Rastaban had the entirety of the march toward the white kingdoms to ponder what he had done. Kana said nothing. She didn’t bother to eat or drink, and some nights she didn’t even sleep. Kana hollowed out a tree trunk with a small knife and her bare hands; Rastaban hovered awkwardly on the sidelines until his guilty conscience moved him to carve a pair of oars.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Rastaban asked.
Kana pointed toward the sky, toward the north star.
“It’ll be cold,” she said.
Rastaban didn’t think it could get much colder than it already was.
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