Three weeks later, I could lift my left arm without seeing stars.

That counted as progress.

Captain Marcus Ward allowed me into the royal herb garden for one hour each morning, provided I remained inside the ward stones and carried the brass alarm whistle he had hung around my neck.

The privilege had taken three arguments, one medical clearance, and a wager with Adrian. He had insisted I could not cross the courtyard without stopping to catch my breath. I had made it across purely out of spite, then spent five minutes pretending the bench near the fountain was part of my plan. He never mentioned the shaking in my knees. Instead, he brought me a map of the southern borders that evening and marked the locations where his scouts had found Blood Moon tracks.

"They are not searching randomly," he had said. "Someone gave them your likely route out of the gorge."

I had traced the marks with one finger. "Lucas knows I would head south if I escaped."

"Lucas also believes you are alone. Let him keep believing that."

That was why I had agreed to stay inside the wards. Not because I enjoyed being guarded, but because surviving long enough to reclaim my father's land had become a better revenge than dying to prove I was free.

"The old ruins are outside the inner barrier," he reminded me that morning. "Do not go past the wolf statues."

"You have told me every day."

"And every day you look like you are considering ignoring me."

"That is because I am."

Marcus sighed. "I see why the King likes you."

"The King finds me medically convenient."

"If that is what you need to tell yourself."

He left before I could throw a bundle of bitterroot at him.

I spent the next half hour cutting wintermint and checking the frost damage to the southern beds. The work steadied me. It also let me avoid thinking about Adrian.

Our arrangement had become strangely domestic. When the Rot began to pull at him, he found me. Sometimes I held his wrist until the tremor passed. Sometimes I sat across a table while he worked through state reports, close enough that my presence alone eased the pressure behind his eyes.

He had kept every term of our bargain.

He never touched me without asking.

That should not have mattered as much as it did.

A branch cracked near the outer wall.

I straightened.

The wind shifted.

Polished leather. Weapon oil. Southern pine.

Blood Moon.

Five masked figures slipped through the trees beyond the ward stones. They wore black field armor marked with a nearly invisible red crescent at the shoulder.

Lucas's elite trackers.

The tallest man stepped over a bed of lavender.

"You survived the gorge."

I tightened my grip on the pruning sickle. "You crossed onto royal ground. That is a very short path to execution."

"Only if the King knows we are here."

My thumb found the alarm whistle at my chest.

A throwing knife flashed.

It struck the cord and pinned the whistle to the wooden trellis behind me.

So much for that plan.

"Lucas sends his regards," the leader said.

"He can keep them."

"He heard a border scout saw a dark-haired woman being carried into the royal valley. He became concerned."

"About my health?"

"About your head."

The men spread out.

I backed toward the drying racks, mapping the garden in my mind. Nightshade to my left. Empty glass jars on a cart. Stone wall behind the rose beds. The iron gate was thirty yards away.

"He cannot claim the southern woodlands while the legal heir breathes," I said.

"Exactly."

The leader drew a silver-coated knife.

"Take her alive if you can. We need proof."

I threw the sickle at his face.

He swatted it aside.

I ran.

Boots thundered behind me.

I ripped a tray of dried nightshade from the rack and flung it backward. Powder burst into the face of the nearest tracker. He shouted, clawing at his eyes, and crashed into the glass cart.

Jars shattered across the stones.

A second man vaulted the wreckage.

I kicked the broken cart into his path. He cleared it, but the movement forced him toward the irrigation trench. I swept a clay pot off the wall and smashed it against the stone at his feet. Wet soil and shards scattered beneath his boots. He slipped, caught himself, and gave me the two seconds I needed to reach for the emergency bell rope hanging beside the gate.

A knife struck the post inches above my hand and severed the rope.

"Prepared for everything, weren't you?" I panted.

"Lucas paid extra for preparation."

I grabbed the iron watering can and swung it into his jaw.

The blow staggered him but did not drop him.

He caught the handle and ripped it from my hands.

"Enough."

His fist struck my healing ribs.

Pain folded me.

I stumbled over the low garden wall and hit the gravel on one knee.

The leader seized my hair from behind.

"Still fighting," he muttered. "Lucas said you never knew when to kneel."

I drove my elbow backward into his stomach.

He swore and slammed me face-first into the dirt.

My cheek scraped over stone. Warm blood opened along the edge of the black crescent.

The leader planted a knee between my shoulder blades.

"Where is your King now?"

"Probably deciding which wall to hang your head from."

He laughed and pressed the flat of the silver blade against my throat.

Cold burned into my skin.

My vision sharpened with fear.

"He is not your King," the tracker said. "You are still Blood Moon property."

"I was never Lucas's property."

"Tell him that when you see him in the afterlife."

A shout came from somewhere beyond the inner gate.

The tracker glanced up.

I tried to buck him off.

His knee drove harder into my spine.

"No more games."

The knife turned. The edge kissed my skin.

"Lucas gave me one message to deliver before I cut your head off."

I went perfectly still.

The tracker bent close enough that his breath warmed my ear.

"He said you always were too stubborn to die."

The blade began to press down.