The grease under my fingernails felt like ice, and my lungs burned with every shallow, terrified breath. I'd spent the last hour huddled in the dirt under the supply wagon, the rough wood scraping my scalp every time I moved. Alaric's men were circling the perimeter of the camp, their boots crunching on dry leaves with a rhythmic, lethal precision that made my ears ring.
I wasn't supposed to be out here. I was supposed to be in the "safe" tent, playing the role of the docile ward.
Instead, I had a stolen logbook pressed against my chest, its leather cover damp with my sweat.
I need the topography. If he's leading us into the Dead Man's Gorge, the engine weight will snap the axle in five miles. He won't tell me where we're going, so I'll find out myself.
My hand shook as I reached for the lantern I'd shielded with a thick cloth. I just needed ten seconds. Ten seconds to memorize the scout's ink markings for the southern elevation. I peeled back the cloth, the dim orange glow hitting the yellowed pages.
"Elevation... three hundred... gradient ten percent..." I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. "He's taking the mountain pass. He's going to kill the boiler."
The sound of a heavy footstep snapped a twig three feet from my head.
I froze. My breath hitched, a sharp pain blooming in my chest from the sudden lack of air. The lantern light flickered, casting a dancing shadow against the bottom of the wagon. I didn't douse the light fast enough.
A gloved hand reached under the wagon, grabbing my ankle with the force of a bear trap.
"Out. Now."
Alaric's voice was a low vibration that vibrated through the ground and into my bones. I didn't move. I couldn't. My muscles had turned to lead. He didn't wait. He yanked, hauling me out from under the chassis across the dirt and rocks. My dress caught on a metal bolt, tearing with a sickening screech, and the stones bit into my elbows.
He dragged me to my feet, his grip on my arm bruising. The lantern fell, the glass shattering, and for a second, the small fire licked at the hem of my cloak before he stamped it out with a heavy boot.
"What is this?" he hissed, snatching the logbook from my numb fingers.
"I needed... I needed to check the gradients," I managed to say, my voice cracking. "You're going to blow the valve if you take the high road, Alaric. The pressure won't hold."
"You stole from my lead scout's kit." He didn't look at the logbook. He looked at me, his eyes two dark pits of fury in the moonlight. "You left the tent I told you to stay in. You crawled through the mud like a common thief."
"I'm an architect! I'm not a piece of luggage you can just haul into a canyon!"
"You're a fugitive!" He shoved me back against the wagon wheel, the iron rim digging into my spine. He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me. He smelled of pine, cold steel, and an anger so raw I could almost taste it. "There are three royal scouting parties between us and the border. If they find a girl with charcoal on her face and stolen military maps, they don't bring you back to the palace, Elowen. They gut you and leave you for the crows."
He's right. I'm being reckless. But I can't just let him drive us into a grave.
"I was trying to save the engine," I whispered, though my hand had found the front of his tunic, my fingers curling into the rough fabric. I hated how my body leaned into his heat even as I trembled.
"You were trying to keep control." He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at the dark, jagged treeline. "Look at the woods. Do you hear that?"
I listened. The night was silent. Too silent. The crickets had stopped.
"Scouts," I breathed, the nausea hitting me in a cold wave.
"They saw the light from your lantern. They're closing in." Alaric let go of my chin and pulled his sidearm—a heavy, single-shot pistol—from his belt. He didn't look at me anymore. He looked at the shadows. "Because you wanted to check the 'gradients,' you just gave away our position."
I did this. I screwed up. God, I really screwed up.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, the ringing in my ears getting louder. "I didn't think—"
"You never do. You only think about the math. You forget about the blood."
He didn't give me a chance to argue. He grabbed my waist and tossed me toward the driver's seat of the wagon. "Get in the back. Cover the boiler with the wet pelts. If they see the glow from the firebox, we're dead."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to buy you three minutes." He looked back at me, his face a pale, sharp mask of grim resolve. "If I'm not back by the time the steam hits four bars, you drive. You don't look back. You don't wait for me. Do you understand?"
"Alaric, no—"
"Do you understand?" he roared, his hand catching mine and squeezing it until I gasped.
"Yes," I choked out.
He disappeared into the trees without another word, his silhouette melting into the blackness like a predator. I scrambled into the back of the wagon, my hands fumbling with the heavy, stinking pelts. The boiler was hissing, a low, rhythmic sound that felt like a ticking bomb.
I checked the gauge. Two bars.
I looked at the woods. A flash of steel. The sound of a muffled scream—short, sharp, and then cut off.
I didn't know if it was Alaric's voice or someone else's. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a mountain. I reached for the steering lever, my fingers slick with grease and cold sweat.
Choice. I could wait. I could risk the extra minute for him. Or I could save the machine and myself.
I waited. One minute. Two. The steam climbed to three and a half.
A man burst from the bushes. It wasn't Alaric. He wore the white tabard of the Royal Scouts, and his sword was out, dripping with something dark. He saw the wagon. He saw me.
"Found you, little bird," he hissed, lunging forward.
I didn't think. I grabbed the heavy iron shovel I used for the coal and swung it with a blind, panicked force. It hit the side of his head with a dull thud. He collapsed into the mud, groaning.
Another shadow moved behind him. I raised the shovel again, my teeth bared, ready to die fighting.
Alaric stepped into the light. He was covered in blood—none of it his. He looked at the scout on the ground, then at me, standing over the body with a coal shovel.
"You're still here," he said, his voice a rasping breath.
"I waited," I said, my voice shaking so hard I could barely stand.
He didn't thank me. He didn't smile. He climbed onto the seat and slammed the wagon into gear. "Then you're as big a fool as I am."
The wagon lurched forward, the engine let out a strangled groan, and we plunged into the dark, narrow mouth of the mountain pass. I sat in the back, clutching the shovel to my chest, as the palace lights faded into the distance.
I looked at Alaric's back, at the blood on his hands, and I realized the change had finally happened.
I wasn't a ward anymore. I wasn't even an architect.
I was an accomplice to a massacre.