Alka's POV
The ground crunched under her feet, a melody of ash and gravel. Alka walked, her gaze fixed on the space between the shoulders of the soldier in front of her. Not a hint of hesitation, not a glance backward. Just the cold in her veins and the searing memory of the warm gemstone in her palm. The kind of choice you can't undo.
Now, she belonged to Pilaf's convoy. The red and gold banner snapped in the wind, tearing with each gust that swept through the dead forest. Those trees with black trunks, their branches twisted toward the sky like fingers imploring an absent god. She kept pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Invisible in the ranks.
But inside her, the new stigma pulsed.
A second heart, foreign, lodged just above her collarbone. A dull beat that rhythmned her thoughts, a murmur in the back of her skull, supple and sinuous, teaching her to listen to what others weren't saying.
She could feel their thoughts—not the words, but the outlines, the raw emotions.
