instead. They were the trespassers here, and if they arrived bearing weapons, Veronyka feared their visit would end before it even began.
“Smart move,” came a deep, silken voice from somewhere above.
They both froze and looked skyward, where the branches were so thick and dense that they could hardly see the sky. There was the barest sound, the scrape of boots on bark, but Veronyka couldn’t actually see the woman.
“You draw that bow, phoenixaemi, and it’ll be the last thing you do,” she said, the words as slow and smooth as a caress. While phoenixaeris was the term for a “phoenix master,” phoenixaemi translated roughly to “phoenix friend.” It was usually meant to indicate apprentices or young, untested Riders, and carried with it the hint of derision or condescension—especially since Tristan was already a Master Rider.
“We mean you no harm,” Veronyka said, stepping out of reach of the weapons strapped to Xephyra’s saddle and indicating with a nod that Tristan should do the same. She raised her hands, showing she was unarmed.
There was a rustle, nearer at hand, and the woman appeared, crouched on a thick branch. She looked completely at ease, as comfortable in the soaring treetops as a wildcat.
“Baby Riders, here all alone,” she crooned. “What makes you think I don’t mean harm to you?” she asked, tilting her head to study them.
Veronyka licked her lips. She pointed in the direction of the tree where the woman had embedded her warning arrow mere moments before. “You already had a chance—you didn’t take it. We just want to talk.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk,” she said, before swinging her weight down from the branch, hanging from her hands before dropping lightly to her feet. She approached them slowly, appraisingly, circling the pair of them like a hunter stalking its prey. She was startlingly beautiful, her long inky hair filled with braids and feathers and chunks of shining obsidian, the dozens of plaits threaded into a single, thicker braid that ran down her back. Her skin was brown like Veronyka’s, but with cool, almost metallic undertones, making her look at home among the icy leaves of the Silverwood.
“We’re older than you were when you flew your first mission,” Veronyka said, her heart thumping wildly. “You are Alexiya, aren’t you? My name is Veronyka, and this is Tristan.”
The woman finished her circuit, coming to a stop directly in front of Veronyka, though her eyes lingered on Tristan. There was something curious and intent in her gaze that made Veronyka’s stomach clench.
Ignoring the attempt at instructions, the woman fixed her glittering dark eyes on Veronyka. “Who sent you?”
“No one—we sent ourselves.”
“How did you find me?”
Veronyka figured honesty was the best option—at least for now. “Ilithya Shadowheart.”
Her entire body stilled at the name. “Is she coming as well?” she asked.
Veronyka shook her head, unable to mask the sadness on her face. “I—she’s gone. Ilithya is gone.”
“Then why do you do a dead woman’s work?” she asked, and Veronyka suspected she was doing fishing of her own. “Surely you have better things to do—other battles to fight?”
“What do you know about our battles?” Veronyka asked, studying the woman’s face for her reaction.
Her voice was unapologetic when she said, “I know you’re fighting one you cannot win.”
Veronyka bristled. “Is that why you’re in hiding? Unwilling to fight if you know you might lose? Or have you thrown your lot in elsewhere?”
Veronyka’s accusation of cowardice elicited little more than a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, but the last words Veronyka spoke caused a chink in her impassive demeanor.
“Elsewhere?” she asked, frowning. She seemed genuinely puzzled, which went a long way to calming Veronyka’s anger—and her anxiety. Whatever this woman was, Veronyka doubted she was allied with Lord Rolan or the empire.
The woman stared at them both, and when they didn’t elaborate, she sighed.
“Very well then,” she said, looking up at the patches of visible sky, gone purple and turquoise in the twilight. “It is getting dark. Your bondmates may follow through the air, but you will come with me.”
“I don’t make a habit of following nameless people to unknown locations,” Veronyka said, arms crossed.
The woman smiled at her stubborn stance and shook her head, yielding at last. “You win, impyr. My name is Alexiya—as you well know. Now come.” Then she disappeared into the shadow of the trees.
Veronyka hesitated, her victory marred with confusion. She frowned at Tristan. Impyr… she’d never heard that word before.
“It means ‘little fire,’ ” he explained, properly reading her expression. “It was part