Around mid-afternoon, we enter a belt of shimmering green trees—a dense forest brimming with abundant life. I can sense the dampness of the ground, the sap running liquid through the trees, the dew collected in the hollows of gnarled roots. Birdsong ripples intermittently from the foliage overhead. All of it delights me deeply. In spite of what happened with Owin, I smile. The Ash King turns around in his saddle at that moment and catches my expression. I wipe the smile from my face as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. He has already seen it, and he’s frowning, because he hates all
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