The afternoon was warm.
The dead zone carried the smell of pine resin and river mud. The path back to the hut was narrow and pressed between the trees. Raven walked it with his hands in his pockets and his mind half on the road and half on the First Queen's face — a face he had never seen but could already picture. Royal. Cold. The kind of woman who threw hot tea at pregnant maids and searched for stolen children while sitting on a throne made of other people's suffering.
He would enjoy the palace.
He reached the hut's door.
He raised his hand to push it open.
The door swung outward.
A body hit him in the chest.
It was small. Compact. A tight, firm body with a flat stomach and narrow hips and an ass that pressed directly against his crotch as the momentum carried her backward into him. She had come through the door fast — too fast — running from something inside or toward something outside. She hit his chest and the impact stopped her cold.
