Alara found a comfortable-looking spot among the roots of a large tree and sat down, her back against the smooth bark. The soil between the roots was cool beneath her and she felt the dampness seeping through her skirts. Normally, she would have worried about getting her clothes so dirty. Emaru had often yelled at her when she came back to their dorms with grass and mud stains all over her clothes. She learned to keep herself clean as she ran around and trained with Adelmo—to avoid Emaru’s sharp looks. She doubted the councilwoman would yell at her in this case, though.

Alara leaned her head against the tree trunk behind her and looked up through the canopy of leaves above her. She could just make out a small piece of the inky black sky above their clearing, the stars shining brightly.

She tapped at the club in her hands as she tried to stay awake. She could just run now that she had a weapon. Find the river and make her way to Attalea. A voice in her head urged her to do just that. Alara looked into the dark underbrush surrounding them and thought about the pumisi’s yellow eyes again. She had saved them once, but there was no guarantee she could do it again. And direction had never been her strong suit. Where was the river? Down the hill, surely, but the fact she didn’t know instinctively irked her.

Alara let out a soft groan and she closed her eyes tightly. Perhaps Emaru was right—after all her training and learning how to fight without her magia, she was still completely useless at saving even herself. With a quiet huff, Alara shook herself from her thoughts. She focused her eyes on the shadows across the clearing. Like she had many times before in her councilguard training, she let her mind go blank and her body go still.

***

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Quenti said, brushing her eyes awake.

“I wanted to keep watch.” Alara’s response was soft and curt. Amid everything happening around her, the responsibility of keeping her fellow magites safe was warm and familiar, even if her “fellow magite” in this case was technically her captor.

Alara stood, brushing off the dirt and leaves that had stuck to her in the night. She wound her aguayo back around her and tied it over her shoulder. She looked back at Quenti expectantly. “Are we ready to go, then?”

Quenti gave an almost growl as she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched past Alara. “You better keep up with me. Don’t think you can use lack of sleep as an excuse.”

Alara followed in silence.

They walked like this for hours. Alara could hear the constant gurgling of the river somewhere off to their right. She knew they were following it. Following it away from the Haven. Away from home. She watched her feet carefully as they hiked along, stepping over twisted roots and around muddy puddles collected among the underbrush. She was happy for the soft leather sandals she wore, but even then, her feet began to ache by midday. Her legs were sore and she noticed an annoyingly subtle incline of the ground as they trudged on, though she refused to voice her complaints. When she slipped on a root hidden beneath caked mud, she simply bit her lip as pain shot up her ankle.

It was past midday when Quenti finally broke the silence.

“Come out with it.”

“What?” Alara didn’t look up, still concentrating on where her feet were stepping, her ankle still smarting from her slip earlier.

“I get you're mad at me, but I’m gonna go crazy if we spend the next few days in silence. So get it out—yell at me and tell me all the reasons I’m awful.”

“I think you kidnapping me pretty much covers it,” Alara said, still not looking up.

Quenti didn’t respond and the silence fell heavy between them again, Alara’s gaze still fully focused on the ground in front of her. Step. Look. Step. Look.

“I’m not brainwashed by the Council, you know?” Alara’s voice was quiet, but it echoed in the silent forest.

“You could have fooled me.”

“It’s complicated.”

Quenti stopped and leaned against a tree, looking at Alara with bright eyes. Alara stopped a few steps ahead of her and gazed back at Quenti sharply.

“Look. All I know is last night after the pumisi attacked—after you used your magia to save us—you were excited. There was a spark in your eye, the same one I saw when you were fighting in the dark marketplace thing. You looked… alive. You wanted to do more. To practice more. And then it all shut down. You heard the voice of that woman guilting you for enjoying your powers and reminding you you’re supposed to hate them. The spark went out, and you returned to—” Quenti waved a hand haphazardly at Alara. “This.”

“How…?” Alara bit her lip and tried not to let Quenti see the tremors in her hands.

“It was the same feeling that I used to get when I was around my papa.” Quenti’s voice softened a bit. It was perhaps the first time Alara had seen any emotion other than anger or mischief from Quenti. “When I was younger, before I gained control, I would slip sometimes and use magia in front of him. Mama would always come sweeping into the room to erase his memory and give me another speech about keeping my secret. It was confusing trying to make sense of the excitement I felt when I used my powers and the terror in Mama’s face every time I did.” The next sentence was almost a whisper. “Khuno was the first person who wasn’t afraid.”

“It isn’t just about Emaru or me or you,” Alara said. “It’s the bigger picture. The Haven is protecting us and the rest of the world from devolving back to where we were during the Bruya Wars. Without control, magia just led to escalating war and death.”

“So every time you need to light a campfire, that’s what’s stopping you? Some old propaganda about the Wars from five hundred years ago?”

Alara was silent at this.

“I thought so.”

She broke eye contact with Quenti and leaned heavily against the tree behind her. The bark was smooth and cool where her arms brushed it. “Like I said before. It’s complicated.”

Quenti just raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, clearly waiting for Alara.

“If I tell you, will you shut up?”

***

The air was cool, but the sun was warm. She could feel a small trickle of sweat slipping down her back, tickling against her skin. She concentrated hard on the frog statue in front of her. The frog was made of cool gray stone and a small stream of water shot from the palm of its foot, which was raised up in front of it like a human hand. It sat on a pedestal in the middle of the village square, its mouth thrown back and open wide.

This is where Alara’s eyes focused. She clenched her small fist around the copper coin in her hand.

“Come on, Lara. Just do it already!” The loud shrill voice behind her was disembodied—a blur of brown hair and dark skin. The face had long since faded into lost memories.

Alara placed the coin on her thumb and flicked it. The copper metal spun in the air. And with a small plunk, it hit the lip of the frog and veered off, falling into the base of the fountain.

She felt the weight of disappointment hit and heard the snicker behind her. “I knew you couldn’t do it. My turn!”

Alara smirked and jutted her foot out. The boy behind her tumbled onto the ground and Alara jumped, grabbing at the coin in his hand, tripping as she did.

The stone of the village street cut into her knee, her skirt riding up around her, but she ignored the sting as she stood back up, triumphantly holding the boy’s copper coin in her hand.

She turned back to the statue as the boy tried to recover from his fall, scrambling up from the street and reaching for Alara, just as she flicked the second coin.

“Ha!” She elbowed the boy and pointed to where the coin had landed in the frog’s mouth. “That’s a point for me!”

“That was my coin! My point!”

“Oh, please. It doesn’t work that way.”

Another voice piped up from behind, this time higher and softer. “Lara won fair and square, Ro. Don’t blame her because you’re a loser.” Alara didn’t turn to see her—she didn’t know her face, but she knew she knew her. Her name…

Then she was laughing. The faceless boy was laughing, and she felt herself grinning.

And then there was the whizz of an arrow and the boy’s features came into sharp focus. His brown eyes wide, tanned pink lips parted, freckled cheeks flushed with laughter, and his white tunic stained with red blood where the arrow now protruded from his chest, just right of his sternum.

He fell, and the world erupted in chaos. The ground spun under Alara and she realized she was running. The other girl’s hand was clenched in her own and she heard the shocked sobs coming from one of them—or both of them.

She had known this day might come. Her parents had trained her, and the village had had safety drills. Run. Hide. Stay silent. The bruyas would kill on sight.

When she reached her house, Mama was standing in the doorway, face pale and eyes wild. “Faster, Alara!”

Inside the small stone house with its wicker roof, a group of others stood, still and pale. Mama opened up the trapdoor in the wood-planked floor and the small group of children descended the stairs, followed by a few women and men. Alara’s parents were among them. Their faces were faded, but she could just make out Mama’s sharp black eyes. She could feel her calloused hands running against her hair, holding her against her warm body.

The sounds outside were muffled, but Alara could still hear the screams, the sharp splintering of wood, and the heavy footfalls of running.

Under the wood planks of the floor, they remained quiet and still. Alara could make out the heavy breathing of a few children and the soft rocking as the adults tried to soothe them. Her own breath slowed, almost calming. Her mind was clear as she waited.

Wood splintered above them as the front door of the house blew inward. Between the wooden planks above her, she could see them. The black boots of men. Dirt fell silently between the planks and into Alara’s face, brushing against her skin. Beams of light crossed the underground space as the sunlight made its way through the shattered doorway. The men threw around furniture, upturned tables and rugs, and pulled apart packed chests.

What are they looking for?

Another sound from just outside drew their attention.

They were going to leave.

Alara made eye contact with Papa from across the space. His brow furrowed in concentration. She recognized his eyes as the same rich brown as her own just as a spear came through the floorboards.

Everything around her was a blur, except for her papa’s body as it crumpled to the ground. Screams erupted, and the floorboards splintered as hands pulled them away.

“Get out! All of you!”

A large hand came down on her neck and lifted her off the ground. The man holding her yelled, spit flying from his mouth as he did. Without warning, he slammed her hard against the stone walls of the house. She could hear him yelling, but wasn’t even sure what he was saying. His eyes focused on the others, still looking up from their useless hiding place. Mama stepped forward and something stronger than fear shot through Alara.

She could feel the warmth of the fire like a tingle against her skin, but it didn’t burn her. The man holding her let go with a howl as the flames crawled up his arm and enveloped his body. The smoke was thick and black and it stung Alara’s throat. Her vision blurred with smoke and heat. The air was hotter and thicker than it should’ve been. At that moment, Alara heard the other screams joining the guards. Flames danced across the wood floors, eating up rugs and blankets. Alara could just make out Mama’s face between the white flames and she scrambled toward her, ignoring the fire against her own skin.

She knew it was hopeless the second she clasped Mama’s hand in her own and saw the blisters, red, angry, and charred. So sharply in focus that Alara would never forget. And the look in Mama’s eyes as she finally collapsed against the ground, her breath stuttering for the last time, a look of pain and hate painted across her face.