Anton follows me home.

Even within the safety of the cabin, his presence weighs heavy on our minds. We barely spoke on the walk home, as the descending sun welcomed a bitterly cold night. In the cabin, we sit on the wooden bench curled in front of the fire, side by side.

Flames lick the walls of the fireplace, embers burning red.

"Do you think it was true?" I whisper. Casimir looks at me, eyes a navy blue. "Do you think Anton was a deserter?"

"I don't know. I... I never would've expected him to be."

"Me either." I tug my knees to my chest, but it does little to fight the chill in my veins. "But they must've had proof, right?"

"They must've."

He sounds as doubtful as I feel. It's a terrifying thought—that they could murder someone based on accusations alone. If they didn't care about proof, what's stopping people from reporting someone solely because they don't like them? I shudder. There are people in Veymaw who think little of me.

I rest my head against Casimir's shoulder. A weight presses down on my chest, words that won't come out. I'm desperate to tell him that I've been searching for the deserters, but the words won't form. It isn't that I don't trust him, it's that if Casimir knew, he'd convince me to stop. And despite what I saw today, I can't risk that happening.

"Do you remember that game we used to play?" he asks. "As kids, outside the bakery."

I smile, staring at the flames. "He'd always try to shoe us away. Anton never liked you."

"Thought I was a dirty orphan." The left side of his mouth tugs up. "Didn't stop him from sneaking me bread scraps at the end of the day, though."

"He was kind."

"When he wasn't being such a judgemental asshole, yeah." He nudges my shoulder. "You think you'll sleep okay tonight?"

I turn to look up at him. The tender look on his face makes my chest warm. Staring at him, I feel a range of things—from warmth, to comfort, to betrayal, but most of all, I feel at home.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll be alright."

No matter what lies either of us have told, I don't think that feeling will ever go away.

***

The sky is dark when I wake, the half-moon casting light across my bedroom floor. It's not a nightmare that woke me; there's a tapping at the window.

I sit up, sheet falling to my waist as I press my hands to the windowsill. The space beyond the edge of the trees is impenetrable, but a figure moves in the night. I narrow my eyes as they walk from the treeline and into the stream of moonlight.

Killian. He's dressed in all black, a hood thrown over his head. There's no way he could see me in the window, but he stands there, looking in as if he knows I'm looking back.

I should lie back down and fall back to sleep. Instead, I find myself throwing on the same dress I wore today and creeping through the kitchen, past Casimir's room, to the front door. I wrap my arms around myself as I exit, the cold biting at the bare skin of my arms.

"What're you doing here?" I hiss, staying by the door.

Killian takes a few steps closer. His hand brushes his cape aside to reveal a pile of folded clothing, my clothing. Atop the pile is my dagger. I take them, tucking them under my arm and holding the dagger in my left hand. The hilt provides comfort I didn't realise I'd been missing.

"You couldn't wait till morning?"

"It could've, but that isn't the only reason I'm here."

I pause, holding the clothes to my chest. "What's the other reason?"

"I want to show you something."

"Now?"

"Yes." He tilts his head to the side, as if he couldn't possibly understand why I'd refuse him.

I look back at the cabin, to where Casimir is asleep. "Can't it wait?"

"No."

"Well it has to," I say, stepping back to the door. "I'm not going with you right now."

"Why not?"

"It's the middle of the night."

"So?"

"So it's the middle of the night."

"That's never stopped you leaving home before."

My eyes flash to his, searching for the sign of a threat, but there's only amusement. "What do you want to show me?"

"That's the thing, Freya. I want to show you, not tell you." He steps closer. "I think you'll like it."

"How would you know what I like?"

"Are you always this argumentative?"

"Do you always show up at girls' homes in the middle of the night and expect them to blindly follow you?"

"This would be a first."

"Then you must know how strange it is."

"I'll have you back before anyone even notices." His gaze darts to the cabin behind me, a mocking glint in his eye. "Is it the dark that you're afraid of? I promise I'll protect you."

"I told you I'm not scared of the dark."

"Don't you trust me?" he asks.

"Definitely not."

He grins. "What is it that you're afraid of, then?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe wandering around with someone I barely know who may or may not murder me."

He considers this for a few moments. "I saved your life, Freya. Do you think I would've done that only to kill you a few days later?" I can't help but acknowledge his point. "Look, if you don't want to, I won't force you, but I have something you want."

"And what's that?"

"Answers."

I pause. "Answers to what?"

"If you come with me, you'll know."

Beneath the moonlight dressed in black, he looks like the most beautiful assassin. There's something dangerous about him, and yet, like a moth is drawn to fire, I find myself stepping towards him, my stomach twisting when his mouth tilts upwards.

I follow him into the forest, taking the trail that leads to the fields. All my senses are hyper-aware—of the wind, the birds, the animal calls, of him.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice no more than a whisper. "How far is this?"

"You're very impatient."

"I think I have a right to be considering the situation."

"That you willingly walked into."

"Don't make me turn around now."

He throws a grin over his shoulder, eyes lingering on my left hand that's still firmly gripping the dagger.

"Maybe I shouldn't have given that back to you."

"Scared?"

"Of you?" He widens his eyes. "Oh, I'm terrified."

I glare. He holds a branch out of the way for me to step past. We pass the fork that leads to the lake, continuing towards the fields. Is he taking me to the forge? I look down at myself. Killian is dressed in all black, a cape to conceal his face, but I'm wearing my dress from yesterday, completely recognisable. Going to the forge in this state would be very unwise. And yet, the promise of answers is too tempting to turn around.

"Did you know that man well?" Killian asks. "The one who died today."

"He was murdered," I correct sharply. "And I've known him since I was a child."

The sounds of crunching leaves beneath our feet fill the silence. Killion pauses, glancing at me from over his shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss."

It sounds like he's talking about more than just Anton. I avert my gaze from his, his stare suddenly making my skin feel too hot, and look forward. We pass the fields, but Killian continues, on towards the forge.

"Do you think the council need a reason before doing something so drastic?" I ask.

"A reason?"

"Like proof. Or do you think they go based on accusations alone?"

"Like the proof I have on you, you mean?"

I stop him, grabbing his bicep. "Killian, I'm not a deserter. I need you to know that."

"I never said you were." He looks from the hand on his arm back up at my face. "And to answer your question, I assume that searching for proof would be a waste of their time."

A chill crawls down my spine. I drop my hand and grip the dagger tighter, staring at the back of his head as we continue forward. It's slightly unnerving how well he seems to know the land. He hasn't been here for long enough to explore it so entirely.

It makes me think of the time he'd caught me in the forest after training with Casimir. He never did tell me what he was doing there, but his presence was just as strange as mine. I can't help but wonder if what he'd been doing that night has something to do with were we're heading.

Suddenly, Killian veers off the path, bashing aside a blackberry bush on his way. I pause, watching him shove foliage out of the way. As he disappears into the shadows, doubt lingers on my mind. He isn't taking me to the forge. I know these paths like the back of my hand, but off track? I don't know my way back.

"Freya?" He turns back to stare at me.

A tendril of fear curls in my stomach. It doesn't matter that he saved my life, he's still a stranger with potentially dangerous secrets. "I want to go back," I whisper.

He takes two long strides to stand in front of me, eyebrows furrowed. "I won't hurt you, Freya."

"I witnessed the cold-hearted murder this afternoon of an elderly man who wouldn't even hurt a fly." I take a step back. "If I were to be found out here this late with you with a weapon... I—"

"You're afraid of getting caught."

"Yeah, I am. The question is why aren't you?" His face remains stoic. "I shouldn't have followed you out here."

"Why not?"

"I don't know you. And you don't know me."

The seconds passing between us as he stares feel like hours. Finally, he offers a curt nod. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'm not going to force you to do anything."

It's not what I expected to hear. But I should be glad, I am glad, and yet, there's a small seed inside of me that furls with disappointment. I turn around before I change my mind, heading back onto the trail, my dagger grip looser.

"Freya?" I turn my head. Killian has moved from the shadows onto the path. "Giving into the fear only encourages it to grow."

He holds my gaze for a few more seconds before looking away, turning, and heading off the path, in the direction he'd gone before. I let out a shaky breath, continuing, my pace quicker this time.

A brisk wind brushes the hair from my face, rattling the tree branches. Dark shapes twist in the trees, reminding me of what I saw in the fog during the storm. I shake my head and the image clears. I hadn't been lying when I said I wasn't scared of the dark. But right now, I regret leaving Killian.

I reach the empty fields. Not far now. Snap. I grip my dagger tighter, turning my head.

"Killian?"

Narrowing my eyes at the shapes between the trees, I take slow steps backwards, unable to distinguish between tree trunks or shadow people.

A hand wraps around my wrist.

I pivot, swinging my leg around to strike them in the chest. It's too dark for me to make anything out other than the three dark shapes. One darts out for me. I swipe my dagger across his chest, eliciting a curse, but they persist, grabbing my wrists while the other knocks the dagger from my hand. I bring my knee between my captors' legs. They groan, stumbling backwards, giving me time to turn and run.

Their ragged breaths, footsteps, and grunts thunder behind me. Someone grabs me; I raise an elbow to their throw but I'm a second too late. They twist me so my back is to their chest, placing a cool blade to my throat.

I freeze as something is thrown over my head obstructing my vision. Only one thought runs through my mind: I'm screwed.