Two figures in black cloaks—apparently tonight’s disguise of choice—walk under the protection of the tree. The smaller one leans back against the lowest limb, removing her hood to reveal a half-shaved head of pink hair I know all too well. Imogen, the squadmate who nearly ripped off my arm ten days ago. My stomach tightens, then knots as the second rider slips off his own hood. Xaden Riorson. Oh shit.
