They bound my wrists so tightly that the rope burns against my skin with every step. The air reeks of smoke, our homes, our prayers, our songs reduced to ashes behind us. I do not look back. To turn my head would be to let the grief swallow me whole.

Beside me walks another prisoner. His hair is long, dark like the raven’s wing, and his eyes are fierce though his body is weary. He is not of my people, I can tell by the way the paint has dried on his face, by the shape of the beads woven into his necklace. Yet in this moment, when the soldiers bark orders and shove us forward, he feels closer than kin.

I steal a glance at him. He does not bow his head. He carries himself as if the chains were no heavier than water, as if his spirit could never be broken. Something in me stirs, a memory of freedom, of wild rivers and unbroken horses. My lips part, but no words come. They would only betray how frightened I am.

Still, I whisper low, hoping the guards will not hear: “Do you know their tongue? Do you know if they mean to kill us?”