The light shining through the carriage windows grew dimmer as the blanket of soft gray clouds overhead began to darken.

The first, fat, cold drop of rain splashed against Wynter’s sculpted white snow-wolf visor and hit him squarely in the eye, blinding him for a brief moment. A second drop quickly followed the first, then half a dozen more. Within minutes, a steady rain was falling. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Valik rode up alongside him. “That came up fast,” he said.

Wynter nodded, squinting at the horizon, barely visible through the falling rain. They hadn’t made as much progress as he would have liked. Irritability made him want to blame his bride for the delay, but he’d been the one to slow his army’s usual lightning pace in consideration of the wounded princess following behind him in the carriage. Just as he’d been the one to hold up the column for almost two hours while she’d slept. They’d only made fifteen miles today, considerably less than the forty he expected from an army of Wintermen. Vera Sola was still plainly visible on the southern horizon—or would have been except for the rain—and if he didn’t pick up the pace, it would be a month before they reached Wintercraig.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the carriage following a half mile down the long line of mounted knights and infantry. She had not complained about the journey. Even sick as she was—and he knew she was not traveling well—she’d not complained. She’d protested about the guards he’d assigned to watch over her and threatened to fry them if they followed her into the fields when she went to tend to her personal matters, but she’d not voiced so much as a whimper about her illness or their pace, nor placed demands on his men—which was a surprise. Even amongst his own folk, noblewomen were notorious gluttons for attention and indulgence.

“Send word down the line,” he said. “We’ll camp here for the night.”

Valik nodded and started to turn his horse around.

“And Valik? There are lamps in the carriage that are apparently supposed to help her back heal faster. Have them set them up in my tents. I’ll see to the men while you get her settled.” At Valik’s raised brows, Wynter added, “Your face is prettier than mine, or so I’m told. She may find it easier to do what you ask than what I command.”

“You’re forgetting she kicked me in my pretty face last time I asked her to do something she didn’t want to do.”

Wyn gave a grunt of laughter. “Better than kicking you in the balls.” Then he sobered. “And see to it she actually eats and drinks something.” She’d taken little nourishment all day, and though he’d allowed it, knowing anything she ate was likely to come back up once they started moving again, they were stopping for the night now, and she needed to eat. Her body needed sustenance to heal. “If she balks, tell her I’ll force it down her throat myself if I must.”

Valik shook his head. “I’ll let you tell her that.” He rubbed his jaw. “I want to be able to chew my dinner.”

At first, Khamsin thought the latest stop was just another pause to rest and water the horses. With Bella’s help, she straightened her clothing, donned her hooded cloak, and descended from the carriage, hoping to take at least a brief walk to stretch her own cramped legs. Rain was pelting down in gray sheets. Two soldiers stood beside the carriage door, holding up a canvas tarp to protect her from the rain. She waved them off, opening her own oilskin parasol instead. To her surprise, the long column of men in front of and behind the carriage were fanning out along the roadsides and beginning to pitch their tents.

“We’re stopping for the night?”

The White King’s steward stood waiting for her, still fully armored, but his eagle’s head visor had been pushed back to reveal his face. Of the Winter King, there was no sign.

“He’s gone to check on the men,” the steward said, guessing the reason for Khamsin’s searching gaze. He stood, unflinching, as the pouring rain sluiced down his golden brown cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue, but nowhere near as icy as the Winter King’s. “He does not rest until all the men and their horses have been seen to.”

Khamsin tried not to show her surprise. The image of a caring king, one who put his men’s needs before his own, didn’t mesh with the harsh, heartless monster most Summerlanders considered Wynter Atrialan to be.

“As his Steward of Troops, should you not be the one checking on the men?” she asked.

Valik smiled without warmth. “My king thought you might find mine a less frightening face. You should stay in the carriage until the tents are up. There’s no need to stand in the wet.”

“I like the rain. It’s cleansing. And why would whether I’m frightened or not make any difference?” she countered. “Fear changes nothing. My fate is the same either way.”

“It matters to the king.” He gave a short bow. There was a snap to his voice that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. “If you want to stand in the rain, suit yourself. Just stay out of the way of the men while they set up the encampment. Loke and Baroc here will guard your safety.” He nodded curtly at the two soldiers beside her.

Khamsin wanted to kick herself. Less than a full day into their journey, and she was already turning Wynter’s steward against her—not that he’d viewed her kindly to begin with. His jaw probably still hurt from meeting the hard edge of her boot.

“Sir,” she said. “Lord Valik.” She laid a hand on his arm and snatched it back when his spine went stiff as a pike. She bit her lip, shoved down her innate pride and her own desire to take offense at his flinch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only meant that I don’t need pampering. I prefer to face my fate head-on—even when it frightens me.”