We listened to the horror that seeped through the doors of the Town Hall.

Clustered together, the few survivors of Barje Vos held each other, numb, whispering small comforts that could do nothing against what we had just lived through. Though no one said it aloud, we all somehow agreed that quiet was all we could do. We could not save Barje Vos; at the very least, we could listen to her die.

I sat alone, far away, leaned against the wall by the front doors. Watching, waiting for any more survivors. But as night fell, and the screams and shrieks of pain subsided, no one else came. Not my parents, not Kamala’s mother, not even Lyn.

As the sun rose, still we were silent. I watched as Kamala went to each person in turn, knelt at their side with a hand on their shoulder, and spoke in a hush. When she was finished, she glanced back at me, just once—but the agony I found in her gaze made me wish she had never glanced at all.

Well into the afternoon, the front doors of the Town Hall slammed open.

Canavar soldiers poured inside, a wave of grey uniforms and iron blades filling the entrance. At the sight of them, the survivors cried out in alarm and relief. We were saved. Creators, we were saved.

The soldiers fanned out, and a man meandered slowly into the Town Hall, his hands clasped behind his back. The short-lived celebrations hushed in an instant.

The sight of him made me press my back flat into the wall. He towered over us, his broad shoulders roped with lean muscle, his chin angled down as he took us all in like a hawk scans the ground for mice. On his papery-white, bald head, fine dark lines like forked lightning ran along his skin, evidence of some magical injury from many years ago. He glanced at me. His eyes were narrow, cruel, piercing—and one was a solid, impenetrable black from edge to edge.

“Peace, Barje Vos,” the man said. His voice was quiet, so horribly quiet. It rasped like sandpaper against wood, as though his throat was torn. “We have come to deliver you.”

He walked in a circle around the room, everyone so silent that all we heard was the slow shuffle of his boots on the stone floor.

“My name, dear citizens of Barje Vos, is Seylas. Be thankful that thus far, you have been fortunate enough to not recognize it.” He paused in front of me, the only person separated from the group. “I am Inquisitor of the great Korongorod. Your archon has sent me, and his exalted military, to resolve the tragedy that has happened here.”

No one breathed. No one moved.

“Is there anyone here who might tell me how this attack could have taken place? If the daemons have found a way to break our ring wards, the archon must know.”

Someone shuffled to a stand. My heart sank as Kamala took a deep breath and faced Seylas.

“I know how, Inquisitor.”

Seylas turned his gaze to Kamala. A shiver racked her as that black eye fixed on hers.

“It was Rozin,” Kamala forced out, her words hard as steel. “We were returning from Ardila Vos, and we found a daemon trapped in the ring ward. Rozin decided to free it.”

“And you did not stop her?”

“I tried. I couldn’t.”

Seylas nodded slowly. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, but there was no kindness in the words. He turned back to me, staring down at me on the floor. “Rozin, is it?” He came close, leaning in. “Why did you let it go?”

My throat stuck. “I—I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“Liar.”

The voice boomed through the hall, and Seylas glanced back. Kamala stood tall, her fists curled. “Liar,” she repeated. “You meant to let it out. I watched you.”

Seylas’s gaze slid slowly to me. I went cold.

“I’d like you to come with me, Rozin,” he said. “We can sort out your lies together.”

“It was a slip of the tongue. I only mean that I wanted none of this to happen—”

“Indeed. Come. We will escort you.”

“Wait,” said Kamala. She stepped out of the group of survivors towards Seylas, her chin high. Hope flared in my chest. Kamala wouldn’t let this man take me. She glanced back once at the people of Barje Vos. Several nodded in encouragement. “We have one last thing to say to Rozin.”

Seylas’s brow rose slightly. “And it is?”

Kamala faced me, meeting my eyes. My heart ached as though she’d gripped it in her fist. Because I loved her so much, but there was nothing in those beautiful brown eyes but hatred. It would take me a hundred years to earn back their warmth, but I would. I swore it to myself right then that I would.

“I invoke redwyr mas,” Kamala spat. “Cast your votes.”

I snapped back to myself as though I’d been struck by lightning. Redwyr mas. The ancient elven order of exile. I was to be cast out in the most permanent of ways—denied existence by my family, forgotten by all who’d ever known me. There was no return from a redwyr. If any citizen of Barje Vos saw me again, they would not look at me, not say my name. Because you cannot acknowledge what does not exist.

“Kamala, please—”

“Don’t you dare beg me. I begged and you did not listen. And now I have lost everything.”

The families held each other in defiance, their decisions already clear. But I had no more pain left to feel. I knew what they would do.

“All in favour,” growled Kamala.

Hands rose in a slow-moving wave. All from faces I had known my entire life. From the baker, the cobbler, the mayor’s husband, from my school friends, the street cleaner. And this would be the last time I’d see any of them.

I turned to Kamala. She was a wall of loathing, eyes scarlet with tears. I loved her so, so much. And I had lost her forever.

“In the eyes of the Creators, we of Barje Vos do hereby declare that Rozin Kain, daughter of Ahd and Erden, is to be exiled in accordance with the redwyr order.” She spoke the words that were to be my sentence. “Akh hari ys redwyr mas, et sana lyr sheherezaan.”

The families repeated her.

“It is done. She’s all yours, Inquisitor.”

Seylas’s hand wrapped my arm, his touch almost sickeningly light. He did not need force. I was no more—I would go without a fight.

“Goodbye, Kamala,” I croaked. But her eyes passed over me as though I were a phantom, as though I was not even there. Kamala turned, my words falling on deaf ears. And Seylas guided me out the door, and to the soldiers waiting outside.

*

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

I threw up on the sidewalk. One would think I’d be able to hold my liquor at this point. But I always overdid it.

In the thin alley beside the Weeping Willow, I slumped against the wall. My vision tilted dangerously. I wouldn’t be walking home anytime soon.

I spat the acidic taste from my mouth. Home. A crowded boarding house that reeked of mould and unwashed bodies. Hot and humid and foul.

My stomach flipped, and I threw up again.

Probably couldn’t return to the boarding house anyhow. I hadn’t paid my fee this morning, and the mistress had warned me several times this past week. As if that mattered. I could just sleep right here. I’d at least paid the bar tab.

I curled my knees in, trying to ground a world that was determined to keep spinning. In the morning, I’d look for work. Again. Couldn’t make myself stay at any place longer than a week. I’d loaded sacks of flour, helped cart bricks, coal, or lumber, mucked stables, even plucked chickens. But I always drank too much, hated the work too much, and simply stopped showing up. If the people of Ardila Vos didn’t pity me so much, I might not have lasted this long.

“That’s the redwyr girl,” I’d heard people whisper. They’d seen Barje Vos burn from afar, heard that some stupid girl was responsible. It hadn’t taken them long to notice that the refugees from Barje Vos treated me as though I didn’t exist. That they looked through me as if I were made of glass.

Footsteps rounded the mouth of the alley, and I heard the barman’s voice say “That one there. That’s her.”

A man’s soft voice thanked him, and someone shifted near me. Brown feet in sandals stopped next to my side.

“You’re Rozin Kain, is that right?” asked he asked calmly.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“My name is Turan Jawahir. Sage of the First Tower.”

Laboriously, I lifted my head to squint at him. He was a small, wrinkled man with kind, dark eyes and a neat silver-shot braid. He wore the simple red robes of his station, the fabric loose and flowing on his slim frame. I’d seen his kind briefly before, walking quietly down the roads, observing the world without a word. A sage sought the truths of the earth. What did one want with me?

“Would you like to join me inside?” he asked. “It’s a lot more comfortable.”

I shrugged, and he helped me to my feet. He helped me stumble back into the Weeping Willow, and set me down at the corner booth. Warm and comfortable, I promptly shut my eyes and passed out.

When I came to, early morning filtered through the windows. I was still in the Weeping Willow, and that strange sage was still there, reading a book in Sabatan.

When I stirred, he set down the book deliberately. His smile was warm. “How are you feeling?”

“Shit.”

“I’d think so. The barman says you drank on an empty stomach.”

“Works faster.”

The sage left for a moment. I squinted at his book. The open pages showed a diagram—one side an Ice Elemental labelled with old runes, the other a spiral to represent the flow of natural magic. The sage returned with a plate of bread and water. Easy fare after a night of drinking. He saw me trying to make out the book’s runes.

“The Anatomy of the Arcane,” he said. “If we are to share the world with the daemons, we must know how they work. Do you agree?”

I shrugged and began to eat. Food was food, and this odd sage had clearly paid to keep the bar open all night. Whatever he wanted with me, I would at least take the free meal and bed. I was not above charity.

“The daemons draw magic from nature,” the sage continued. “How much energy they can draw seems to depend on their form. We know the Bestials are able to draw only their power from life—namely the plants and animals they consume, as humans do. The reigning theory is that stronger daemons, such as Elementals, are also able to tap into obscurer aspects of the natural world. They can mimic the powers that create storms, and snow, and flame.”

I nodded dismissively, not listening much.

“But we can discuss the daemons later, I suppose. I came looking for you, Rozin, because I’d gotten word that you were lost. The townsfolk have expressed concern that you may take your own life.”

I snorted through my food.

“That is funny, to you? Then I may assume that they are wrong?”

“Let’s just say I’m not going to drive a dagger through my heart, sage. But it’s looking like I’ll just end up in the same place than if I did.”

“So you will passively kill yourself, rather than actively.”

“Sounds about right.” I tore off another chunk of bread. “What’s it to you?”

“I would like to train you. I believe, given your history, that you have potential.”

I looked down at my filthy, sick-splatted clothes. “You need your eyes checked.”

“I don’t believe I do. Tell me, Rozin. Do you know what a bonder is?”

I nodded, uninterested.

“Now, not everyone can be a bonder. It takes something few possess—true will. A kind of will that only comes from those who are aware of the consequences, should they fail.” He pushed the cup of water at me. “You were the girl who brought down Barje Vos.”

My chewing slowed. I set the bread down.

“That girl is aware of what the daemons can do. She knows in her very fibre that they are evil, a blight, and cannot be allowed to roam free. That girl knows that to protect those she loves, we must stand equal to our enemies.”

The ache began in my head. I needed a drink, or I’d let it in. I couldn’t let it in.

I waved lazily, and the barman came over with a weak ale. He never let me near the liquor before at least noon. I took a long draught, and the ache dulled. I’d be dulling it well into the night, after this conversation.

“I would like to offer you a place with the Canavar, Rozin,” the sage continued. “One where you will learn to bond daemons and help us prevent anything like Barje Vos from ever happening again. It will not be easy, I warn you. Though no path is.”

I stared into my ale.

“And,” he continued, “we will be far, far, away from Ardila Vos. From anyone who might know about your redwyr.”

I finished my ale in silence. I didn’t care about learning to bond, about the stable money and bed that the military would provide. But the sage could take me out of here. He’d take me away from what I’d done to Barje Vos, and to all those I loved.

“Who told you to look for me? Seylas?”

The sage stiffened. “There was a rumour that you had met him. I had hope it was not true.”

“He came to take me from Barje Vos.”

A strange look crossed the sage’s face. It was a subtle, small look that furrowed his brow and pulled his mouth down, but did nothing to dull the warmth in his eyes. It was the sort of look that came from knowing true horror, and having no words to face it with.

“He wanted to know why I let the daemons in.”

“But it was a mistake.”

“I told him that,” I rasped. I took a heavy draught of my ale. “I told him that for a month.”

The sage placed his palm open on the table. I lowered my wrist into it, and he pulled back my sleeve.

Criss-crossing my arm in thin, long lines, slowly healing scars covered every inch of visible skin. The sage took in a sharp breath as he pushed the sleeve higher. The scars continued—as they did to my shoulders, along my back, along my ribcage.

“Seylas always did have a favourite interrogation tactic,” he murmured. “A thousand cuts is worse than one—and so few will leave any permanent mark.”

I jerked my arm away. I didn’t want to be prodded, examined. And I didn’t want to speak of that month. I did not want to think of it, hear of it, ever again. If I managed to shut it away, drink the memory until it drowned, it could not have any power of me. I could heal the scar it left on my mind and soul.

I could. I had to.

“You’re younger than I thought,” said Sage Jawahir quietly. I could hear the pity. It was always pity.

“Sixteen.”

He frowned—but even with a frown, he still seemed calm, kind, steady.

“It was not … Seylas, who spoke to me.” He took a deep breath, as though trying to fade the memory of my scars from his mind. “The sages received a missive from a young woman who said she grew up with you in Barje Vos. She wishes to remain anonymous, as the redwyr states she is not to acknowledge you. Ridiculous tradition.”

My eyes stung. Kamala. Kamala had sent this man to me, had thought I was still worth caring about. It was all I needed. I would live, because that was what she wanted of me.

“I’ll go with you,” I said to my ale. “Just tell me where to sign.”