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He studies me like he’s weighing whether to tell me. And when he speaks, I almost wish he wouldn’t; it would be easier to resent him. “A few among us possess the ability to form protective barriers, to shield ourselves and others. It’s rare, and fortunately the Iron Mountains remains ignorant of it.”

“Why didn’t you shield us in the tower against those spells?” I ask.

“The tower was warded against outside magic,” he reminds me. “I wasn’t able to use mine.”

I think over what he told me. “Do you hide your abilities to gain the Iron Mountains’ trust?”

He nods. “They think we’re like them: suspicious of magic and jealous of those with it. Whenever I’m in the Palace of Nine Hills, I must be vigilant to avoid detection. Fortunately, as close allies, they allow us into the palace without examination. But I can’t touch their iron, their weapons—just like the one by your waist, and those used in the tournament. It’s the real reason why I couldn’t challenge General Xilu.”

I glance at the sword he took from Captain Hong, the scabbard gleaming in mahogany and jade. “Is that your weapon? Why don’t you carry it?”

“Those of the Iron Mountains value the strength of the sword; they disregard those who don’t have it.” His smile is cold. “I don’t care about their opinion, but it’s safer they don’t view me as a threat.”

Prince Zixin already disliked him enough, when he imagined him a harmless advisor. A vital reminder, to never forget the different faces Jin wears, how easily he slips on these masks.

We fall silent then, making our way carefully across the chasm. The moment the last of us reaches the other side, the oak springs back, its roots settling into the earth. Its branches shudder, thick clumps of leaves falling to the ground, a rustle rippling akin to a sigh.

The witch’s eyes are bright as she gazes at the tree, raising her hand to it like she’s wishing she could touch it, like she’s bidding it farewell. “Thank you,” she murmurs, inclining her head toward the oak.

And though she’s been harsh to me, though she frightens me… this simple thing makes me dislike her a little less.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

W e ride until dusk is a distant memory, the skies a fathomless black. As we travel west, away from the Iron Mountains, my nerves grow more taut. Every minute is one I’ll have to claw back, each step taking me further from my plans, and closer to death.

I’m tired, my limbs heavy, the pain in my head relentless. It takes all my concentration to keep my mind clear. When Jin glances my way, I slump in the saddle, letting my grip loosen on the reins. At once, he calls for me to hold them tighter. He’s watching me, just as I watch him. Shortly after, he calls for us to halt and make camp. As the trees loom above, their branches weaving over us like a canopy, Lady Ruilin lays out pieces of dried beef and some cold rice for our meal.

“Let me cook tonight,” I offer. “It’s been days since we had decent food.”

The witch eyes me suspiciously. “What will you make?”

I unpack my provisions, setting out chilies, peppercorns, ginger, and onions. “I thought of making a stew.”

“We don’t have time to waste on cooking,” she says with a sniff.

Lady Ruilin’s eyes light up. “I’d like a hot meal. I can’t cook and, Dian, your talents don’t lie in the kitchen.”

When the witch remains silent, I shrug, packing away the food. “I won’t cook if you don’t want me to.”

My heart thuds as Lady Ruilin casts a beseeching look at her. At last, the witch scowls, rummaging through a bag to pull out a small, beaten pot. “Don’t expect me to help.”

I fight the urge to smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I cook the stew over a small fire that Jin built, tossing in strips of dried meat, ginger, and chilies. As the pungent aromas flood the forest, it’s fortunate there’s no one on our trail.

Jin helps me divide the rice into small bamboo bowls. I spoon the spicy stew over the rice, then garnish each bowl with sliced spring onions. When Jin isn’t looking, I add a pinch of night-root to the other three bowls, the reddish strands so finely shaved they sink right into the thick broth. It’s an herb I’ve never seen before, only heard of, but the witch’s garden was a trove of rare ingredients. I just hope I’m right.

The beef is tender after being simmered in the broth, the smell mouthwatering. Lady Ruilin is already ladling a second spoonful into her mouth, while the witch watches me, her bowl untouched.

“Aren’t you eating?” she asks pointedly.

I take a large bite of stew, swallowing it with a smile. Only then does the witch taste it. A strange expression flits across her face—but she smiles.

“It’s good,” she tells me, taking another spoonful. “It’s very good.”

They eat till their bowls are scraped clean—as do I, though I taste nothing. Night-root won’t harm them, just put them to sleep, but my betrayal gnaws at me. I don’t care about the witch or Lady Ruilin, but Jin… every bite he swallows is like a nail pushed deeper into my chest. I think of how he protected me from General Xilu, from the witch, how he saved me in the swamp—

Don’t you dare let go.