Air rushed past Aven and hit Daes with an audible thud. Daes’s grip on the sword faltered as he was lifted off the ground, thrown back by the force of the wind. Aven lunged forward, seeking the sword’s handle. His fingers found the hilt, seizing it and holding on with every bit of strength he could muster.

Time sped up again. Aven felt the air pushing him in the same direction now—something he hadn’t planned—except that someone tackled him, knocking him away from the dark man and nearly to the door. He heard a gasp, a shout, the tapestries clattering violently, the ax crashing to the ground. Everyone who’d been standing nearby was on the floor. Who had grabbed him? One of the guards, a quick thinker of the lot?

No. The sight of red hair dangling in his eyes made him freeze—could it be? The form on top of him rolled off him quickly, jumping to her feet and reaching down to help Aven up.

The sun from the grand windows shone down on the lovely face of Miara.

He took her hand, and even as she pulled him, he also tried to soak in as much energy from the sunlight as he could. Many of them had risen to their feet. Daes, though, was still on the floor and staring, utterly stunned—but now at Miara.

“Guards—at them! Akarian infiltrators!” the king barked.

Miara was dragging Aven toward the archway they’d arrived through, but she stole a lightning-quick glance at the king as he labeled her an Akarian. Aven caught a glimpse of her smirk. Fool didn’t even know where his own power—and weaknesses—lay. Even in this moment, he didn’t seem to recognize that magic was afoot.

Three disheveled guards staggered to block the exit. Aven batted one into the wall with the energy gained from the sunlight. And the other two he launched himself at, headlong.

He might look like a farmer, but he would have no trouble dispatching two poorly trained, frightened men. He swung the sword round and into position as the men’s eyes widened, and he lunged. One blocked Aven’s first swing but staggered back at the force of the blow. His next swing sent the second man reeling, and Aven knocked him to the ground with a butt of the sword hilt to the face. The third guard had scampered back and tried to jump him from behind, but he, too, went down with a well-timed elbow to the stomach before Aven spun and buried the blade in his side. Jerking it free, the man staggered away.

They were far from incapacitated or dead, but it would have to do.

This way, she whispered into his mind. Come on!

He turned to see her already leaving the hall, several steps ahead of him. Running. Away.

Almost like she was—

Free.

He raced after her, the Masters shouting orders on his heels.

One guard clipped him, then leapt on him from behind, his knee colliding with Aven’s sword hand and knocking the blade free. Aven fell, the guard on top of him, and they wrestled, spinning and writhing against the cold stone. Aven twisted free, kicking to get himself some maneuvering room, but the man would not relent. He lunged back at Aven, his full body crashing down on top of him. Aven spun, sending the other man to the floor beside him, and savagely pounded the man’s skull against the rock. He went limp.

Aven muttered a prayer to Anara as he stumbled to his feet. Waste of life. A shame. As he turned to race down the stairs after Miara, he saw vines closing themselves around the door to the hall even as swords made progress hacking through them.

At the bottom of the stairs, he was alone. He glanced around frantically.

This way, she whispered again. The bush. Don’t look back.

From her voice, he caught her direction. He saw the last bit of her dart behind some bushes far to his right, and she was crouched down behind them. Aven sprinted after her and dove blindly into the brush. Unable to steady his landing, he fell awkwardly against her.

The sudden feel and smell of her nearly drove him mad.

She sat with her eyes closed for a moment, not reacting to him at all. He could hear shouting from the main hall, bells starting to ring.

“All right,” she whispered. “Let’s get these shackles off. Ready?” He felt his hands change suddenly with a sickening twist, and then the metal fell to the ground. His hands and his wrists were finally his own again. Seemed like it had been forever.

“Oh, by the ancients, you’re injured!”

“What were those?” he whispered, ignoring it.

“Mandibles. Don’t ask.”

“Thank you,” he said. He rubbed his wrists, his hands in front of him. It hadn’t even been a month, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. So much had changed.

“You would do the same for me.” She grinned. “Wouldn’t you, Aven?” He opened his mouth, but she held up a finger. “Don’t answer that. There’s no time. We’re not going to make it out of here looking like this. Think you can take being a mouse one more time?”

“You can turn me into a mushroom if it gets us out of here.”

She snorted. “Here it comes.”

The twisting feeling grew until the nausea was upon him, the sliding of the world away at so many crazy angles—and suddenly there were dry leaves in front of his nose. And they were much, much larger than they’d been a second ago.

He looked down. Indeed, mouse hands. He turned his gaze up. Beside him, a large black bird was eying their surroundings, looking about to burst into flight. A raven, a crow? Beautiful and keenly intelligent, this close up. It was Miara transformed—he hoped.

One leg reached out, and talons circled around him. Into the sky, they flew.

Here we go, Aven. Pray to all your gods and ancestors and ancients that we make it through the air alive.

She spotted the rock where she’d stashed their few supplies and the star map from a good distance away. The nervous energy of battle had long worn off, and exhaustion had set in. She was fading with every wing beat, but it wasn’t much farther. Just a little more, and they could rest… Just a little farther, and she could talk to him, thank him, tell him—everything.

As she flew, she pondered what she should say. How could she possibly thank him? Could she even capture what it meant to have her freedom? And there was so much more beyond that.

Should she tell him how she felt? Should she tell him how much it had hurt to push him away? Since then, she’d turned him over to certain death—even if she couldn’t help it. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he no longer cared?

What if now that they were back to reality, he realized that a slave and a prince didn’t belong together? Even if she was no longer a slave… she was nothing like him.