nathan saw her. Standing at the edge of a crowded market square, arms folded, in a silver steel cloak he'd have known anywhere. A scar ran from her temple to her jaw.
Seren Vael was looking directly at him.
Her eyes moved to his scarf, then to the faint gray edge of the mark peeking out beneath it. Her expression didn't change. She held his gaze for three long heartbeats, and then she turned and melted into the crowd.
But as the caravan rolled past the place where she'd stood, something small and white fluttered to the cobblestones.
Mira scooped it up before anyone else could. It was a Hall of Records pass: a thin paper token stamped with the Solenne sigil, admission for two, dated tomorrow.
On the back, in a hurried, slanted hand:
*Third bell. Use the east door.*