Keira didn't sleep. She couldn't.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, hands clenched in her lap, staring at the fire that had burned low to glowing embers.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, a restless sound, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the faint iron tang of blood.
Her satchel was already packed. A spare cloak. Three changes of clothes. Her father's old knife. A book of stories her mother had once read aloud on stormy nights, now worn and water-stained. There wasn't room for much more, and even if there had been, she didn't want to carry home with her. Not where she was going.
Her aunt stood by the hearth, arms folded, watching the flames. She hadn't spoken much since the Choosing. Just packed what Keira would need. Boiled water for tea neither of them drank. Folded Keira's clothes like she might fold time, too, neat, square, contained.
"You don't have to come to the gate," Keira said at last.
Aunt Lys didn't look at her. "Don't be foolish. Of course I'm coming."
There was steel in her voice, quiet, bitter, unyielding. The same voice she'd used the night the soldiers came for Keira's father. The night they didn't come back.
Keira looked down at her hands. They were trembling slightly. She pressed them flat against her knees.
Then came the knock.
Not sharp. Not demanding. Three soft raps, hesitant, barely there.
She rose and opened the door.
Marah stood in the chill, bundled in her father's threadbare coat, her eyes swollen and rimmed red. A flask of milk hung from one hand, and the other was balled into a fist at her side.
"I brought your favorite," she whispered. "It's still warm. I heated it on the hearth before sneaking out."
Keira blinked, then pulled her into a hug without a word. Marah's arms wrapped around her in return, tight and desperate, like if she held hard enough, she could keep her friend here.
"I told Papa I'd only be a minute," Marah said against her shoulder. "He thinks I'm walking the dog."
Keira huffed a laugh, but it cracked halfway through. "Thank you."
"I should've made you run last night. Dragged you into the woods. Something."
"You couldn't have," Keira said quietly. "They sent a Midnight emissary. They would've hunted me through the trees before we reached the ridge."
Marah sniffed. "Still. I should've tried."
She pulled back, rubbing her eyes. "You're much braver than I am."
"No," Keira said. "I'm just unlucky."
Aunt Lys cleared her throat gently. "Come in before you freeze."
The three of them sat together for a while in the warm hush of the little house. Keira sipped the milk. It was sweet and creamy, made the way she liked it, with a pinch of cinnamon and honey.
The silence stretched, comfortable for a moment, then heavy with the weight of unspoken things.
"I packed the blue scarf you like," Aunt Lys said finally. "It's wool. It should help in the colder parts of the realm."
Keira nodded.
"Are they… cruel?" Marah asked in a small voice. "The ones at the Court?"
"I don't know," Keira replied. "But I think they can be. If they want to."
A long pause.
"Will you write?" Marah asked.
"If they let me."
"And if they don't?"
Keira didn't answer.
Marah swallowed hard and took her hand. "I don't care what the stories say. You're coming back."
Keira squeezed her fingers. "I'll try."
Outside, a distant horn sounded once, low, mournful, echoing through the village like a warning.
Aunt Lys stood up. "They're here."
Keira rose as well, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. She paused at the door, looking around the little cottage, at the fire, the carved wooden chairs, the spot on the wall where her father's bow had once hung.
Then she stepped outside.
The village was awake but hushed. A handful of neighbors stood near their doors, their hats in hand, heads bowed. No one spoke. The carriages had arrived silently, rolling in like fog. Ten of them, each bearing the mark of the Midnight Court: a silver thorn etched into black lacquer.
A cloaked driver stood beside the one meant for her.
Keira turned to Marah, unsure what to say.
But Marah beat her to it.
"I'll be here," she said fiercely. "Next year. When you come back. I'll be standing in the square."
Keira hugged her again, longer this time. Then she looked at Aunt Lys.
Her aunt didn't cry. Her eyes shimmered, but she didn't let them fall.
"You are my sister's daughter," she said, voice tight. "You have her fire. You always have."
Keira reached for her.
For the first time in years, Aunt Lys pulled her close. Held her like a mother might. Her hand trembled where it touched Keira's back.
"Do not bow to them," she whispered in her ear. "Not with your back. Not with your heart."
Keira nodded against her shoulder.
Then, with a breath, she stepped away.
The driver gestured toward the open door of the carriage. She climbed in without a word, her fingers brushing the cool leather seat.
Marah and Aunt Lys stood together at the gate, watching her.
Keira leaned out for one final look.
The mist had begun to gather again, thick and silver, curling like fingers around the village edges. The sun had not yet risen, but already, the sky was turning pale with the promise of it.
The carriage jolted forward.