The cave came into view after they pushed through a small northern stand of trees. Thankfully, once they finished the steep bit, the path to the cave wasn’t as bad as Elira had feared.

Stone clung to the walls; water beaded and fell from the lip of the mouth. Strange—though the cavern was big, dark, and a little eerie, Elira didn’t feel afraid.

Raka set her down carefully and eased her onto a broad rock by the wall. He took a stick from a neat stack, struck stones together, and coaxed a flame.

He knew every corner of this place. Anyone would think he owned the cave—and lived here.

Elira watched him pull a bottle from behind a stone and hand it to her.

“You must be thirsty,” Raka said. “Drink. I brought it from home.”

Elira frowned. Was that rock some kind of magic cupboard? Why did everything he needed come out of there?

When she didn’t move, Raka uncapped the bottle and pressed it into her hand.

“Does your ankle still hurt?” he asked, worry in his eyes, gaze fixed on the red swelling.

More than her ankle, Elira wanted to know what was happening. She squeezed the bottle. She didn’t even know where to start.

Instead of answering, Raka crouched and began to massage her ankle. He didn’t say anything, but his look said enough—he was very, very worried.

“Ack.”

Elira winced despite his care. Now that she was sitting, she finally felt how bad it hurt.

“Sorry.” He looked up, guilt softening his face.

Elira hated her own heart. Her head demanded answers; her chest fluttered at that wrecked expression. She should be angry, disappointed—she should hit him. Instead she sat still, helpless.

Raka looked back at her ankle, then tore the hem of his shirt with a rough tug and wrapped it around her.

Elira’s eyes widened. He didn’t even care that his clothes were now in tatters?

“At least until Elder Samara can check it,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

Elira pulled her ankle from his hands. “Tell me,” she said, keeping the shake out of her voice. “What were you doing in the forest? No—Kamura. I’m sure you went to Kamura. What have you been doing there?”

Raka let out a long breath. “Your father tasked me as a go-between for Ashira and Kamura. I was to make sure they did nothing today—on Festival night.”

“I heard someone saw a girl who looked like you enter Kamura, so I chased you into the trees.”

Elira’s stare sharpened. Her body trembled at the memory of the arrow that almost took her.

“Were those arrows Kamura’s?”

Instead of answering, Raka stood and pulled two arrows from behind the big stone.

He held one out where she could see, pointing to a tiny mark etched near the socket of the head.

“That bird symbol…” Elira’s voice caught. “I saw it in Kamura.”

Raka nodded. “Arumana. A phoenix-god they believe brings prosperity. But—” he set the first arrow down and lifted the other “—this is what struck near you.”

The second had no symbol. Its fletching was different too—short, stiff, the kind Ashira used.

“That one…” Elira swallowed. “Is it Ashira’s?”

Raka lowered both and set them on the ground. His attention came back to her face—drawn and frightened.

“Elira,” he murmured, “they might not have seen your face. They were ordered to guard the border—shoot anyone who crossed. They would never expect you there.”

“They’ve been there all this time? If I’d insisted on helping that child in the forest back then, would that child have died?”

Raka gripped her shoulders, trying to calm her. “No. I think Kael panicked and stationed men at the line for the Festival. I’ve gone in and out of Kamura without trouble for years. I know he sometimes tailed me, but he never acted.”

Hadn’t the elders agreed not to go overboard—and only guard the festival grounds? Why would Kael go that far?

“I don’t understand,” Elira burst out. “What are we so afraid of from Kamura? I saw it with my own eyes—never mind attacking, they can’t even care for themselves. ‘Fertile’? Aside from a few plots, it’s a wasteland. Everything my father told me was a lie. Ashira lives by squeezing Kamura dry!”

Raka flinched when she shook his hands off. She was furious.

“Why do they stay quiet? No—why is Ashira that cruel? They should have fought back and—”

“Elira,” Raka cut in before she ran further. “The Ashira-Kamura treaty has been there since the old times—since the founders. Kamura honors their ancestors. The pact was made with the founder’s blood.”

“What?” Her voice rose. “What pact? Weren’t we taught Ashira helped Kamura, and because Kamura was blessed and fertile, they agreed to help Ashira’s barren lands?”

Raka exhaled again and moved to sit beside her.

“History is rewritten by those who came before us,” he said. “Do you know who they feared? Kind children like you.” His mouth tipped with a bitter half-smile. “Children who demand fairness and try to fix things. Ashira can’t stand on its own without Kamura. The old stories even say Kamura is blessed soil—and Ashira, cursed.”

Elira turned to him fully, listening.

“The history of Ashira and Kamura began decades ago,” he said. “When kindness became calamity.”

The heat in the air seemed to ease—whether from his voice or a late breeze, she couldn’t tell. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

What she would hear next would only harden the truth taking shape inside her: from the beginning, her life had been wrapped in other people’s stories.

And for now, the walls listened.