"I hate volcanoes," Tybalt whispered. "They're just angry mountains."
He wasn't wrong. The road to the Iron Hold was less of a road and more of a scar cut into the side of a black, smoking peak. The air grew hotter with every turn of the wagon wheels, smelling of sulfur and impending doom.
I sat next to Tybalt on the driver's bench, wearing a spare, flour-dusted apron I'd found in the back of his cart. I had rubbed soot on my face to hide my features, but honestly, nobody looks closely at the delivery guy.
"Just keep the reins steady, Ty," I said, keeping my voice low. "You've done this delivery a dozen times before. It's routine."
"It's usually routine," Tybalt hissed, his knuckles white on the leather straps. "But usually, I don't have the three most wanted criminals in the kingdom hiding in my flour barrels. If we hit a bump too hard, Kaelen is going to sneeze, and we're all going to die."
