Blood and sweat trickled down his cheek as the summer sun pounded on him like a hammer on a battered anvil. Despite the youth of the morning, the heat was already relentless.

The cut above his left eye stung as the throbbing headache that had slowly crept in seized full control over him. His vision grew foggy. He blinked until the twists and the turns of the dusty road cleared up, and he regained the feeling of the reins between his fingers.

'Sundale - 20 miles' read the top part of the sign. Vines covered the rest.

While the mare galloped on, the pain remained.

Somewhere between the blurry vegetation and the thick canopies, Regal Sun Wood offered a shortcut, or perhaps two. He wasn't sure. If it weren't for the stench of the dying man slumped against his arms, he would risk entering the woods to find a path. Not now, not when he couldn't think properly.

Fox ground his teeth as his muscles groaned under the weight of Half-Ear's limp body against his chest. Shoving the King into the dried-up ditch would bring relief but wasn't a solution. He didn't care how close Half-Ear's soul was to sinking into the Seven Hells. As long as King Thomas' lungs drew air as they reached the gilded gates, the man would be his key to entering Sunstone Castle. Without him, the guards would question and thank him for his loyalty to the kingdom, and that would be it. Tossed back into the street before he could behold the walls of marble and the floors of obsidian.

He had come too far to let that happen.

Cobblestones replaced the sand, clearing up the dust. Through the trees appeared a stone wall with iron spikes on top. He draped his cloak around the King, high enough to shield the signature scar on the man's ear, then kicked the mare's side. A group of two-storey houses came into view.

A black iron archway welcomed him to Eastpond, the home of old Lady Victoria who, after her husband's death, spent more time in the capital than in the town her oldest son governed. The name of the Lord slipped Fox's mind, but Hawk had warned him about these notorious quibblers who often caused the Greenlander royal family more worry than their worth in taxes.

Fox failed to see the disadvantage. If Seb ever decided to leave the safety of the Scorian desert to challenge him, he would think twice before settling down in Regal Sun Wood, so close to Eastpond. And if his oafish half-brother ever made that mistake, Fox was sure to use the old bag to pressure the Lord into fighting that battle for him.

For now, the villagers were either still asleep or enjoying their breakfast. Smoke came from the houses, but there was hardly anyone on the road. The few that happened to be there jumped aside as he thundered through, calling him names and cursing his bones.

A patrol of soldiers that had gathered on the patch of grass by a wrought-iron well that resembled a bird's cage looked up as he galloped past them. Fox shielded Half-Ear's face as he pulled the cloak over the man's eyes. The last thing he needed was a group of soldiers setting the chase, or worse, taking the wounded King from him.

"My uncle is badly wounded," he said to them in a panicky voice that came naturally to him. "I need to get to Sundale, fast!"

"Easy, just follow the river upstream, lad. Straight ahead," shouted one.

"May Charity guide you," shouted another.

He nodded a bow. Not that he needed the Goddess—their gullibility was enough. They saw in him yet another insignificant, small-town lad rushing to the capital for a medical urgency the local Healer had no remedy for. If anyone questioned him later, he had told no lies. By the time the Sundalers and Eastponders had figured out what that meant, Half-Ear would be history, and they would be the ones bowing to him.

The mare's hooves slipped on the stones, forcing Fox to focus. Behind the copses of cherry trees came the peaceful murmuring of water. 

The river Faith.

He tightened his grip on the reins as his heart hammered through his chest. The stream was much wider than it had been six summers ago and a hundred miles more north-west. But it was the same greenish-blue river that had defined Laneby as much as Farmer John's mill or the blacksmith's workshop had. Or the barn, in which shade he and Seb had wrestled and played.

He quenched the sudden queasiness in his stomach by glancing at the sky, finding the sun a better compass than the river's calm surface, then beckoned the mare to take a sharp turn to the eastern road. Last time he had stood in the stream, he had been a scaredy-cat, afraid of everything and everyone, manipulated and bullied. His friends hadn't been true friends. His father hadn't been his father. His life a lie.

Then the Gods had sent Katla, and Silvermark had helped him open his eyes. He was a different man now.

The sun climbed higher and higher as the road heaved up and down, crossing the river over high bridges and under one underground cave. The mile marks followed swiftly, though often but a simple pole in the ground with a number painted on in white paint.

Fox moaned more than he breathed as his stomach ached as much as his head. He half-regretted not eating, but he was sure that if he had, the aftermath of the battle against the King's men would have had him retch up his breakfast.

Around the ten-mile mark, he found small merchant ships padding against the stream. Carriages and carts appeared on a second road that had popped up on the other bank, a road he hadn't seen on the map in King Storm's war room. His shoulders tensed. There were more people than he had counted on.

A bridge later—now seven-and-half miles from the capital, they joined the same path he was on. Trees had grown scarce, and with them, the little shade they had provided.

Fox swerved around the merchants with relative ease, thanks to the heat turning them in slow-moving and inattentive creatures. More worrying was the mare's panting and decreasing pace. Sure, the week-long stop in Northmore had been a welcome gift for the old animal but carrying two adults for hours on end was not. He didn't want to push her to a limit she wouldn't recover from or, worse, collapse before they reached Sundale. There was no way he would be able to carry Half-Ear for more than a few dozen yards.

He cantered past a merchant setting up his stall in the river's bend. The distinctive smell of fresh fish made his mouth water, and his stomach rumble. Despite the blasted nauseating headache, his body craved food. 

Five more miles before he would be able to break fast, lunch, and dine like a King. Like the King. He would eat fish that mere minutes before they hit the frying pan were still swimming without a care in the world. There would be lobster from the Port of Diligence, oysters from Lestcove, and shrimp from... it could come from anywhere—he wasn't picky. 

Except, marmalade. Given the opportunity, he would bathe in marmalade; it had been years since he had last tasted the sweet delicacy.

Stalls like the fisherman's popped up more frequently the closer he got to the capital. There wasn't any sign of war. Sundale had become so prosperous that people sold their wares wherever they found a spot. They didn't need to enter the city and pay the fee King Thomas asked the traders. Enough houses had been built outside the walls that there were enough eager buyers to receive gold from. 

Had the phenomenon grown out of Half-Ear's desire to expand the city or his failure to put an end to this clever tax evasion? Fox couldn't tell. What would he do?

Fox shook the thought from his mind. He would worry about that when he was less sweaty, less stinky, and didn't have his arm crushed by the dead weight that was King Thomas. The occasional stirring and murmuring assured him the man was, in fact, still alive.

The mare snorted grunts as her gait reduced to a clumsy limp. Lazily though insistently, sweaty men and women looked up from the wares they were inspecting, shaking their head or muttering that he was torturing his ride, judging him without realising who he was and who he was carrying.

"I need to get to Sundale," Fox mumbled. "Fast!" he added more loudly.

A couple of arms pointed east; then they returned to their business.

The urge to lash out and burn these rude Puddingbrains to a crisp was strong. Before doing something that would ruin the plan, Fox averted his gaze, pushing both himself and the mare to their limits. He was nearly there—he had to arrive in the city with a sense of urgency as a noble Greenlander wanting to save his King.

The meandering river took four more turns.

Then, as if out of nowhere, the white towers of Sunstone Castle sprouted up in the distance, glistening in the morning light. The castle was a marble giant overlooking the fields and lower parts of the city from the hundreds of minuscule eye-like windows. The gilded gates shimmered like buckets full of the purest marmalade.

Fox grinned, and instantly, his veins tingled with magic.

Gods, not now! He had to repress his powers, for his own sake. 

Katla's shrivelled, rolled-back eyes flashed before him as he exhaled a deep breath, allowing the magic to flow out of his body as air. Sundale had been the place where his master had been murdered. Beneath the glimmer and the fake-gold laid a city of Sin, where Sundalers and Greenlanders from far and wide gathered to behold the mutilation of magicians, where they stood on their toes, applauding and cheering, as his kind suffered until a final arrow granted them the relief of death.

Sundale was a city of tears, and he would be its saviour. No magician would ever have to suffer again.

The mare wobbled. Half-Ear's weight fell to one arm, so Fox pushed and groaned to keep from losing balance. Falling now would be fatal.

"I know you're tired," he whispered to the mare. He brushed the back of his foot against her side—it was all the appreciation he could show. "We're nearly there. The stable of Sundale is waiting for you—you'll be treated like a Greendaler Queen."

She stopped altogether, heaving.

Between him and the nearest gate laid an avenue of moss-coloured roofed stalls and docked ships from which merchants were hauling grates and crossing the street. An ant's nest had more structure than the people ambling up and down with their pouches full of gold.

There was a sign that riders had to get off their horse, but decided to ignore it. His theatrics had to look real. No person wishing to help His Royal Majesty would abide by the law.

"One last sprint," he said to the horse. "A final gallop, then you'll have all the hay you ever dreamt off. The prize will be worth it—that's a promise." And he always kept his promises.

Even though she snorted in reply, Fox felt her muscles relaxing.

One flick of the rein and she flew across the cobblestones as though she was racing towards a wide-open meadow. Fox steered her between the masses as he shouted. "Make way! The King is hurt! Emergency—inform the guards—it's the King!"

The clattering of the horse's hooves held enough urgency that merchants and customers alike lurched to the side. Parents yanked their children off the street. Crates fell down. Chickens and other poultry flapped their wings as behind him resounded a chain of dumbfounded people whispering to each other.

One man, who hadn't moved to the side, ducked in a last attempt to not get crushed.

The mare leapt over him.

Fox neither had the time nor the energy to stand in the saddle. He pressed Half-Ear's body against his chest as the hooves crashed to the ground. Gods in the Seven Hells—that hurt!

"I have the King," he repeated, out of breath as a small group, perhaps six or seven, soldiers in green dashed towards him.

He galloped past the first two men shouting, "Inside, take him inside!"

"Accident or attack?" the man with two golden sycamore leaves yelled at him.

"Attack," Fox answered. "In Northmore. The King... he's hurt... I couldn't save the others."

The man stopped, not asking any other questions. Within moments, a horn blasted a short note followed by two longer notes and a series of short ones. Then he repeated the sequence. 

From inside the city came an echo, and then another. Each softer than the one before.

Fox passed the next two men leading him towards the gate, as though the tower above it wasn't clear enough. A group of three others saw him and darted back inside, yelling at the bystanders to get out of the way. 

Though the mare's ears were flat, Fox kicked her in the side.

She didn't accelerate. He felt her slipping away, her legs too tired to carry them. Too long without food, without water, in temperatures too hot for a Silvermarker. A healthy horse frothed at the mouth, but not her.

She wasn't going to make it.

Fox kicked her again. A little closer, a little further. The city was within reach. The steps of Sunstone Castle less than half a mile away. They were nearly there, and then he would be the hero who had done everything he could, even sacrifice his own horse.

As the song of alarm spread across the city and soldiers gathered to clear the streets, Fox thundered through the gate. The Sundalers clasped their hand to their mouth, but all he heard was the grunting of the mare.

Her life ended in a hiccup. As she collapsed beneath him, he let go of the reins and clamped Half-Ear tight to him. He was flung into the air.

He hit the ground hard, Half-Ear landing on his arm before rolling away from him. The impact knocked his breath out of him. He laid there as a sea of green overwhelmed the King, stunned and devoid of all emotions.

The mare's tongue hung out of her mouth. She wasn't going to scramble to her feet anymore. No more prancing. No more neighing.

And for no reason. He had failed. The guards would bring Half-Ear to the castle, where Healers would attempt to tend his wounds. A good three hundred yards between him and a perfectly executed plan. He would have brought the King to his doorstep where he too collapsed before they could question him further.

A uniformed man with an overgrown braid dangling on his shoulder towered above him. Three sycamore leaves flaunted his collar. A Lieutenant.

"Are you hurt?" He stretched out his hand.

Fox hesitated before taking the hand. He moaned, more real than an act. "I ache."

"You went beyond the line of duty," he said calmly. "His Majesty is in safe hands now. In the name of the royal family, I thank you for your services to this country."

Blablabla. The castle—that was where he had to get to. "There was an attack, in Northmore. I saw everything happening. His Majesty, he was still alive. The others I couldn't save."

While the Lieutenant couldn't hide the prominent worry lines on his face, he said nothing. His eyes were already fixated on Half-Ear.

Fox rubbed his sore muscles. Like the wound on his head, his wrist was bloody and scratched. He had trouble moving his fingers.

As two men arrived with a giant basket, more and more people gathered in the street, in front of the three-storey brick houses with flowers hanging over the balconies. Fox caught a glimpse of the giant sundial on the market square. Most of the iron construction was blocked by a variety of stalls. There was so much wealth, so much splendour. So much temptation from the God of Greed, and he wanted it all.

He crouched down by the mare, stroking her rough manes. "What do I do with her?" he asked to nobody in particular. 

Even then, he got no answer. The guards were all too busy gaping at the scene as Lieutenant with the braid shouted instructions on how to move and transport Half-Ear. Though he felt Wrath bubbling inside of him, he kept the God of Sin at bay. Rage would reveal his powers. He was a normal lad, from Northmore... no, Doe Hill, who had happened to be at the right place at the right time.

A man with long strawberry blonde hair arrived at the scene as the two soldiers carried Half-Ear in the basket, away from him. He exchanged a few words with Lieutenant Braid and another Lieutenant. Then he approached Fox.

The four golden leaves on his collar confirmed his identity. Captain Stephen, head of the Sundale army. With Half-Ear and General Limp out of the way, this man controlled the capital, and by extension, the rest of the country.

"I'm sorry about your horse," he said. He made it sound sincere.

"She was old. I pushed her to get here as fast as she could." Fox patted her. He averted his gaze, as he guessed most sixteen-year-olds would when facing a high-positioned Greendaler officer.

"Nonetheless, you will be compensated for the bravery and the valour you showed today."

He was counting on that.

"What's your name, young man?"

"Harry," Fox said. "Harry, son of Harry—I was named after my father."

"Harry, I have many questions for you. I'll have one of my men bring your horse to the stable, where our Stablemaster will keep her until you have decided what to do with her remains."

"Burn her," Fox said. He didn't have to think about that.

"Very well. I propose we continue our conversation in my office, away from prying eyes and ears. We don't want to cause an even bigger panic. The war is something that happens at our borders, not in Sundale." The man winked.

Fox swallowed a smile. "I understand." He then turned his head towards the castle—from where he was sitting, the building seemed to reach the sky. He didn't want to go to the Captain's office; it was on the other side of the city, away from his goal.

He had one last trick up his sleeve. He stood up clumsily and wobbled. Touching his head, he moaned and groaned.

"I don't feel so well."

Then he sank to his knees, face first, so they couldn't see him grinning as the Captain shouted for a Healer.