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outcropping in the distance, and thunder rolled over a far away part of the island, but all else was silent. Marin, draped in a green cloak, glided silently over the uneven stones of a disused road, an ancient thoroughfare bordered by walls of eucalyptus .
    A damp breeze blew steadily; strips of bark hanging from the tree trunks waved and fluttered, and strands of Marin‘s hair escaped the cloak‘s hood. The careful movements and slow sweep of her gaze marked her as a hunter. Who else would be out here? She couldn‘t guess how far she was from her prey, but she knew she was closing in .
    As she passed the line of trees, a light rain moved in, hissing among the leaves. It wouldn‘t make travel any easier. The light under the trees grew darker at the edges of the road, and soon enough she would be creeping through shadows. Marin shivered and looked over her shoulder again at the horizon. The late-season storm showed a solid front, with no sky peeking through .
    But Marin was the last person to give up a chase, especially when she sensed that she‘d almost run her prey to ground. The rain pelted her. She pulled her wet cloak tighter and continued, firm, cautious, sweeping the landscape with her gaze .
    At one time, the road to Sannós had been well traveled. Now it lay abandoned, unpatrolled and dangerous. Few of the people who inhabited the untamed island of Aeíx dared to come this way anymore. Instead, they were leaving their homes and sailing for Inníl or Rades, letting ruffians and crueler things menace the island at will. In the woods—and even along the coast now—half-human ravagers sacked and plundered the once peaceful towns. These days, the crumbling road to Sannós saw only a few hunting parties, men and women clustered together in fear of being attacked by the things they sought to kill .
    Marin left the road soon after it had passed through the belt of eucalyptus, but kept it within sight as it led her over knolls of dense scrub down into weed-choked fields. The thing she pursued had left the road here for some reason, and she followed its faint track through the mud and tangled ground cover .
    Ruined stone walls lined this stretch of road, even more crumbling and overgrown than the cobblestones, mottled with countless years of lichen and moss. The straight lines and level roadbed reminded her of a canal cut through the fields by ancient engineers. But no one farmed here now. No one followed this road. Times were different, and the land looked tired and unwelcoming .
    The rain fell in hard, steady sheets .
    Marin pulled her cloak tighter. The green fabric was frayed with wear and splotched with dark stains, but it gave her some protection from the dismal weather. She‘d been through worse. The cloak was a familiar reminder, one that kept her pushing westward toward the vanishing suns .
    In her right hand she held a small bow of ash. A quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder within easy reach. From her belt hung a light sword that could be in her left hand at a moment‘s notice .
    The thunder grew louder as the heart of the storm drew nearer. Marin listened to the fading echo as it bounced off the dark forest wall just ahead of her. Another sound caught her ear, slowly rising. She paused and looked back, wondering why it had taken them so long to catch up with her. Just like the storm‘s low, ominous rumble, her pursuers also drew steadily nearer .
    She crept back through the brambles toward the road, dropping into a crouch behind some downed trees and the wall‘s tumbled stones. She drew her sword, gathered her cloak around her, and steadied her breathing. The hard splattering of rain against stone and decaying wood gradually transformed into the thudding of horses’ hooves. They were coming .
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    MARIN WAITED .
    As the horses approached her hiding place, she could make out riders in green cloaks. Wind tugged at those cloaks, revealing the glint of worn chain mail. Their mounts were fine and tall,