Ryder and Halden were probably dead.

I wasn’t sure what was making me feel sicker, finally admitting that truth to myself or my aching, burning lungs. The misery of the latter was, admittedly, self- induced—this section of my morning run was always the most brutal—but today marked one year since the letters had stopped coming, and while I’d sworn not to think the worst until there was reason to, the epistolary silence was hard to argue with.

My heart gave a miserable thump.

Attempting to slip the unpleasant thoughts under the floorboards of my mind, I focused on making it to the edge of the clearing without vomiting. I pumped my legs, swung my elbows back, and felt my braid land between my shoulder blades, as rhythmic as a drumbeat. Just a few more feet—

Finally reaching the expanse of cool grass, I staggered to a halt, bracing my hands on my knees and inhaling deeply. It smelled like Kingdom of Amber always did—of morning dew, woodfire from a nearby hearth, and the crisp, earthy notes of slowly decaying leaves.

But deep breaths weren’t enough to keep my vision from blurring, and I collapsed backward into the ground, the weight of my body crushing the leaves beneath me with a satisfying crunch. The clearing was littered with them—the last remnants of winter.

Eighteen months ago, the night before all the men in our town were conscripted to fight for our kingdom, my family had gathered on the grassy knoll just behind our home. We had watched the pink-hued sunset fade like a bruise behind our town of Abbington all together, one last time. Then, Halden and I had snuck away to this very glade and pretended he and my brother, Ryder, weren’t leaving.

That they’d be back one day.

The bells chimed in the town square, distant but clear enough to jar me from the melancholy memory. I eased up to sitting, my tangled hair now littered with leaves and twigs. I was going to be late. Again.

Bleeding Stones.

Or—shit. I winced as I stood. I was trying to swear less on the nine Holy Gemstones that made up the continent’s core. I didn’t care so much about damning the divinity of Evendell’s creation, but I hated the force of habit that came from growing up in Amber, the kingdom that worshipped the Stones most devoutly.

I jogged back through the glade, down the path behind our cottage, and toward a town just waking up. As I hurried through alleyways that could barely accommodate two people heading in opposite directions, a depressing thought filtered in. Abbington really used to have more charm.

At least it was charming in my memories. Cobblestone streets once swept clean and sprinkled with street musicians and idle merchants were now strewn with garbage and abandoned. Mismatched brick buildings covered with vines and warmed by flickering lanterns had been reduced to crumbling deeply—abandoned, burned, or broken down, if not all three. It was like watching an apple core rot, slowly turning less and less vibrant over time until, one day, it was just gone.

I shivered, both at the thoughts and the weather. Hopefully, the chilly air had dried some of the dampness from my forehead: Nora did not like a sweaty apprentice. As I pushed the creaky door open, ethanol and astringent mint assaulted my nostrils. My favorite scent.

“Arwen, is that you?” Nora called, her voice echoing through the infirmary’s hallway. “You’re late. Mr. Doyle’s gangrene is getting worse. He might lose the finger.”

“Lose my what?” a male voice squawked from behind a curtain.

I shot Nora a withering look and slipped inside the makeshift room separated by cotton sheets.