The woods were dense.

Tristan squinted through the darkness. The summer air was warm and damp, settling on his shoulders like a blanket. His horse's ears twitched, and he patted the creature's back absently. He ought to give her a name, Tristan thought. Perhaps Lucky. Or Bandit. Both seemed appropriate, given that he'd stolen her from the castle stables.

Next to him, Isaac drew up short.

His grey eyes were sunken, and his tunic was torn and dusty from several days on the road. He'd lost muscle during his time in prison; his face was gaunter than Tristan remembered. Sharp enough to slice butter.

"I don't like him," Isaac muttered.

His eyes were fixed on Owain. The other boy was riding several strides ahead, his copper hair gleaming in the dying sunlight. The tendons in his forearms flexed as he snapped the reins. He'd positioned Tarquin in front of him; the former guard was unconscious, his head lolling against the horse's neck.

"You don't like most people," Tristan pointed out.

Isaac's knuckles tightened on the reins. "He pretended to be a cat."

"He didn't pretend," Tristan said. "He was a cat."

"Same difference," Isaac muttered. "That thing used to sleep in your bed."

"That thing," Owain said dryly, "has superhuman hearing." He squeezed his leg, circling the horse. "We need to make camp for the night."

Isaac shook his head. "We're not far enough from the castle. We'll push on for a few more miles."

"Your friend needs rest," Owain said.

Tristan glanced at Tarquin. The former guard was drooling on the saddle. He'd regained consciousness only twice over the last few days, muttering incoherent phrases like sputterfly wings and toadstool rot before passing out again.

Isaac's mouth tightened. "He's not my friend."

"No." Owain's voice was mild. "You Dayweavers don't have many friends, do you? I've always thought you a sensitive bunch."

The other boy slid from his horse. He pulled Tarquin from the creature's back, carefully positioning him against a tree. Owain was stronger than he looked, Tristan noted in surprise; even after his time in prison, Tarquin had to weigh at least thirteen stone.

Owain knelt down, uncorking a bottle. Isaac's grey eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?"

Owain didn't bother looking up. "Sterilizing his wounds." He poured liquid on Tarquin's open sores, which were oozing yellow pus. "Unless you'd like him to die of infection."

Isaac pressed his lips together, as if he was considering it.

Exasperation filled him. "We need him," Tristan said, voice low. "Remember?"

Isaac blew out a breath. "Fine. Whatever." He slid from his horse, pulling a flask from his saddlebag. "I'm going to find water."

Tristan nodded. "There's a stream back—"

But Isaac was already gone. Tristan lowered his hand. When he turned, Owain was kneeling by a pile of logs. Fire licked at the wood, and Tristan stared. Good gods. How in the seven burning hells had he done that already?

A sense of foreboding slithered down his spine.

"Why are you helping us?" Tristan asked.

Owain didn't look up. "Have you been to Tarhalla before?"

It was a deflection. An obvious one. Tristan sat on a log, stretching his legs out toward the fire.

"No," he said.

Owain nodded, as if he'd expected as much. "It's just over those hills. You can make it there by nightfall tomorrow if you follow the trail to the left. It's just there." He gestured to a green peak. "Can you see it?"

And Tristan — who felt it was pointless to mention that Owain had superhuman vision while he did not — leaned forward. "You're not coming with us, then?"

"I don't know," Owain said. "It depends if I'm called away."

"By who?"

Owain ignored this. Of course he did.

Tristan leaned back, resting his hands against the forest floor. "I suppose it's pointless to ask who you are."

Owain rose, brushing dirt from his trousers. "You know me better than most."

"I knew you as a cat," Tristan pointed out.

"Cat, human." Owain shrugged. "It's the same soul in different bodies."

Owain yawned, stretching his hands over his head; his tunic rode up to reveal a stretch of hard, flat stomach. There were freckles along his waistband. A slow, hot pounding began in Tristan's chest, and he averted his gaze.

"You're Salvatorian." His voice came out gruff. "You can shape-shift."

"Yes," Owain said, "and no."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that." Owain dropped his hands. "I'm Salvatorian, and I'm also not." He nodded at the saddlebag. "Can you pass me a knife?"

Another deflection. Still, Tristan thought, there was no use in pushing the issue; as a child, he'd sit by the maple tree in his garden, watching as drop after drop of the sticky-sweet syrup hit the metal bucket. It would take hours, sometimes. Days.

The best things took patience.

Tristan crossed to the bag, retrieving a knife. The handle was made of bone, he noted, with little golden stars and strange markings; the craftmanship was beautiful. It also looked foreign. Salvatorian, perhaps.

He hesitated. Owain held out his hand, waiting.

Tristan swallowed. "Do you remember the day that I found you?"

"Yes."

"You were trapped under a carriage wheel." The knife felt slick in his hands. "I carried you back to the castle and brought you a turkey leg. I cut it into pieces because I was worried that you'd choke on the bone."

Firelight flickered across Owain's face. "I remember."

"Were you ever really stuck?" Tristan asked.

A beat passed. Two. "I needed to gain entry to the castle. It was nothing personal."

Tristan looked down at the knife. "Why?" Owain looked at the fire, his face obscured in shadow. A surge of frustration filled him. "You were spying on Ryne, weren't you? That's why you needed entry."

"Ah." Owain's mouth curled. "Your precious Ryne Delafort. I remember when you used to write your names in the back of your sock drawer. Tristan Delafort. I found the whole thing oddly... endearing."

He lingered over the last word, as if it was a cherry pie that he was savouring. Tristan's cheeks flamed.

"Mind your own godsdamn business," he muttered.

Owain searched his face. "You're embarrassed. That wasn't my intention."

"Here." Tristan stomped toward him. "Take your bloody knife."

Tristan thrust the weapon out. A pulse beat at his throat, hot and furious. He wondered if Owain would try to stab him with it. Gods, he hoped so. An odd desire to fight — to hit something — swelled in his chest.

Owain took the knife. Then he turned, rummaging through the saddlebag. A wad of bandages appeared in his hand.

"For what it's worth," Owain said, "I always thought you were too good for Ryne Delafort." He took a seat on a log. "Wearing a crown doesn't make you deserving of one. I've spent many years wishing I could tell you that."

"Don't speak to me like that." His voice came out sharp.

Owain began to cut up bandages. "Like what?"

"Like we're friends," Tristan said.

"Aren't we?" Owain asked.

Something knotted in his chest. "I don't know you."

Owain paused, his knife gleaming in the darkness. "I've slept in your bed. Ate chicken from your plate. I know about the Salvatorian songs that you sing when nobody else is around, and the letter that you wrote to Ryne and never sent." His eyes were oddly bright, like twin blue candles. "You might not feel like you know me, Tristan, but I certainly know you. Better than most people, I'd imagine."

The heat of the fire fanned his face. Tristan looked down at his hands; they were steady, although that wasn't surprising. He'd trained them to be that way. You couldn't have your fingers shaking when you were rewiring an explosive.

Tristan looked up. "Did you ever—?"

"Here," a voice grunted.

Isaac slammed two flasks of water on the forest floor. Or at least, Tristan assumed it was water; with the way Isaac was glaring at Owain, it could just have easily been poison.

Isaac crossed his arms. "I'll take first watch."

"Better if I do it," Owain said. "You need more sleep than I do."

Isaac stiffened. "I'm fine."

"I'm stating a fact," Owain said. "You're human. I'm not." He crossed to Tarquin, winding a bandage around his infected arm. "Therefore, it makes more sense if I stay awake for much of the night."

Isaac's voice turned suspicious. "What do you mean you're not human?"

"I am human," Owain said.

"You just said you weren't."

"Yes." Owain paused, looking up from the bandage. "Both are true."

"For fuck's sake," Isaac growled. "Stop speaking in riddles."

Owain rose. "It's not my fault that my basic vocabulary surpasses your human level of understanding."

His face was calm. It was impossible, Tristan thought, to say whether Owain was being deliberately provocative or just obtuse. He'd spent six years as a cat, after all; that was bound to make anyone a little...

Well.

Odd.

"Burning hells," Isaac sighed. "I've had enough of this."

He turned for the woods. He'd made it three steps when Owain's voice rang out across the dark clearing.

"Camille would understand."

Isaac went still. "What did you just say?"

"Camille would understand my meaning," Owain said. "She reads widely." He paused. "Read widely, I should say."

A horrible silence fell. There was a stillness, Tristan thought, like the second before a thunderclap. He took a step forward.

"Webb," he said. "Don't—"

Isaac struck.

He pinned Owain against a tree, shoving him so hard that the other boy's head cracked against the wood. His grey eyes were wild with fury. A shiver ran down Tristan's spine. Shit. Shit. Isaac Webb had been imprisoned for months, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. And if Owain continued to piss him off...

Tristan wasn't strong enough to stop him.

They all knew that.

"Listen, mongrel," Isaac snarled. "I've spent the last five months trapped in a damp cell, eating nothing but stale bread and soup." He rattled his collar. "Don't fucking test me."

Owain raised an eyebrow. "Might I remind you who broke you out of that prison?"

"You could be leading us into another one," Isaac said.

Owain shrugged, and there was something quick and delicate about the movement. "I suppose that's a risk you'll have to consider."

The two young men stared at one another. Isaac was breathing heavily, his elbow pressed against Owain's throat; Owain looked maddeningly calm. With a muttered oath, Isaac released him. Then he turned on his heel, striding toward the woods.

"Call me if Tarquin wakes up," Isaac muttered.

Then he vanished into the dark trees.