Rowan's fingers were frozen into stiff claws by the time dawnlight crept onto the barren heath. The unrelenting gusts had wrenched tears from her eyes which had then frozen on her cheeks.

She'd buried her head in Thrax's mane to keep warm and shut her eyes against the gouging winds. Riding bareback on a sprinting warg in the dark was not a recipe for sleep. And when the shushing and hissing of the winding Jorg had disappeared, the river veering off somewhere in the darkness, the night sounds had become more ominous. The constant warg chatter even more so, their paws like rolling thunder.

She couldn't feel her legs. She was numb except for her stomach lurching and rumbling with gnawing hunger.

"We're here!" The sound of Meera's shout stirred Rowan from her exhaustion.

She blinked sore eyes and lifted her head as Thrax slowed his gait to a trot. Up ahead, Carthyrk was emerging from the mist. She hadn't known what to expect of a warg village—perhaps clusters of crude little huts made of sticks and mud? Certainly, this was nothing like the great wen of Wrais (not that she'd ever been to Wrais), but Carthyrk was hardly a den of mud and sticks either.

It was a sturdy village, each house built high upon thick posts. A village in the sky! The timber longhouses were borne atop giant logs with spiraling steps. The roofs were covered in bright green sod and cheerful heath flowers. Every house had a surrounding porch, and every porch was connected on all sides to a neighboring porch by sturdy little bridges. Every house, therefore, supported another. It was...well, it was charming. It was an unexpected and peaceful scene. Beautiful, too.

Black Bridge Castle was a cold, rocky fastness of stone and iron compared to this warm greenscape of longhouses in the sky, big as forts. The sprays of bog flowers on the roofs were almost hilarious—so at odds with the terrifying warg reputation. And all the children running around like cubs, some on all fours, made the scene so...domestic.

"It's magnificent," said Meera, drawing Rowan's gaze. The girl sat astride Thresh as though she was born to ride wargs.

She wanted to tell Meera to close her mouth. Those admiring looks were like to fetch her bog bugs in her teeth. This was a temporary stop for Rowan and therefore Meera, too. Better that they kept aloof.

Meera glanced down as Thresh sagged into the grass. He waited until she had both feet planted on the ground, backing away, before he was rolling around in the grass with grunts of pleasure.

Rowan was so bemused by the sight of him acting so un-terrifying that it took her a second to realize Thrax was lowering himself into the long grass, too. She was only too happy to escape him.

Sweet merciful Maeda, it was good to be on her own two feet again. She retreated, her face tight with pain. Feeling was slowly returning to her battered rump and stiff legs, it was awful. Rowan shot Thrax a withering look, not that he noticed, though. The beast was luxuriating in the long grasses just as the other wargs were doing. The ritual continued as Rowan hobbled about trying to get blood back into her limbs.

When the wargs began to shift back to their human forms, Rowan stared at the ground. A shudder ripped through her as his bones snapped and popped—bones and skin rearranging.

Rowan was staring at her boots with a grimace when a pair of feet appeared in her periphery. They were large feet. Male feet. She knew who they belonged to—the humming in her blood grew louder every time Thrax drew too close. An animal magnetism that stirred her skin with goosebumps.

"Are you fully clothed yet?" she asked him without looking up.

He gave a snort and hooked his forefinger below her chin, lifting her face to his. She had to crane her neck quite a far way back to meet those tawny eyes. "Best get used to warg cocks, min skani. Clothes are only an afterthought to a warg."

Her cheeks were hot with embarrassment, but she was grateful he'd taken pity on her and donned the trews he'd brought back from West Gate. The same could not be said of the other wargs. Her eyes widened when Barthac strutted past in nothing but his proud flesh. Tanners and taylors made fair takings in this village, she decided. No one seemed able to keep track of their raiments.

Thrax released her and, with a peremptory nod, bade her follow him towards the village of stilts. A crowd had gathered to watch the newcomers and greet the returning wargs. Barthac was even now lifting a beautiful warga into his arms. The female gave a shriek of delight which was silenced by a long kiss—clearly warg folk had no compunctions about public acts of intimacy. Warglings ran about with wild abandon, but the older children were, like most of the adults, staring at herself and Meera.

She tried to ignore all the yellow eyes boring into her from all directions. Wargs in one form or another all watching their wargrex and the human beside him. She felt so small among them.

Rowan sucked in her breath when Thrax's hand suddenly came to rest at her lower back. Casual yet possessive. She stiffened, the weight of his hand like a hot brand even through her thick wool coat and layers of clothing.

To distract herself from his touch, her eyes roamed about the village. Each longhouse was accessible by winding wooden steps. There were narrow rope-and-timber sky bridges spanning the small gaps between neighboring longhouses. Everyone was connected and everything close-knit.

Rowan studied the strange village floating above the heathland. The low cloud lay thick against the sod roofs and the mist scudding along the ground gave the effect that they were walking among the clouds through a village in the sky. It was otherworldly. But then so were the denizens themselves.

A sharp chill hovered over the vastness of ling and gorse. An indication they were likely at a higher elevation. Other than that useless fact, she knew nothing else about where she was, or how to get home. Good thing she'd left herself a trail of Mantor eyes.

Little moonglow stones that would light her way home in a fortnight. At the full moon. Meera was no longer carrying the leather bag. Which meant she'd released the mantor eyes, one by one. In the waiting vastness, they were spread like cairns, ready to lead the girls home. They had only to wait for a full, mistless moon when the stones would be brightest.

The problem was, Rowan hadn't counted on being horseless. There were no stables here that she could see—not a single horse in sight. But at least they had a nixrath ring between them. Her father's ring was her talisman. It would protect her. She had to believe that!

Perhaps Merritt would ride to her rescue before then. Either way, there was hope. There was always hope, even if she had to enkindle it herself. Nixrath was the most important thing, and she had that at least.

Rowan peeked up at Thrax, her skin flushing. Too bad she hadn't had time to commission a chastity belt forged of nixrath. The thought made her lips twitch. Her smile died as Thrax turned to look at her. Gods, she was glad he couldn't read minds. His gaze was so keen that it heated her face with guilt.

"Um," she said, licking her lips, "why is Carthyrk built above ground?" She didn't have to pretend interest, she really was curious.

His mouth flattened as though she'd asked a stupid question. "How is it you know so little of the outland beyond your iron walls? I thought you'd be better educated. The High Lady speaks wargish, so I assumed you would be taught the language also."

The question came at her like a sharp rap to the knuckles. She twisted her thumb ring and looked away. "I suppose my mother assumed my nurses and tutors would see to my education."

"She took no active part in your upbringing?"

Rowan's face tightened. "No."

"I am told ladies do not even nurse their young. Is this true? Or did Elgret nurse you?"

Her eyes flew up to his, her mouth falling open.

His brows clenched. "What's wrong?"

"You cannot ask me that!"

"I just did." His lips folded into a frown. "And you just answered."

She bit her lip. "She's a very busy woman, you must understand the pressures—"

"I understand pressures all too well," he retorted. "But I don't condone neglect. Wargs do not suffer their young to be pampered in ignorance or shielded from the dangers of the outland. That sort of coddling breeds weakness, idleness, and ignorance."

Heat rushed into her ears. Was he implying she was any of those things? All of those things?

"Why were you given no responsibilities, lady? Why has you mother not named you her heir?"

Too many why's! She had a mind to ask him why he'd suddenly assumed the role of village troll. "What has this to do with building your houses in the sky?"

But he was relentless. "Have you no talents to speak of?"

"Milady reads poetry," said Meera, coming to her defense. "And she plays the harp very well."

Rowan stared at Meera, her heart shrinking. She was the worst harp player and Meera knew it. Was she really so useless and talentless that even Meera had to make nonsense up?

"How fortunate," said Thrax, glaring at Meera. "She can bore my enemies to death with sonnets and music." Thrax made a rude sound and lengthened his strides, forcing them to jog or fall behind.

"What enemies?" Rowan stomped along behind him. "I didn't know the wargs had any?" Didn't they have some symbiotic wolfy oneness with the outland?

"Some wargs consider humans the enemy."

She gulped so loud he turned to glare at her. "If we're enemies...then why do you...want me?"

His grunt curled in the air like a cloud of nixrath. "I said some wargs. Those in the far north. Not I. Your enemies are now mine, Lady."

Rowan stumbled, nearly eating dirt. "You...you mean the Vishwa?" she whispered.

"Yes, the vishwa," he said, not bothering to look back at her. "But there are many nightmares stalking the outland." He gestured up to the houses above them. "A wily warg builds his bed where the nightmares won't disturb his sleep."

Her eyes tracked up over the houses, an ache in the back of her throat. There were more longhouses further away in the mist, too. Ones much lower and far larger, seeming to float atop a vast glassy lake. Eerie and beautiful. "I don't understand."

"I'm not surprised," he said matter of factly.

"Excuse me?"

"You've lived your whole life surrounded and protected by black, sinking mud where no Vishwa may burrow or build their pit traps." He bore down on her with a hard look. "You asked why we build our hearths so far above ground? For the same reason you humans dwell behind your iron wall. Survival."

Her lips pressed together. "What about those houses." She pointed to the ones over the lake, her chest puffing out. "Those aren't high above ground."

"No, but they're guarded by the mirok. And nothing gets past the mirok." With that he marched off leaving her to follow in his wake.

What in Hekki's name was a bloody mirok! Dread prickled over her nape as she hurried after him. Golrags, vishwa, and now miroks. The list of monsters was growing, and her courage shrinking.