Pale light filtered through skeletal branches, blazing on bone-white bark. Bren’s feet sank into thick, cool moss. Serpentine roots rippled the earth, reaching for her.

She skipped away, searching the lees of the trees for the ice-blue flower her mother wanted. It grew for only a brief time in the early days of spring, emerging after the snows had finally receded, and crushed and mixed with other herbs it was the most effective remedy to relieve her father’s knee pain. They had come into these woods every year since she could walk, gathering up enough of the fleeting blossoms to last until the next winter. Bren always loved the hunt and looked forward to it. When they got home, she’d show her father what she’d collected, and he would sweep her into a hug and spin her around and tell her mother that she should make honey cakes. Which her mother then would, singing the songs in the old language that her own mother had taught her. Bren could not understand the words, but they still always stirred something inside her.

There. A blue blossom, almost hidden by the shadow of a fallen log. Bren crouched down to pluck the flower, ignoring the finger-length beetles scurrying into the rotten wood. She wasn’t afraid; she’d suffer any kind of scary insects to help her father. Just to demonstrate her bravery, Bren flicked one of the beetles that had dared to linger on the wood. It landed upside down, its tiny legs flailing, and she watched it struggle until it finally managed to flip itself over and flee. Then she picked the flower, placing it in her pouch as she stood again.

And realized she wasn’t alone.

Three other children stood close by, staring down at something between them. They appeared to be from the village, though Bren thought she hadn’t seen them before. There were two girls who looked to be about her age, maybe eight years old, and a boy a few years younger. All had dusky skin and deep black hair, like most of the folk of the seven valleys.

“Hello,” Bren said, coming up beside them. One of the girls glanced at her, then went back to poking a decomposing body of a rabbit with a stick. The other girl grunted her own greeting, squinting at Bren like she was confused about what she saw.

“Where’s your mama?” Bren asked, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of the rabbit.

The girl with the stick waved her other hand vaguely in the direction Bren had come from. “Over there. Looking for bluesnaps.”

“Mine too,” Bren told her, lifting the pouch that dangled on a cord around her neck. “And I’m helping. How about you?”

The girl shook her head. “Can’t. Have to watch my brother.” She jabbed her stick at the small boy, who had decided to investigate a cluster of white-capped mushrooms.

“Don’t eat those,” his sister said, whacking his hand as he reached for them. She turned away, ignoring him as he began to cry.

“Are you a ghost?” asked the other girl suddenly.

“What?”

The girl tilted her head to one side, giving her a look not very different than how she had recently examined the dead rabbit. “A ghost. You’re so white. Kellus saw a ghost once and he said it had skin like milk.”

“I’m not a ghost.”

The girl frowned like she didn’t believe her. “Well, what about them?” she asked, pointing behind Bren.

She turned. Three figures – two men and a woman – stood motionless among the trees. In the moment Bren had been talking to the children the day had abruptly changed: the forest floor was now blanketed by a strange mist, and the sunlight filtering down had vanished, replaced by a sourceless glow. The strangers were clad in intricate dark armor that made Bren think of the beetles she had just encountered, and their pale faces stared out from the open jaws of terrifying monsters. Tendrils of mist curled around their legs like great blind worms.

“I don’t know them,” Bren told the girl, but that was a lie. She’d seen them before. But where? The knowledge hovered at the edge of her memory, taunting her.

“You do,” the girl said confidently.

Bren took an involuntary step backwards as the three strangers raised their arms towards her, hands open like they were beckoning her to approach. The mist had thickened, clotting the woods and reducing all but the closest trees to vague shadows.

“Mama,” Bren murmured, her panic rising. “Mama, where are you?” She whirled in a circle as the mist closed around her. The children had vanished, along with the silent, watching figures. She couldn’t see anything, and from that slithering whiteness clammy fingers reached out to brush against her skin . . .

“Mama!”

Bren awoke to darkness, clawing for breath. Something heavy pressed against her chest, pinning her legs and one of her arms. The pain was excruciating, rolling over her in pulsing waves, and she moaned, then coughed as what tasted like ash slipped into her mouth. This sent an even sharper agony stabbing through her, and tears pricked her eyes. Her thoughts were fractured and she struggled to understand what had happened. Where was she?

She sensed something hanging above her, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Everything was silent except for her hoarse gasping. The air was stale but had a burning smell. Was she underground? Had she been buried alive? Fear rose in her, and she fought to beat it back. Swallowing hard, she focused on slowing her breathing, and gradually she brought herself under control.

As her panic subsided her memories returned. The paladin in his tarnished armor standing across from the terrifying strangers. A dragon, its jaw hinged wide, crimson light swelling in its throat. Her mother and father hunkered against the far wall, shielding her brother with their bodies.

“Mama,” she croaked, fear rising in her again, but this time not for herself. “Papa!” Helat.

There had been searing light and then darkness. She tried to parse out what exactly had happened. Spears of flame had erupted from the dragons, enveloping the farmhouse, but Bren couldn’t remember her flesh burning. She ached, but it was the pain of falling from a great height, like when she’d slipped and tumbled down the side of a rocky hill. Half the day had passed while she’d lain at the bottom with a badly twisted ankle, until one of the goats had led her father to her. Bren wanted nothing more than to have him come now and dig her out of wherever she was – most likely the ruin of their house – but she knew that would not happen. She had to do it on her own.

Grunting with the effort, she pulled her trapped arm free, and though her shoulder ached nothing seemed broken. Then she reached up, trying to feel what was above her. Her fingers brushed something dry and prickly. It felt like straw, and it crumbled under her touch, sifting down to sting her eyes. This was the thatch that had covered their roof. Some of it must have survived the dragon’s flame, and then fallen on her when the walls collapsed. But if the house had burned, why hadn’t she? Hope stirred in her – if she had survived, maybe her family also still lived. Maybe they were up there right now, looking for her.

“Mama!” she cried again, louder than before.

Bren strained, and the debris pinning her lower body shifted. She lowered her hands and pushed hard at what was on top of her – it felt like charred wood – and pieces of it broke away under her fingers. Hissing in triumph, Bren squirmed free, then lifted herself so she could tear at the thatch. It came away in clumps as she clawed frantically, and she sobbed in relief when her hand finally pushed through the straw.

Coldness licked her fingers. Bren brought her face up to the hole she had made and breathed deeply of the fresh air. It was also dark on the other side, but not as seamless as where she’d been trapped, stars like tiny diamonds glimmering on a great swath of velvet. Was this the same night? Or had she been buried and unconscious for more than a day? She considered calling out. Her parents or other rescuers might hear her, but so would those frightening warriors if they had decided to camp nearby. She should be cautious and not draw attention to herself.

More dry thatch rained down on Bren as she widened the gap she’d made, until it was large enough that she could reach and pull herself up. Bren flopped half out of the hole, gasping, her cheek pressed against the straw. When her head stopped spinning, she dragged her legs from the wreckage and then rolled onto her back, absolutely exhausted. Bren stared up at the night sky as she searched for any reservoir of strength that hadn’t yet been fully drained. Above her, the Silver Mother was almost full, the scars from where the demon Melikaith had struck her long ago etched clearly upon her surface. Her three daughters dangled like a jeweled necklace beneath her face – Arela, a gleaming yellow circle; Nasai, a crescent of green; and a dark gap in the stars where Kez hung. Gold, jade, and iron.

Bren struggled into a sitting position, then forced herself to stand. She shivered as the wind strengthened, suddenly realizing that she was almost naked – only a few ragged scraps clung to her, more charcoal than cloth at this point. The flames had consumed the house and her clothes, but not her flesh. Had the Mother protected her? What about her family? She had to find her family. She fought through her dizziness and looked around desperately.

The Silver Mother was bright tonight, and her spectral touch gilded what remained of the farmhouse. Most of the walls had collapsed along with the roof, but the brick fireplace still stood – she remembered her mother and father huddling there, Helat clasped between them, just before the dragon had unleashed its wrath.

Bren didn’t want to go look, but she had to. Steeling herself, she carefully picked her way through the ruin, her apprehension rising. There would be nothing, she assured herself, because if she had been spared then they had as well . . . perhaps they had gone to seek help, not realizing that Bren was trapped under the rubble.

Something glinted atop a dark mound, and Bren stepped closer to investigate. It was a silver disc infused by the moonlight, a representation of the Mother just as she was hanging above Bren right now. She frowned. Her mother had worn an amulet like this — in fact, she had rarely ever taken it off. Why would she have left it behind?

The mound. It wasn’t ash or charred wood, but a tangle of something knotted together, almost like the roots of a tree. It wasn’t that, though. Her dread increased as her eyes followed the line of a limb where it curled around what might have been a bowed head . . .

“No,” Bren whispered, falling to her knees. A hollowness opened inside her, and she felt it swelling to devour her. She tilted her head back, staring up at the Silver Mother as tears wet her cheeks, and then lost herself again to the rising darkness.