A thick layer of white swaddled the forest, the air as still as a sleeping babe after a long night of squalling. I crouched beside a set of tracks—horse hooves, and a mess of booted footprints indicating several travelers of differing sizes—and peered down the trail. Obvious, to any person with eyes in their head. Why no one else had found them yet was something I could not fathom.

Dorian Ashwood was safe, outside the immediate reach of his enemies. Or so he thought. Like most lords, he never saw beyond the closest threat. The most present danger. That he had survived Idaea was a miracle he could not credit to himself. He had no idea to whom he must be grateful.

But he would . . . in time.

I shoved back my hood and stood, thinking.

The young mem, Sephone, was a potential problem. She was far more powerful than anyone had first guessed. Likely, even she was unaware of the extent of her gift, though I suspected she was beginning to understand. I reached down and picked up a fallen twig, rolling the brittle stem between thumb and forefinger. The leaves twitched and shivered in the breeze. I crushed the twig in my fist, then opened my hand and tilted it so that the twig fluttered to the ground. It lay atop the pristine cover of white at unnatural angles.

A person was only as strong as their weakest limb. A little pressure on the right areas, and Sephone Winter would break. She was already too wounded to survive what came next. I would see to it myself.

My mouth curved. When the time came for her to die, she might even thank me for helping matters along.