Princess Tsiala shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Her gown, fine but torn, trailed dust and bits of broken twigs from her escape, and the soles of her slippers were worn through.

The village lay dark and still, though occasional light seeped through the cracks of shuttered windows. She took in the clustered houses with their slanted rooftops, the narrow, uneven street underfoot. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, and her stomach twisted with worry about how long this place would be safe. If her father’s city had fallen, how much hope could this small village have?

She felt for the small dagger she’d taken from the palace—hardly a weapon fit for a fight, but it was something. The Yananid forces would be searching for any trace of her; they wouldn’t rest until the last of the royal family was in chains. If the villagers knew who she was, would they help her, or would they sell her out to save their own lives?

Tsiala drew a slow breath, pushing down the growing dread that threatened to distract her. Focus, she reminded herself. She needed to blend in, find shelter for the night, and plan her next steps. The thought of appearing as some helpless princess irked her, and the lack of control gnawed at her pride. But right now, survival mattered more than appearances.

She took another step down the empty street, determined to keep moving until she found someone who could help, or, if necessary, somewhere to hide for the night.