Quinn tried not to stare at the woman as she dumped her pack to the ground, still nude and unbothered by it, and checked her own pack for something that would help her remove an arrow. The last clean shirt would work as a bandage, and she would have to find new clothes once she reached the capital. She took out one of her blankets and set it on the grass.

“Here, sit for a moment,” said Quinn, and the woman sat. She was much more aggressive when demanding her help, but losing blood calmed her down. Black scales marked the bonier parts of the woman’s body, like her knees and elbows. A dragon, or at least more than half to be able to assume a dragon form. Quinn had only met one before in her life.

Quinn took out her water skin and then entered the Gray; it would help her see the bleeding better, even if she had to squint to see past the glow. But a fraction of a second later the woman grabbed her wrist with the hand of her uninjured arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, all of her aggression returning. Her dark eyes bored into Quinn. She maintained the Gray, and realized something was different. The woman didn’t glow with the white light that should’ve been nearly blinding this close. In fact, she didn’t look any different at all. She let the Gray wink out.

“How--?”

“Who taught you to use Focus for something so simple?” she demanded. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Never use Focus unless it’s a life or death situation, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said, and the woman relaxed and let her wrist go. Quinn licked her lips. “But how am I supposed to use magic without it?”

The woman stared at her for a long moment, her gaze intense. Quinn started to think maybe “intense” was this woman’s default. A long minute passed before she let out a long, heavy sigh.

“My name is Meyron the Black,” she said, waited a moment for a reaction that Quinn didn’t provide, and then rolled her eyes. “Get this arrow out of me and I can show you how to use your magic properly.”

Quinn’s heart leapt in her chest. She nearly asked how she could do that, or what would happen if she didn’t survive the injury, but something told her to be quiet and it would take a lot more than a flesh wound to kill this woman.

The arrowhead protruded from her back, which meant pulling the arrow through instead of back out. Quinn snapped off the back half of the arrow, and Meyron winced. Blood oozed from the wound, staunched by the arrow but ready to flow freely once removed. She had her spare shirt ready and put one hand on Meyron’s shoulder.

“Ready?” Quinn asked, and she nodded.

In one swift motion she pulled the arrow through her back, dropped it and pressed the shirt to the new hole on her back and poured water over the wound on her front. Quinn didn’t see any splinters and had Meyron hold another section of the shirt to her front while she worked to clean the exit wound.

“You were pretty lucky,” she said, and Meyron shrugged her uninjured shoulder.

“Perhaps,” she said and pulled her pack towards her and started digging out clothes. She was already moving her injured shoulder, and tossed the bloody shirt back at Quinn. Dried and smeared blood still marked her skin, but the arrow wound was gone. She hadn’t even sensed magic being used.

“You can heal yourself?” Quinn asked, and Meyron wore the same intense expression when her head popped through the neck of her shirt.

“You really don’t know anything about necromancy, do you?” It was more of a statement than a question. “No matter. I could use an extra set of hands. Where were you headed?” Quinn shrugged.

“The capital,” she said. “And then the Academy if they’ll take me.”

Meyron waved a hand and made a dismissive sound.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “They don’t teach necromancy there anymore.”

Quinn’s stomach sank. Even though Mage Xander turned out to be less than honest, his suggestion to go to the Academy of Mages was good. At least until now. The silver lining was she made it to Rainon, but now what in the world was she supposed to do?

“I see I’ve ruined your plans,” said Meyron as she hefted her pack onto her back. “But lucky for you, I teach necromancy and I don’t have any students.” She started off towards the road and looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?” Meyron continued walking without waiting for an answer.

Quinn scrambled to shove everything into her pack and catch up. For such a small woman she walked awfully fast.

The capital of Rainon, technically called Yew but most commonly referred to as “the Capital”, bustled and they moved at a slow walk. Riders on horseback, heavy carts laden with goods pulled by oxen, carriages by horse, and even covered chaises on poles supported on the shoulders of shirtless men clogged the streets.

The Capital served as a hub and home to the royal family. Goods to and from Lorin were easily transported on the wide, slow Abalone River and the well-maintained road made transport by land to the Academy and trade with Cinder easy. Quinn looked on in wonder at the poorer part of the city that looked better than where she lived in Cinder before she ran away. The buildings rose high, and doors and windows marked that they were small, individual living spaces. It was shaped like a U with the opening facing the street and children played with hoops and balls in the protected space. There were even small stables at each end with storage for feed.

Further into the city were the less expensive inns, taverns, and Quinn spotted a brothel down one of the alleyways. Up ahead she could see colorful awnings covering wooden booths: the Market Square. The carts delivering and carrying supplies, the chaises and carriages were diverted down a wide side road by guards in white gloves and leather armor and the crowd thinned as only those on foot and horseback were allowed through.

Meyron navigated the Capital with ease and shouldered her way past thickets of people as if they weren’t there. If it weren’t for her head of untamed curly black hair Quinn would’ve lost her.

She stopped outside of an administrative booth, marked with a green banner with a pyramid of coins on it, to dig around in her pack and produced a folded up stack of parchment paper. The pages were wrinkled and worn, and she focused on the top one, and then looked at the directory posted at the booth.

“Produce,” she said, pointing at the directory, and then to the corresponding map. “He should be in there somewhere.”

“Are we looking for someone?” Quinn asked, and Meyron frowned.

“We’re looking for five people,” she said. “The first one should be here at a vegetable booth.” She looked back down at her parchment. “Too bad the Academy applications didn’t require a physical description.”

“Academy applications?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Meyron without looking up. “I took them out of the headmaster’s rubbish bin by his desk.”

“Why were you in the headmaster’s rubbish bin?”

“No more questions, let’s go,” she said, and took off to their right. A signpost indicated that’s where the produce booths would be.

This was easily the busiest section of the market. People from all walks of life milled about the produce booths carrying baskets, pulling carts, and many wore the livery of their household. Booths with colorful awnings that covered crates with every possible fruit and vegetable and food staple under the sun was in this Market Square. Expensive cuts of meat, cheap grinds of meat, jars of teas and coffees, sacks of grains, bread in every shape and flavor, barrels of wines, beers, whiskeys and more, and some things Quinn didn’t know the name of.

Once again, she lost Meyron but found her by spotting the hair, and she stood in front of a booth loaded with a variety of squash, sacks of wheat both whole and ground into flour, and barrels of apples. There was only one pie left, likely made with the apples being sold, and Quinn eyed it and her mouth watered.

A young man stood behind the crates, but something looked off about him. She couldn’t quite place it. He looked far too young to be that big, and there was a softness to him that belied his occupation. Farmers weren’t soft. They also enthusiastically sold their produce and this man looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Benjamin Eldeman?” Meyron asked, looking down at her wrinkly parchments. The man’s face lit up.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said, and jabbed his chest with his own finger. “Are you with the Academy? Have you accepted my application?”

“No and yes,” said Meyron, still not looking up. “No I’m not with the Academy, yes I have accepted your application. My name is Meyron the Black and I’ll be teaching you proper necromancy. Pack your things. Here.” She drew a roll of very nice parchment, sealed with black wax and a dragon sigil on it, out of her pack and handed it to him. “Don’t open this until I tell you. We’ll be at the Tilted Moon for a week or so and I’ll tell the innkeeper we’re expecting you.”

With no further explanation, she tossed her pack onto her back and headed further in the market. The man, Benjamin, exchanged glances with Quinn who hadn’t moved to follow Meyron. He pointed at her.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Quinn, of Cinder,” she said. “I just met her today, and watched her heal her own arrow wound with necromancy. If I were you, I’d be packing my things.”