Rachel flinches.

“We believe you,” I say quickly, and everyone’s eyes slide past Rachel to land on me again. “But you’re an exception. It’s much more likely we’re looking for a man, but”—I throw a palm up in Willow’s direction before she can argue further—“we’ll consider all our options.”

“I don’t agree that it has to be one of us,” Quinn says quietly. “Those wounds were made by a professionally trained killer. We didn’t have torches lit. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone with experience to sneak up on the boys.”

“Sneak up from where?” My voice rises. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. We’ve haven’t seen any signs of civilization for days. Unless someone followed us all this time and just now decided to kill our guards, I don’t see how that scenario makes sense.”

The midmorning sun is a weak stream of gold that fills the small clearing with hazy light. Quinn’s features blur, and I blink rapidly to push the fatigue away.

“Logan?” Drake asks, his mild brown eyes full of worry. “You all right?”

“Sorry. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.” I scrub one hand over my face and slide the other on top of Rachel’s. Her skin is cold. “Quinn can tell you why we think this was the work of a professional.”

Quinn explains why the wounds point toward a right-handed man with training in how to kill. Then I say, “The murderer left us a message. If we can figure out what it means, we’ll be one step closer to understanding who we’re dealing with. The message said, ‘Your debt is still unpaid. Who will be the next to atone for your crimes?’ I didn’t say anything about this before, because I assumed it was a prank, but I’ve found similar notes in my tech bag back in Baalboden and then twice more since we left the city, including last night before dinner.”

“Then it has to be one of us,” Nola says. “The gate—”

“I found the one in my tech bag before we blew the gate. It could’ve been one of us, or a stranger could’ve crept into our camp while we were all busy sparring or scavenging. My point is that someone is committed to the idea that we have a debt to be paid. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find who did this.”

“We don’t owe anyone a debt,” Frankie says, his lip curling around the words.

“Clearly, someone disagrees with you,” Willow says.

“Shut your mouth.”

“That’s enough, Frankie,” Drake says calmly. “We’re all upset about this, but turning on each other won’t help.” He looks at me. “What possible crimes could we have committed that would cause someone to kill our guards and leave a message like that?”

Rachel lets go of my hand and begins ticking items off on her fingers. “We didn’t run after the Commander and beg to be under his control again. We have the tech he wanted to steal from Rowansmark, and we know Rowansmark was committed to getting it back.”

“How do you know that?” Ian asks.

“Because they posted a ridiculously high reward for my father’s capture, and then once I’d recovered the tech, they came after us with trackers and a battalion of soldiers.”

“And you escaped all of them?” He gives her an admiring look, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“We killed almost all of them. The ones we missed were too busy running for their lives through the Wasteland to bother with us again.” Her voice is cold, as if the memory of being surrounded by a Rowansmark battalion while the Cursed One tunneled up beneath our feet is a thing of little consequence, but her fists are clenched hard enough to turn her fingers pale and bloodless. “The point is that both the Commander and Rowansmark have reason to believe we wronged them.”

“If the Commander catches up to us, he isn’t going to bother killing a few guards,” Nola says. Her dusky skin glows beneath the sunlight, but her dark eyes are haunted. She slides her arm through Drake’s and leans against her father. “He’ll come straight for us and make an example out of us that no one will ever forget.”

“Not if we make an example out of him first,” Rachel says. “But I agree, this isn’t the Commander. And I’m not sure it’s one of us, either.” She looks toward the camp as if she can still read the bloody letters slowly drying on the porous surface of the rock. “I think it’s Rowansmark.”

Frankie leans forward. “A battalion wouldn’t—”

“Not a battalion. A tracker. Maybe more than one, though one would suffice. They have the skills to quietly murder eight guards without any of them raising an alarm.” Rachel looks at me. “And I think the message is a twisted example of pain atonement.”

“What’s pain atonement?” Frankie stares her down.

“Rowansmark’s system of consequences. Honor and loyalty mean everything to them. They don’t even have a prison. If someone dishonors the city, their leader, or their family, they are immediately sentenced to pay for their crime with increments of pain atonement. If the accused can survive the punishment, honor is restored.” She looks toward camp again and shudders. “If the accused can’t survive, the debt is considered paid by death.”

A hawk soars overhead, its piercing cry puncturing the silence that follows Rachel’s words.

Quinn says, “What was done last night took skill, and the message does mention both a debt and the need for atonement.”