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We’re a close-knit bunch, us outlaws.” He gave Adaryn a roguish smile, ignoring Aaric’s glower. The brigand woman holding the tray walked around the morning campfire and handed a mug to Aaric. He thanked her and took it, smiling at the tendrils of steam rising from the dark liquid. Breathing in the rich aroma, he pushed down the wave of disappointment he felt discovering it wasn’t coffee.
    Fyrsil noticed his expression and grinned. “They don’t have coffee on this side of the mountains. Can you believe it? Chocolate is almost as good though. Almost.”
    Aaric took a tentative sip. Fyrsil was right. It was quite delicious. Adaryn tried to gulp hers and choked in her haste to swallow when it burnt her tongue.
    “We stayed in the Tyrko Ruins for a while,” Fyrsil said, “but after being a king for over ten years, it didn’t have the sense of home it once held for me.”
    “So why not Harbor?” Aaric asked sipping his drink slowly. “Seems like that'd be closer than coming all the way over here.”
    He frowned at the twin withering looks both Fyrsil and Adaryn shot him. “What?”
    “Harbor is closed to magic users,” Adaryn explained. “I would have thought you knew that already.”
    Aaric shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”
    “I decided to take my chances and travel east,” Fyrsil said. “And if I learned anything about my father, so much the better. Though with things as grim as they are, it might’ve been better to stay in the Ruins.”
    Adaryn shook her head. “I don’t know how you can say that,” she protested, her arms going around Dahlia. “These people need us, Fyrsil. We could possibly be the only two magic users who aren’t with the Twyli.”
    Fyrsil grimaced. “I help the Denali—that is what the non-magic users are called here—” he interjected, “because we are paid handsomely to patrol the perimeter of their remaining stronghold and keep it safe. They’re desperate, and pay in gold.” He shrugged. “Whether they live or die is really no concern of mine. Gold holds value anywhere you go, you see. When I’m no longer needed here, I’ll move on.”
    “Why haven’t you gone to Twyarinoth,” Aaric asked, “if you despise our kind, so much?”
    “Because of what they do,” Fyrsil said irritably, as if explaining something obvious. “Even a hardened brigand such as me can’t stomach the way they warp the magic.” He grinned. “And I’ve slaughtered enough of them that I don’t suspect they’d be very welcoming toward me if they knew how many of their kind I’ve killed for gold.”
    “What do they do?” Aaric asked. Fyrsil and Adaryn exchanged looks. They must have already discussed this.
    “Let’s talk about that later,” Adaryn said firmly. She looked pointedly at the child.
    “Attack!” someone yelled. “We’re under attack!”
    “What in blazes?” Fyrsil stood, his expression incredulous. “It’s broad daylight!”
Several figures darted into the camp, slashing and hacking with long blades, some of magic and some of steel. They swarmed over Fyrsil’s men, shrieking war cries in a tongue that was unfamiliar.
    Aaric leapt to his feet and grabbed Dahlia, throwing her over his shoulder. “To our horses!” he bellowed at Adaryn. The nomad woman’s face had gone white, but without any hesitation ran to where Sorrel was tied at the pickets.
    Aaric followed, unsheathing his sword with his free hand. He needed to get his wife and Dahlia out of danger. Fyrsil had sprinted to meet the danger head-on, face contorted with fury, lightning crackling from his upraised hands.
    Something whistled past Aaric’s ear and fell on the ground. A dart of some sort; the liquid that coated it stained the snow a dark blue.
    Aaric set Dahlia down in the snow. “Run to mother,” he said before he could catch himself, and the toddler turned and struggled through the drifts toward Adaryn.
    Aaric turned to face whoever had thrown the dart and nearly got his head taken