By the time they docked at Sel’Vareth, the sun had burned itself down to a smoldering red wick on the horizon.

  The harbor bustled with motion: sailors shouting from rigging, ropes snapping against decks, crates and carts wheeled across stone. The scent of brine mixed with hot metal and fire-cooked fish, and the sea hissed gently against the hulls.

  Lark helped the others disembark first—an older couple with too many bags, a merchant woman in layered skirts, even the quiet boy who’d snuck aboard for adventure and ended up vomiting overboard more than once. His muscles ached from the week’s labor, but his hands were steady as he held arms and guided feet over the ramp.

  And then, finally, Azalea.

  She stood at the edge of the gangplank, her cloak drawn tight over her shoulders. The illusion ring—slim, near seamless—rested on her right hand, disguising the shimmer in her eyes and the unnatural hue of her skin. Her gaze found Lark’s as he offered a hand.

  She took it. Her fingers were warm.

  “Captain Marien,” Lark called, tipping his head. “Thank you. Truly.”

  The captain gave a small wave from the wheel, sun glowing behind him. “Take care of each other, dove boy.”

  Azalea blinked. Lark didn’t explain.

  As soon as their boots met the dock, Azalea tugged him forward with sudden force.

  “Where are we—” he started.

  “I’m not doing goodbyes in a marketplace,” she snapped, and dragged him through the narrow winding roads that led away from the docks. Lark kept pace, matching her longer stride, until the cobbled streets gave way to sand, and the stone cliffs parted wide into the open beach.

  The last light of sunset spilled across the waves. Orange, gold, deep rose. The surf curled in, calling her home.

  They ran.

  Half laughing, half breathless, they tore across the sand like children. warm wind tangled their hair, kicked sand into their boots. Azalea’s laughter rang sharp and rare in the open air, and Lark grinned, stupid and wild, as they stumbled over a tangle of driftwood, barely missing a fall.

  They stopped near the water’s edge. Breathing hard. Smiling.

  Lark felt it then—that impossible, victorious feeling of I survived.

  But it didn’t last. Azalea turned first, her smile fading as she caught the weight in his eyes.

  “You’re leaving,” she said softly, but not as a question.

  “I have to,” he answered.

  And he stepped into the tide.

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  Water kissed his boots, soaking through his trousers as he waded through the shallow surf. When he reached her, he took her gently by the wrist, his other hand sliding to her ringed finger. Without a word, he slipped the ring free.

  Startled, her form shifted—revealing her true nature—pale skin and sharp features of a siren. Then, he kissed her. Unspoken, desperate. The kind of kiss that burned in his chest with aching sweetness. No one was there to see it, to see her like this.

  When he finally pulled back, Lark dropped to one knee, his gaze lifting to meet hers. With theatrical flair, he slid the ring back onto her finger.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t do this the first time.”

  “You’re forgiven,” she said, her voice stripped of all sharpness as she looked down on him, the tide creeping in around them.

  “I’ll return,” he murmured, voice thick. “Soon.”

  Azalea didn’t speak further.

  But she didn’t let go until he did.

  And she didn’t look away as he walked back across the beach alone.

  The stable sat on the eastern edge of town, more of a rundown lean-to attached to a weathered inn than a true barn. The scent of old hay and horse sweat hit him before the doorway.

  A man in a sweat-stained vest leaned against a fencepost, picking his teeth with a hay sliver.

  “I’m looking for a horse I left here,” Lark said, wiping the salt from his lips. “Clydesian mare. Big as hell, bay coat, feathered hooves. War-trained.”

  The man’s brow creased. “Oh yeah. That one. You were only supposed to be gone three days.”

  “I know how long I was supposed to be gone. Do you remember her or not?”

  “Hard to forget a beast like that. Mean, proud, wouldn’t let half the boys near her.” He chuckled. “We waited a week. Then the crown’s supply runners offered good coin. She went with ‘em. Probably hauling supply carts somewhere along the eastern harbor. Could be anywhere.”

  Lark stared, fury creeping beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

  “You sold her.”

  “She was just sitting there! Costin’ feed! What’d you expect?”

  Lark stared at the empty stall beside the wall. The one with the broken latch. His hand met his face, dragging down his features with an exasperated sigh. He couldn’t catch a break.

  The man shrugged. “Got a few left, if you need a ride. Most our stock got taken in last week by fresh conscripts. Only one I wouldn’t mind losin’ is… well…”

  He pointed toward the back.

  There, tied tightly to a post, was a jittery, bug-eyed gelding, his coat patched with whites and blacks, worn and unremarkable. He stood with tension, seemingly lost.

  Lark blinked. “…Is that a mule?”

  “Not sure, honestly. He’s got the big ol’ ears. I call him Banjo.”

  Banjo let out the most pathetic wheeze of a bray Lark had ever heard.

  He sighed.

  “Well,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “I guess we’re starting from the bottom again.”

  Lark was sweating through his shirt, a fact that annoyed him more than the mule’s fourth attempt to wander off while half-saddled.

  “You’re like a child,” he muttered, clutching the saddle in hand, trying to stop the jittery beast from wandering nose-first into another post. His agitation was clear. “A very stupid, twitchy child with hooves the size of my head.”

  The mule flicked an ear in his direction, then tried to nibble on the edge of Lark’s coat.

  “Don’t.” Lark’s voice was flat, followed by a faint hiss. “I bite back.”

  The stableman let out a laugh behind him, offering the bridle with all the enthusiasm of a man watching a comedy performance. “You’re doin’ great.”

  “Oh, am I?” Lark shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Because it feels like I’m trying to assemble furniture with teeth.”

  He finally got the bridle on after a short struggle that felt oddly like getting dressed in the dark during a windstorm. Then, with a deep breath, Lark cinched the girth. The mule danced again—of course it did—and he had to follow it three steps to the left before he could adjust the stirrups.

  With a grunt, he finally got his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. The mule lurched slightly to the side but didn’t bolt, which was… technically progress.

  “Well, look at that,” the stableman said, leaning on the post. “Didn’t even fall off. You two are practically in love already.”

  Lark sat, steadying the reins as the mule gained some sort of consciousness, his head bobbing slightly. “Yeah, we’re on the way to a honeymoon in hell.”

  “Where you headed again?”

  “Velmorien supply routes,” Lark said, eyes scanning the road ahead, jaw set tight. “Someone sold my warhorse. So now I’m taking a child to war.”

  Gus was gone. Azalea was furious. The world was cracking open again.

  And he was stuck on a mule.

  Still, he straightened in the saddle, reined the jittery beast in, and nodded once to the stableman. “Thanks for the help.”

  And with that, he clicked his tongue, gave a small nudge with his heels, and led the fidgeting mule out into the road, toward the dust and distance.