The very second those promises are kept, the Commander is dead.

“Mom, we need to leave. The trial starts soon,” Cassidy says.

“Wait.” I reach my manacled hands toward Clarissa before she can turn to follow her daughter into the hall. “I have to go to Rowansmark. I refuse to leave Rachel behind. And we both know that the tech Rowansmark is using to leverage control over the other city-states has to be destroyed. I can’t do that on my own, and I won’t have to.”

Clarissa raises a brow. “Who is going to help you?”

“The Commander.”

Willow makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, and I hurry on. “He already has the combined might of Carrington’s army plus what’s left of Baalboden’s guards behind him. He understands military strategy—better than that, he understands James Rowan. And if there is anyone who wants Rowansmark stopped more than I do, it’s Commander Jason Chase.”

“So now you’re going to try to create an alliance with him?” Clarissa asks. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“I have to.”

“What bargaining power will you bring to the table?” she asks.

I straighten my shoulders. “Troops from the other northern city-states. I’ll visit them—”

“Logan!” Willow sounds angrier than I’ve ever heard her.

“Willow, what choice do we have? We can’t take down three armies on our own. We need help. I can show the city-states how to destroy the beacons in exchange for a commitment of troops to march south under the Commander.” I look at Clarissa, and I see she understands what I haven’t yet asked.

“And you want to start with troops from Lankenshire?”

“Yes.”

The silence that stretches between us is filled with tension so thick it seems like I could reach out and touch it. Finally, she says, “I will send an emissary with you to the closest northern city-state. To Hodenswald. If you can convince Lyle Hoden to give you troops, I will convince the other members of the triumvirate to give you one-fourth of our army.”

“One-fourth!” Willow’s laugh is scornful.

Clarissa’s expression feels like a stone settling across my shoulders. “Understand this. If we commit troops to you, Rowansmark will know it. If the trackers within our city don’t realize it, the ones guarding Rowansmark will surely recognize the uniforms, the fighting style, and the weaponry. If you fail, my city is next in line for destruction.”

She steps closer, and I catch a whiff of perfume, crisp and powerful just like the woman who wears it. “Don’t fail us, Logan.”

“I won’t,” I say. Another promise to add to the list I’m already struggling to keep. Another responsibility to keep me up at night chasing worst case scenarios.

Clarissa turns on her heel and leaves the room, and I look away from Willow as I think through what I can possibly say to the Commander that will convince him he wants me as an ally instead of as a corpse.

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL

I’m dreaming again. I know I am, but I can’t make it stop. The landscape billows around me like a sheet caught in the wind: streaks of green, smudges of brown, and a river of red that seems to follow my feet as I run. A yellow house wavers in the distance, its familiar rooftop beckoning me home where Dad is waiting. Where Oliver is baking. Where Logan is sitting at the table, pretending not to stare at me while he eats.

I run past the streaks of green, the smudges of brown, with the bright-red river nipping at my heels. I run, but the yellow house remains just out of reach, like the sun hovering against the corner of the sky. Close enough to feel the warmth. Close enough that if I squint, I think I can touch it. But always too far away, no matter how fast I run.

A voice cuts through the river.

“Rachel.”

I run faster, my bare feet slapping against the ground, but the house is too far away. I strain to see Dad on the porch, waiting for me, but the porch is empty. The chimney is cold.

“Rachel, wake up.”

The river snaps at my heels, and a bright streak of pain shoots through me.

I run and run, my breath sobbing in my chest, tiny daggers piercing my lungs. The house shimmers and grows pale, the color slowly draining from it until I can see through the walls into the rooms inside.

Dad isn’t there. Neither are Logan and Oliver. The emptiness presses against the walls like a living thing, and I fall to my knees as cracks spread across the plaster, raining ash.

“Get out of that wagon now, or you don’t eat.”

White-hot agony tears through me, dissolving the house and jerking me awake. My right arm lies beneath me, the blackened burn that stretches along my forearm rubbing against the rough wagon bed and sending spikes of pain from my fingertips to my jaw. I crane my neck to see one of the Rowansmark trackers who kidnapped me—a tall man with graying black hair, dark skin, and a thin frame—leaning against the wagon’s entrance.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I carefully sit up. I’ve been traveling inside this wagon ever since Ian and his tracker friends forced me to leave Quinn behind in a clearing outside Lankenshire earlier today. A thread of weary triumph snakes through me as I remember Quinn’s eyes closed as if he was dead while his heart beat strong beneath the lightweight armored vest he was wearing under his tunic.

Ian stands a few yards away, watching me as I slowly climb out of the wagon. His dark-blue eyes sharpen as he notices the way I cradle my injured arm to my chest. I remember that he promised me a lesson in pain on this journey and lift my chin to meet his gaze head-on. If he’s waiting for me to break, he’s going to be disappointed.