“Godsdammit, Hayden—will you watch where you’re stepping!”

I stumble back from his anger and drop my gaze to the forest floor, where Jochen is rubbing his left hand and scowling at me. There’s mud on two fingers of his glove.

“Sorry,” I mutter and shake my head. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, no shite,” he growls again, before turning away—back to the ground. He returns his right hand to his spear and leans forward over an entirely unremarkable patch of bare dirt.

“Face it, Jochen,” Cana mews from behind, “you’ve lost the trail. And probably us, too.”

Jochen’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t reply. I turn and motion to her—”Don’t,” I plead, without sound. She rolls her eyes and turns away, dark curls swirling to and fro across her shoulders, brown against green.

My breath catches a little, but I crush the feeling under annoyance. It wasn’t easy convincing Jochen to bring her along—even if it was obvious that we needed her. She could at least try to be a little more grateful about it.

I watch her climb a few steps back up the valley wall, her hips swaying like a willow in the breeze, her head held high—every step easy, but precise: she makes almost no sound against the leaves.

Fokke, she’s beautiful. Even when she’s angry.

No wonder Jochen hates her.

I smile sadly to myself and turn back to peer into the gloom ahead, scouring for any sign—trampled underbrush, a footprint, droppings . . . blood; anything. But there’s nothing to be seen—nothing except dark, thick, empty forest.

Well, obviously, or Jochen would have already seen it.

No sound, either, except for the wind in the leaves above.

Hey, that’s weird.

“No birds,” I say, almost under my breath.

Jochen nods his head and shuffles a step forward, to peer at another patch of unremarkable, dim ground—this one covered in papery, brown leaves.

I wish he’d tell me what he’s looking at. But I know better than to ask.

For something to do, I nock an imaginary arrow on my string and draw it back, sighting down it. I turn slowly, the string at my jaw, my fingers shaking ever so slightly from the force on the string, aiming at each new target: tree trunk; leaf-littered hillock; burdock thicket; moss on rotting tree trunk . . . 

Cana.

She watches me passively, from a few steps above. I smile sheepishly and quickly undraw the string. “Need all the practice I can get, right?” I say, shrugging.

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Yes, Hayden. You do.”

The heat in my cheeks is instantaneous, and I drop my gaze.

“Thanks, Cana.”

Why was it I wanted you along?

Fokke.

I move to kick at a rock by my foot, but realize what I’m doing and stop myself just in time.

“Cana,” Jochen growls, “shut up. And Hayden, pay attention, will you? This isn’t a game.”

“Yes, Jochen.”

“See? There.” He points at a spot on the leaf litter, where he’s been looking.

And there it is. The thinnest possible line of dull, reddish brown, on the edge of one, damp leaf.

Blood.

And no birds.

I glance back at Cana. She’s scowling at Jochen, but I catch her eye. She tightens her grip on her bow, and nods. A peace offering maybe? Gods know, we’re going to need each other soon.

I nod my acceptance, and turn back to Jochen.

The wyvern’s lair can’t be far, now.

“Let’s go.”