As if spotting her, the Shadow Knight steers the horse away, putting her behind us. Something really weird is going on, but I'm not about to delve into it. I can't get the picture of people dying, or the defeated men, out of my head.

What makes everything so much harder to bear: the Shadow Knight is doing what's right in his own barbaric way. It's eye-opening, soul shattering, and absolutely necessary.

If I believe this place is real, I'll never stop crying. No matter how it feels or smells, or how real last night was with the Shadow Knight, I can't accept a reality so different from my own. It's so cruel.

"What say you, witch?"

"How can you hear me?" I mutter. It's sporadic, and judging by his expression last night, he's not even aware that he's occasionally overhearing one of my thoughts.

"Madwoman."

"I am not a madwoman."

Silence, followed by a terse, "You should not have heard that."

"Finally! So did I read that thought out of your mind the way you've been doing to me?"

"I possess no such power."

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He's so dismissive of the few things that make sense to me! With frustration and desire bubbling inside me, I've never wanted to slap or throw myself at anyone in my life, aside from Jason, who rightly deserves a punch. Would my family be happy I'd finally left the house? Am I grounded enough now?

The bitter thoughts weigh on me. Which is worse? Being dumped at the altar or ending up here?

After yesterday's battle, I'm almost thinking here is worse. I didn't think it possible.

I have to pull myself together. I've been floating around in shock, but it's my third day here and I'm no closer to finding out what to do about the countdown on my hand. It's hard for me to admit that the brutal, unrepentant Shadow Knight who wipes out entire armies might be the Hero of this story, and I'm no closer to getting home.

"Summons, sire," a man says, approaching on foot with a satchel. He has the head of a weasel.

The Shadow Knight pulls the horse to a halt and takes the bag. As I watch, he reaches in and pulls out a fat yellow bird.

"I've seen one like that!" I exclaim.

"Messenger bird." The Shadow Knight sets it on his hand and holds it open for me to see. I can't reconcile the Shadow Knight who kills men with his bare hands and the man who can hold such a small, delicate creature. The bird is tiny, further dwarfed by the size of the knight's hand. He makes everything he does appear effortless, no matter what level of strength the task calls for.




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