It snows steadily, sky dropping wet, slushy flakes that melt and drench us as soon as they hit our clothes. I'd rather have rain. At least that wouldn't have an icy bite as it struck our skin, like the stings of tiny vindictive insects.

I'm not the only one who's miserable. Between the narrow pass walls, women and children trudge through the mud, their frowns bundled beneath an assortment of fur scraps, woven blankets, and colorful rags. It doesn't matter, though; it's barely noon, and the snow has already soaked through their hodge-podge defenses. Ahead, the men seem fine, most of them riding, all of them in sturdy shoes and heavy fur coats.

I turn to Sean to see if he's noticed the disparity, but his gaze is on a metal trinket he's pulled from his pocket. He turns a knob on the side, frowns, and continues fiddling with it. I shake my head, deciding not to bother him. He'd probably just say something like, "I already told you it'd be like that," and that would be the end of the conversation.

As we walk, the wall to my right drops away, and I gasp. Every single stinging snowflake suddenly becomes worth this view. Far below, a thick forest sprawls, dusted with white flakes and kissed by silver ice. In the open sky, the snow spins and twirls like airy dancers in practiced concert. It's ancient and magical, something straight out of a storybook illustration.

From behind, someone taps my elbow. I shake back to reality and realize the group ahead has moved on while I was standing entranced. I glance back, looking for whoever wanted my attention. A little girl, no older than seven, stands there, scraps of cloth serving as her poor excuse for a coat. Her tangled blonde curls frame an angular face, a streak of dirt swiping her forehead.

I kneel in front of her, nearly blocking the narrow path. Stones scrape against the ground where people begin to shift impatiently, but surprisingly, no one moves to prod the girl forward or take her hand and pull her along. I glance at the jagged line of people, but no attentive eyes claim her. Rather, each woman's irritated stance and disinterested attitude say that the girl is someone else's problem.

My gaze flicks back to her, and she stands there wide-eyed. She probably tapped me as a cautious reminder to keep moving, not out of any expectation of attention. No. I doubt she gets much of that.

"Where are your parents, sweetie?" I have a feeling I already know the answer, but the question passes my lips anyway.

Her head tilts, not understanding, and I suddenly remember that no one here speaks my language.

In the waiting crowd, someone calls out impatiently. I cast a look over my shoulder and see the rest of the group getting farther and farther away. About thirty feet from us, Sean's finally realized I stopped and has turned around to catch back up with me.

As I return my focus on the girl, I realize that people have started trickling through the five-foot gap between me and the precipice. The girl fidgets nervously, but her curious eyes remain on me, probably wondering why I'm still here. I shrug my jacket off, trying to hurry so that we don't get any further behind. Her already wide eyes turn into miniature moons as I press the fabric into her hand.

"Keep it," I encourage, even though she can't understand.

She chatters at me in reply, but a sudden clatter to our side pulls our attention away. A wagon teeters on the cliff; the front left wheel hovers in the air, its diagonal counterpart hanging off, the other two grabbing for purchase. Some impatient driver must have tried to make it past me and the girl. Now that woman scrambles up. She reaches the edge of her seat, tilting the balance of the cart. Its front wheel slams onto the ground.

Her foot mid-step down, horrific realization hits me. I vault up. "Stop!"

But the woman can't understand my words, and if anything, the urgency in my voice only propels her.

She jumps onto solid ground.

Groaning, the back of the cart slips. The mule pulling it brays, a panicked, grating sound. With the animal still bridled, the doomed vehicle drags the creature toward the cliff, no matter how wildly he strains against the weight.

I surge forward, my cold fingers desperately scrabbling against the knots chaining the animal to the wagon. The cart lurches, and I'm jerked forward. I stumble into the mule, and the hysterical creature brays again, swinging his snout. He swipes my shoulder, knocking me to the stone.

A crack resounds as part of the cliff crumbles underneath the back-left wheel. Pops echo as wood splinters, and the ledge breaks away. The mule's calls are hurried and haunting as he shakes his head, mouth frothing, hooves slipping against the gravel.

Everyone watches, frozen and shocked, as the poor animal and a whole cart of supplies simply slip over the edge.

Shakily, I clamber to my feet. The mule's cries carry as he falls, and the eerie notion that he's already dead infects my imagination. I sense Sean come stand next to me more than see him. Everyone's still focused on the spot of the disaster, as though if we all stare long enough, everything will reappear. The incident feels unreal, too quick in life and yet strangely stretched out in memory.

I'm not sure how long we stand there, snowflakes piling in our hair and dusting our skin. All the sudden, though, hoofbeats break our vigil, and the Ufir swings off his horse. He doesn't even wait till his feet are on the ground to start yelling for an explanation.

Slowly, fingers begin pointing at me, quiet, condemning things that tremble from cold and fear. No one dares speak up but simply slides all the blame onto my account with a silent gesture.

From the corner of my eye, I notice a leather jacket ghost into the crowd, avoiding the trouble. The wagon driver is also conveniently invisible.

I square my shoulders, ready to face whatever's coming. It's not as if I can argue my case, and even if I could, what good would it do? As if anyone would ever believe the foreign girl over their own people.

The Ufir comes forward quickly, and I hold my ground. But it's not me he strikes.

It's Sean.

He stumbles, shocked. As he straightens, the Ufir shouts at him, his gestures large, wild, and angry. For the first time since we ran across the Traders, I'm glad I don't truly understand their language.

Sean stands there, eyes ablaze. However, as the Ufir continues his torrent of abuse, the fire begins to dwindle, then withers away completely, leaving only dead embers and ashes. His previously clenched fingers become a group of nervous drummers tapping a distracted tattoo.

He's not going to stand up for himself, I realize.

Without thinking, I move in front of Sean, shoving the Ufir's chest with the flat of my hands. "He didn't have anything to do with this!"

He swats me away. His casual blow is powerful, and I stagger into the mountain wall as he continues yelling at Sean. I swipe the dirt from my face and turn. With quick, determined steps, I advance to slap the Ufir across the cheek, the same way he did Sean.

He stops mid-sentence and stares at me, as if incredulous I had the audacity to attack him not once, but twice.

I stand tall under his gaze. "I said, he had nothing to do with it."

He might not be able to translate my words, but tone is a language even a savage like him can understand. His arm snaps out, and he grabs my face with one massive hand. He drags me toward him, pulling me close enough to feel his hot breath across my cheeks. Jaw clenched, he studies my features and finds nothing but defiance and disdain. Despite that, a dark hunger lights in his eyes. Sickened and unsettled, I try to jerk away, but his grip is iron.

My brain searches my memories, looking for one of the few words I know in this brute's language. After a long moment, my tongue spits the answer. "Pig."

He stares at me. Then, unexpectedly, he pushes me away and throws his head back, laughter roaring out of him. After a second, he recovers, still chuckling slightly. He swings onto his horse and wheels it around. Tossing some command over his shoulder, he rides off to join the other half of the group. His horse disappears around a bend.

The greasy imprint of his fingers lingers on my cheeks.

Sean's still standing in the middle of the path, fingers jittering at his side. His chest falls in irregular patterns as white plumes tint the air from his mouth. His eyes are cold, glassy coal now, seeming to focus on some distant reality.

I set a hand on his shoulder. "Sean?" Around us, people are starting to move again, and I've already learned my mistake. "Hey, Sean. Sean, we need to go."

No response.

"Okay, you're not talking to me. That's fine. Let's just get going then, alright?" I glance around, but no one's really paying any attention to us, and we're losing time. "Alright." I start walking, guiding Sean by his elbow. Thankfully, he follows me.

We never stop for lunch that day. I have a feeling they normally do based on the grumbling of the group around me. I wonder if it's because of the lost cart or the wasted time or something else entirely. I would ask, but even if I could remember the words to, I wouldn't understand the response. Besides, by the generous bubble of space around me, I'm fairly sure I've become the latest social pariah. No one's going to chance their leader's disfavor by talking to me.

We just walk.