All evening, Casimir's mind wanders far away.

I can see in the subtle grind of his teeth, the way he taps his finger against the kitchen bench, repeatedly runs a hand through his hair. It could be anything—Jyro's passing, the upcoming Red Moon, concern over the storm. And it could be completely in my head. But Killian's words create a paranoid frenzy inside my mind.

My eyes draw to the clock on the wall. It's well past the time he could be expected to go to the fields. But he hasn't removed his coat.

"Igeth or mavea?" he asks.

"Igeth," I say, watching as he crumbles the tea leaves into the warm water, analysing his every move.

I hate that I let Killian get into my head. Merely entertaining his words feels like a betrayal to Casimir and our decade-long friendship. But no matter how hard I try to shut the warnings out, they snake their way back in.

"Shall we go to the roof?" I ask, looking out the window. It's getting darker earlier heading into autumn. "It'll be too cold before we know it."

"I don't want you to hurt yourself climbing up."

"I told you I feel fine."

"I told you I don't believe you."

He turns, bringing a steaming ceramic cup with him, and places it in front of me. The rising steam manipulates the air, reminding me of the way that cloud twisted unusually in the street that night.

"Careful, it's hot," Casimir warns as I bring it to my lips. The liquid soothes my raw throat.

"I'm really sorry, Cas," I say. "About Jyro, I mean."

"The only thing you should be apologising for is running into the storm and risking your life. Because that was incredibly stupid."

"I know."

He looks at me, doubtful. "Do you really?"

"I do. But I wasn't thinking straight when I thought you might've been in danger. I don't even know what I could've done if you were in danger but I just... I—"

"I get it. I do."

I know he does. We're all each other has in the world and loss is much too familiar to us both. We've never spoken in depth about his childhood. Only that, at 10 years old, his mother left him at the doorstep of the orphanage and disappeared.

"You must be tired," he says. "I'll let you get to bed."

"All I've done is lie in bed for the past two days."

"Your body went through a lot. You'll need more rest."

I think of my conversation with Killian, suddenly wondering exactly what my leg had looked like when he found me. Cadence said it looked like I'd been hacked into, but Killian said I'd probably fallen and torn it up—those two wounds wouldn't be similar, right? Casimir never mentioned anything about the wound, and I hadn't thought to ask. All I know is that what I remember happening—getting attacked by a shifter—can't have been real.

"Cas, you said they found rocks in Jyro's stomach. Do you think... do you think he swallowed them on purpose?"

"No."

"You think someone forced him to swallow them? That there was someone else in that cloud trying to hurt him?"

"I don't know." He purses his lips, looking down at the table. "Maybe it was an accident."

I'm not sure how you can swallow rocks by accident. "But what if it wasn't?"

"It was." His eyes cut to mine. "Jyro was happy. He had a great family, and the harvests were up this year. He wouldn't have tried to end his life."

I look away, the look in his eye all too familiar. It doesn't matter that Casimir complained about Jyro and his high expectations, Casimir has known him for all his life, and the grief is heavy in his face.

"Killian said something tonight that made me think."

His eyes cut to mine. "What?"

Instead of responding, I lift the bottom of my skirt, tugging at the bandage wrapped around my ankle. Casimir watches as I unwind it. The bottom layers are stained a dark red from the dried blood, and the skin beneath stings when it meets the air. But as I pull away the remaining bandage and reveal the wound, my stomach lurches.

Hacked into.

I understand what Cadence meant. Long, thin lines slice open my flesh in jagged, uneven cuts. I raise my eyes to Casimir's. His jaw is clenched, eyes wide as they meet mine. We're both thinking the same thing—those cuts are not from a fall. They're inflicted by a weapon—a blade.

"What if there was someone else in that fog, Cas? Someone who killed Jyro, who tried to kill me?"

He stares at his hands, his expression shifting. I watch as he processes what I've said. It doesn't make sense that Jyro died; nor do my wounds make sense. He can't pretend that what I've said isn't a possibility.

"In that cloud I thought I saw my father and Samu. They were calling for help, and Samu was being dragged away by a shifter like he was on the Red Moon. When I tried to stop them, a shifter bit my ankle, right where this wound is."

He looks back at the wound. It's not a shifter bite.

"Hallucinations," he murmurs. "Fear can have that effect."

I shudder. "So while I was hallucinating, someone was there, trying to hurt me?"

"We don't know that for sure."

I close my eyes, remembering the way my father's face swirled in the black cloud. "What if they're still out there? The person who killed Jyro?"

He turns away from me, taking the cups to the bench, his shoulders tense. It doesn't go away no matter how hard I try to shun the thought. The lingering possibility that there's a murderer in Veymaw.

"Why were you speaking to Killian tonight?" Casimir asks without turning around.

"I was thanking him."

"You should stay away from him."

I hesitate. Their animosity towards one another was evident from the very day they met, and yet, I had wondered if something could have changed for Casimir due to what Killian did for me. . "He saved my life."

"And for that I'm grateful," he says. "But I still don't want you anywhere near him."

I think of everything that's happened—Casimir finding me in the forge, finding his gun, Killian's warnings. I remember the way his touch warmed my skin, the dimple in his cheek, and I shake the thoughts away. I don't have any plans to spend more time around Killian than necessary, but why would Casimir care if I did?

His dislike of Killian makes Killian's warnings seem louder.

"What's your problem with him, anyway?" I ask. "You've barely even spoken to him."

"I don't trust him."

"Thanking him for saving my life doesn't mean I trust him. Besides, you don't even know him."

"Neither do you."

I hold his gaze, searching for something, an explanation of sorts. Casimir has never cared about who I was friends with. I know he isn't the biggest fan of Raven, but I only know that because I can sense the shift in Cas's demeanour when she's around. He's never said anything to me, so his reaction to Killian is more than unusual.

"I don't plan on spending time with him," I say. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I always have to worry about you." He reaches over to tug on a strand of my hair. "And no more late-night visits to the forge, okay?"

I raise a brow. "You know, we still haven't spoken about that gun."

"What is there to say?"

"I think you should get rid of it. If anyone caught you with it—"

"They won't. It's hidden somewhere safe."

I purse my lips, terrified of what would happen if somebody found out Casimir had a gun. Killian's story of those decapitated heads rises to mind. Having a gun is a far cry from being a deserter, but people have been punished for less.

"I'll clear up," he says. "You head to bed."

He's still wearing his boots and coat, his golden hair wind-swept. "Are you going somewhere?" I ask.

"I have to go to the fields tonight and help clear some of the wreckage."

"Oh."

"I won't be long," he promises. "Do you want me to find Cadence? She can keep you company till I get back."

"No, I'll be alright."

"Are you sure?" He pauses. "Something's bothering you."

I should ask him about what Jyro said; I should tell him what Killian said. But I don't because questioning him feels like a betrayal. It feels like admitting Killian was right.

So instead, I smile. "Everything is fine, just hurry back."

***

Sleep evades me.

I toss and turn, tangling in the sheets as I count the cracks in the wooden roof. But an hour passes, and then two, three. Casimir still isn't back.

Outside, a gentle breeze whistles through the street. The moon, half full, a silver fingernail in the sky. Shimmering light streams across my bedding. My mind fills the silence—thinking of Jyro. His body would have been taken by now, the family left to mourn without him.

I didn't go to my father's memorial. Casimir didn't either, choosing to support me instead. But because neither of us showed, the council assumed it would be fine to send his body to the mountains straight away. To this day, I don't know how to feel about it. Part of me wishes I could've said goodbye, but the other part, a bigger part, didn't want to see his body torn and shredded. I didn't want to remember him like that.

I force myself to think of something else, but it's only Killian who comes to mind, his words echoing through my head. And as the hours tick by with no Casimir, they're harder to shove away.

It's been four hours since Casimir left when I leave my bed, slipping my boots on and my cape. I have no idea what happened to the dagger I had during the storm, so I nick one from Casimir's collection beneath one of the wooden planks in the kitchen.

The night is surprisingly warm for autumn as I slip into the forest, shoving away the fear that prickles at my mind. The trees welcome me, branches swaying in the gentle breeze. In the back of my mind, thoughts of the potential murderer linger, but I press on anyway.

I follow the path, pausing when I come to a fork. If I headed right, I could be in the forge in less than thirty minutes. I take a left. I've had enough near-death experiences this week; besides, the forge was not the purpose of this excursion.

The only way to shut Killian's warnings off is to prove them wrong.

Parts of the path to the fields are trodden, branches snapped and thrown haphazardly across the floor. A few cabins in the village were damaged, but it was mostly wooden signs and outdoor furniture that suffered the worst of it. It's only now, walking through the forest, that I can see the havoc the storm left.

It takes me 10 minutes to reach the fields. I linger in the treeline in case there are others here—they'd surely question what I was doing out at this time of night. But after straining my ears and hearing nothing, I step out from the trees, coming around a fallen trunk to survey the fields.

It's in a terrible state.

Tools have been flung from the woodshed to the side, and crops have been uprooted a mixture of dirt and debris scattered across the landscape. Our trade and food supply will surely be damaged by this.

But that's not what turns my stomach inside out.

I'm the only person here.