The Ibim girl thinks quickly. She tears the sleeve from my shirt and loops it under my arm, tying it so tightly it pinches. I wince and hiss a breath through my teeth.

“Come on,” she snaps. She trudges through the woods. I watch her go for a moment, but then follow her.

“Where are you going?” I ask as I rush after her.

“To get my things,” she says. That’s all the information she gives me as she walks through the forest. My shoulder throbs with searing pain.

I’m starting to get dizzy when the Ibim girl comes across a dirt road. She turns onto it. She tosses her hat into the brush, letting her hair cascade down her back. It glows bright silver in the moonlight.

The barn she leads me to is decrepit, all bare, worn beams. The roof is mostly caved in, the building full of old hay and broken bits of roof tiles. She climbs a ladder to a hay loft, digging through the rubble to find something. She throws something down, and a pair of boots falls with a thump before me. A moment later, a bow and quiver of arrows falls to the grass.

When she drops back down, she rummages through a large leather satchel, pulling out a faded blue shirt and a pair of breeches. She wordlessly shucks off her cloak. Underneath, she wears the sheer dress of a prostitute from the pleasure houses by the docks.

I avert my gaze at the compact waist and small breasts that the dress barely hides. I remember I have a change of clothes in the satchel Zinat gave me, and hurry to get changed, turning away from the Ibim girl as she does the same.

When I’ve changed into the clean pants and pulled my boots back on, she has switched the sheer dress for the breeches and shirt. The boots are meant for riding, the leather soft as it curves around her calves. She doesn’t tuck the shirt into the waistband of the breeches. It hangs loosely over her frame, a little too big for her.

“Sit down,” she says sternly.

“What?” I remove the torn and bloodied shirt, carefully pulling it away from my injured shoulder. I use it to mop up some of the wet blood from my bare chest.

“Your shoulder needs to be cleaned and medicated,” she says. “Unless you want an infection, Your Highness.” She digs through her satchel for a small metal tin, a roll of bandages, and a water skin that she uses to wet the remainder of my old shirt.

I sit against one of the beams of the barn, and the Ibim girl kneels before me. She wipes at the ripped flesh with my shirt, clearing away the blood. My shoulder has slowed its bleeding exponentially, only barely leaking anymore. She wipes the blood up a second time, cleaning it thoroughly. She peers at the wound under the moonlight.

“What happened, anyway?” she asks.

I try to shrug and wince at the pain it brings. “Crossbow bolt, I think,” I say. “The guards at the gate must have spotted me and shot.”

“It tore right through,” she says. She opens the metal tin and scoops out some paste with her fingers. When she dabs it into the wound, a stinging pain jolts through my shoulder. I jump away from her touch with a yell.

“Ow, shit!” I cry. The Ibim girl rolls her eyes at me.

“It’s a healing salve, you child,” she snaps. She applies a generous amount and I grit my teeth against the sting of the stuff. Eventually, the sting fades, though my wound still pulses with pain. She wraps it in the bandage, tying it tightly. The salve squelches a little as it’s pressed into my wound. I groan through gritted teeth.

When she’s done, the Ibim girl stands, replacing the lid of the metal tin of salve and stuffing it back in her satchel. I grab the shirt Zinat packed me and pull it on, careful to not upset the wrappings on my shoulder. I shakily stand.

“What’s your name?” I ask the silver-haired girl before me.

She glances up at me, rolling up her cloak on the ground and securing it to her satchel. She doesn’t answer me. She only turns and starts walking away, leaving the jeweled sandals and flimsy dress behind in the grass. She buckles the straps of a leather bandolier across her chest.

“Wha-hey!” I call after her. I scoop up my own satchel and follow her.

“What are you following me for, prince?” she snaps over her shoulder.

“What do you think, Ibim?” I reply. “I’m going with you.”

“Like hell you are,” she says. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“If it’s away from Highcaster, I want to come,” I say. I shrug my good shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me your name but I’m coming along.” She stops and turns to glare at me. I keep walking, catching up to her.

“If I tell you my name will you leave me alone?” she asks.

“Not a chance,” I say. I give her a crooked smile as I pass her. “Come on, Ibim.”

I can practically hear her teeth grinding together in her rage. She glares at my back, and then stomps after me.

“It’s Owin,” she says shortly. I pause and she stalks past me. “Are you coming or not?”