IN SLEEPY WORDLESSNESS, they embarked into colder climates. As Clea walked, she once again became acquainted with the aches and pains of sleeping on the forest ground.

The morning woods were no longer enchanting, but felt empty and dreadful. After last night's discussion, all that lingered was a painful sense of isolation. The forest was a vicious alien, the medallion around her neck, a poison, and then there was Ryson, who balanced precariously on the lines between ally, enemy, and enigma.

She'd provoked him last night, pushed and prodded until she'd gotten the clarity she'd thought she wanted. Yet, in the wake of all of that, she was left feeling discouraged. What had she expected? She felt foolish, but she'd had her reasons for pushing like she had. Her life was in his hands. To trust him, she needed to know him, and despite still feeling like her statements last night had been true, she grappled for some sense of legitimate security.

She crossed her arms as they walked, her downward glances evolving into a focused glare on Ryson's back.

In the past year, she'd lost her mother to a horde of reaping shades, navigated Virday alone, stolen the Deadlock Medallion, and nearly died on multiple occasions. Now she was fretting over what? A Kalex?

She shook her head as her free hand drifted to the medallion.

It had to be related to the medallion. The darkness she'd felt last night had to be nothing more than an illusion, creating fears for her. She didn't sense any cien, which had always been her indicator for real danger.

But what if it wasn't? Ryson was involved in the dark world. He made no effort to hide that.

She gritted her teeth, arguing with herself.

His involvement with cien was the exact reason she shouldn't be afraid of him. She was a Veilin. Ryson was a Kalex, and not the kind she liked. He was the kind her father had always warned her about, the brutish, violent, cold, cien-following kind. No matter what she'd felt last night, that fact remained.

Clea, this isn't a battle. The words pushed against the barricade of anger that justified her cynicism. She struggled with the thought until her conscience beat her, warranting a sigh of defeat.

She and Ryson were supposed to be allies. They had to be. Otherwise, she was doing all of this alone, and something about that battle felt even more unbearable than a tedious alliance.

But he is so difficult, she reminded herself, scrambling to collect the remnants of her grudge before it forsook her to the reality that she would have to make amends. Difficult or not, he was all she had for now. She was a Veilin. She could make this partnership work at least until reaching Loda. Their differences would teach her something new about the world. That's how it had always been.

Her grip tightened on the straps of her bag.

Their situation didn't warrant the luxury of a grudge, and she'd seen how petty disagreements could grow into fissures, splitting teams into pieces.

Uncomfortable with her own anger and fears, she walked herself through the standard mental reminders she reviewed to soften herself against someone: Ryson had come from a different world than she had. She didn't know his struggles. She couldn't judge him. Maybe he wasn't as bad as he seemed. Perhaps she had been at fault to push him last night.

She continued listing off ideas that might rouse her sympathies, but her admission of guilt only angered her further.

He is really just wounded, she persisted. Behind his cold exterior is nothing more than a wounded m—

Clea gasped when Ryson released a branch and it smacked her in the face. She stumbled past it, but the end of the branch caught her hair and jerked her to a halt. She grabbed the branch and tried to pull it out to no avail. A few more embarrassing attempts at freedom invited a pent-up torrent of rage. She gripped the branch and snapped the end off, whipping back toward Ryson, fuming. She stormed forward, fishing through her hair in an attempt to remove the rest of it. Ryson watched the spectacle from a few paces ahead.

Monster, she thought, gritting her teeth at the innocence with which he beheld her struggle.

"I'm fine," she said sarcastically, challenging his indifference as she passed him. She'd barely taken two steps when she felt him grab the branch and rip it free.

She shouted in pain, gripping her head as she spun toward him. He held what was left of the branch in his hand, hair dangling from it.

"Got it," he said with a smirk.

Clea lunged at him, and he flipped her over, her back landing flat against the grass and brush. The landing sent a jolt through her, and he remained crouched over her, his smile more than alluding to the fact that he was shamelessly amused.

"Feel better now?" he asked.

"You're a monster," she whispered with restraint. The vibration of the landing sent uncomfortable quivers through her as she tried to salvage what she could of her pride.

"Am I?" he replied breathily, as if he'd been waiting for the compliment.

"You could take a perfectly good person"—she hoisted herself up as he backed away—"and make them as angry and bitter as you are. I bet you do it for sport."

"Now you're getting to know me. Keep going."

"I stick by what I said," she snapped back, brushing off her clothes. "There aren't bad people. Just complicated ones." Not a second after the words left her mouth, his foot hooked her ankle and knocked her feet out from under her.

She fell on her side with a shout, scrambled back to her feet, and thrust a finger at him.

"Now, that"—she bumped her finger against his chest—"was childish!"

He stole her footing again. This time, her hands flew into the air. She fell on her backside, feet out in front of her. She didn't get up this time, but sat straight, hands gripping the grass at her sides as she kept her gaze focused forward.

Ryson eased down onto his haunches before her, invading her vision.

"I'm sorry, my deep interpersonal issues and dark past compelled me to do that." He propped his head up on his hand and tilted it. He was completely calm, and the happiest she'd seen him. "I'm complicated," he added with a delighted lilt. Clea sensed he was feeding off of her anger.

This isn't a battle. The words invaded again. Allies. She closed her eyes. Seeing him and hearing the word made her want to shout. Allies means equals.

This is about the medallion. It's about making it back home.

A heavy wave of embarrassment and guilt pulled her back into the grass. She rested her hands over her face and closed her eyes, inhaling. She winced as the realization hit her—she was now being petty.

She was being childish.

As painful as it was to feel so powerless, he still didn't owe her anything. He could be as childish as he wanted; his part of the deal was simply to get her to Loda.

The feelings filled her with an uncomfortable sense of dread as her pride deflated on the ground where she lay.

"What are you doing?" Ryson asked after a minute of silence.

"Paying the consequences of my actions," she muttered, uncovering her face. Her hands slid down over her stomach. He was standing over her, and she looked past him to the glowing canopy above.

He crouched again as if inspecting a dead body, and she took a measured breath.

She needed to do better. One week in without an enemy to face and she was losing her head. How had Helina Hart managed to face an entire army of beasts with the weight of the world on her shoulders?

"I'm sorry I've been acting the way I have," Clea said, still watching the canopy. "I just attacked you. I've never done that before to anyone."

Ryson seemed to shift uncomfortably at her apology, eyes narrowed on her face, before following her gaze back up to the trees and then down again. "What are you looking at?"

"It won't happen again," Clea continued, still focused on the canopy. "You're taking me through the forest. That's what you agreed to do. Nothing more. I've been...immature and entitled. I apologize."

"It was probably just the medallion," he reasoned, apparently unsettled even more by her second apology.

"No," she said flatly.

"It's the forest then. Look, Princess, I've been pushing you too."

"No. It's me. I control my actions. I just need to—"

He grabbed her hand, and she jolted as he hoisted her to her feet. He walked off as she steadied herself.

"Thank you," she called, following him, but he didn't reply.

Clea didn't say anything more to him after that.

She walked with her bag now clutched to her chest, no longer feeling so angry at herself, and no longer feeling as angry with him either. Now all that remained was a lingering awkwardness that she was sure she felt more than he did.

Surprisingly, her mood lifted as the hours pressed on. Ryson was keeping a measured distance from her, like he were afraid she might apologize again. The idea, true or not, lightened her perception of him. She thought it would be frightening to expect less of him in their interactions, but surprisingly, she felt more assured. The silence was peaceful again.

That thought persisted until their trek ultimately led them uphill. Patches of snow grew in size as they progressed toward a snow-capped peak. Clea rushed through the snow with a renewed energy and stumbled to the peak before Ryson.

She widened her stance and placed her hands on her hips as her eyes scanned the valley below. The snow across the land reflected the sun so perfectly that the area before them looked like a valley of clouds and light. The pines were a deep, dark green, peppering the landscape in waves. She leaned forward, squinting into the distance. "This is absolutely amazing," she said, now content to speak only to herself.

She glanced over at Ryson as he stopped beside her. He watched the valley with critical, searching eyes until he focused on a single point in the distance. He proceeded down a path to the valley, steadying himself against a steep slope. "It seems a group of forest nomads has settled in the valley."

"Forest nomads?" She frowned. Where had she heard the term before?

"They travel through the woodland. Mainly Kalex banned from human cities. Sometimes they harbor humans," he said, sliding down a slushy slope with balanced ease. "We're going to drop by and see if they'll have you for the night."

"How will we know if they're friendly?" she asked, tottering after him with her arms out and knees bent.

"We find out ourselves."

* * *

"Find out ourselves?" Clea repeated through her teeth, digging her feet into the snow. And what exactly would they do if the Kalex weren't friendly?

Ryson nudged her forward as they approached the collection of Kalex tents. The sun would begin to set soon, and Clea saw fires and figures dancing and howling about them. The steady beat of drums reached her ears.

"Enough of your ansra has regenerated. If they're friendly, they'll welcome you. If not, I'll pull you out," Ryson said, somehow content to walk behind her and not in front of her. It was putting her newly renewed faith in him to the test.

"You're Meridian Hart's daughter. Aren't you supposed to be braver than this?" Despite how offensive the question was, he seemed to be asking with a genuine sense of wonder.

"Ryson, I have barely nine-sixteenths of the ansra I might normally have," she argued back as they reached the outskirts of the encampment. She rubbed her bare arms before adding, "Why can't I close the cloak? And we're in the open. No shade or shadows to worry about. They won't see your eyes. They look stark black in this light."

"They need to see your skin under the shade of the cloak. It will make the fact that you're a Veilin easier to spot." He ignored her second question as he added, "Nine sixteenths? That's very specific."

"I'm very specific when it comes to life and death, you know. It took everything I had to create that first seal on the medallion's influence, and I've been struggling to recover ever since," she said, stopping in her tracks when a woman and her child noticed them from in between two tents. The girl, around the age of ten, broken out into a run toward Clea.

Clea retreated toward Ryson, moving faster as the child picked up her pace.

Ryson grabbed her arms as she backed into him.

The girl stopped before Clea, wide blue eyes staring through a matted mess of blonde curls.

The child said something in amazed Kaletik and then shouted it again back toward the encampment.

"Watch out. It looks like a killer," Ryson whispered into her ear, alerting her as to how close he was. She squirmed out of his touch, leaping forward like he'd shocked her.

The girl became a quick escape from her embarrassment.

"What is your name?" Clea asked as she leaned toward her. The girl's pointed ears and fingertips marked her as a Kalex. They were common mutations. The less fortunate could be born with a wing, hooves, or any assortment of deformity.

The girl spoke back in Kaletik, and the word Clea always recognized was the word illness.

Clea felt another tug on her sleeve. Surprised, she turned to see an older boy accompanied by two others farther behind him.

Another voice distracted Clea, calling from afar. She turned and spotted a woman rushing toward her, and then another. In minutes, she had gathered a throng of Kalex, all requesting that she heal wounds and sickness. Clea noticed that the crowd was nudging Ryson away. He started to step back from the frenzy, and pleadingly, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

He flinched, as if it hurt. Clea was surprised by her own impulse to reach for him, but also by the subtle jolt in his reaction.

Clea pulled him toward her through the people, but lost his gaze as more Kalex tugged on her sleeves. "Stay," she said more softly than she'd meant to. Then she knelt among the people and released his hand. "I might need your help," she added, more forcefully.

She received a toddler from a persistent mother, and inspected his bandaged arm. The toddler wailed, and Clea stroked his hair and whispered a few words of comfort as her other hand radiated light above his bandaged arm. Soon enough, he stopped crying as she healed his ailment. Clea searched for the mother as others grabbed for her attention. Kalex tugged at her clothes; patients gathered in the masses. Though she scanned the crowd frantically, she failed to find the child's mother in the crowd. In a rush, she thrust the boy into Ryson's hands. "Hold him!" Clea said before kneeling.

"I don't like children," he said.

"You'll be fine, Ryson," Clea replied, healing the broken leg of an adolescent girl as other Kalex carried their sick to her feet.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" he asked.

Clea turned around to see him holding the toddler upside down by the leg. The child's lips formed an ugly frown, right before he choked into another fit of crying.

"Ryson!" She tried to stand, but another patient grabbed her sleeve again. "Don't hold him like that! Hold him close to your chest, with both arms!"

Ryson thrust his arm out farther, like he was disgusted by the idea, and Clea saw the mother appear from the crowd and grab her child. Shouting in a foreign language, she proceeded to beat Ryson with her free hand. He withdrew, dodging her fist as she yelled at him.

He stumbled over a child behind him in an attempt to escape. The mother marched off angrily with her toddler. Ryson scrambled to his feet. Clea's muffled laugh escaped in a brief snort. She pursed her lips to hide her smile as his eyes locked onto her in sheer spite.

"Never mind the children, you can help me with something else," she said, still fighting her grin. Clearly unconvinced, Ryson kept his distance.

"I promise you won't hate it." Clea beckoned him to kneel beside her, and as he did so, she offered him the leg of a patient who now lay on the ground. The leg had a fresh wound. "Hold the bottom of his calf like this." She guided his hands to where hers had once been. She then placed her hand upon the bloodied gash on the person's shin.

The older man cried out, but settled down as she healed him. Clea felt the warmth under her palm, felt the flesh and the skin stitch back together as her ansra burned away any infection. It had been a long time since she'd healed someone, and feeling the flesh and blood shift under her palm was a reminder that despite the beauty of it, some healing wasn't for the faint of heart. It involved a deep confrontation with ugliness and violence.

Her eyes flickered to Ryson at the thought. He was watching the process with a composed but focused interest, and she wondered if he'd seen healings performed before.

"It's fine now; you can let go," Clea said, using the snow to wash the blood from her hands.

Ryson released the patient's leg, and they watched as he stood and danced jubilantly. He ran off as Clea healed another patient that came to her. They approached with all sorts of wounds and illnesses, the young and the old. Finally, before Clea could move on to the next patient, Ryson pulled her off her knees.

The remaining crowd dispersed at Ryson's intervention, leaving a single Kalex woman who waited beyond the rest with her hands folded in front of her.

"You need to rest," Ryson said. "You're spending too much energy. They're going to take you in for the night. There is a human here. That woman will take you to the human so that you can sleep. I'm going to stay in the woods tonight."

Clea glanced over at the woman and then turned back to Ryson, but he was gone. She watched the place where he'd been standing before the woman circled around her and beaconed for her to follow.

One night out of the woods.

Clea was less than disappointed.

She'd hardly noticed her own exhaustion until now. It had felt so energizing to heal, to be around people and see laughter, relief and joy. Physical exhaustion was a burden, but she hadn't realized how long she'd been aching to give something else of herself to the world.

She'd gladly do it all over again.