Prologue

She smiled as the ruins’ song filled the air.

To mortal eyes, it would seem mere broken, cold stone. But Atastimina felt its warmth. The wooden beads buried within the blocks kept their sparks, memorials to minds long departed. 

Yet their memories lingered. To those who heard, they would never die.

For a time, Ata stood and listened. When she opened her eyes, the day had passed, and night had fallen. Guilt stirred in her. Time had once been as abundant as leaves of grass; she had grown used to spending it in idle freedom. Now, eternity had contracted into moments, each as precious and vital as those of her infancy, centuries before.

“We are reborn…”

Cackling to the unhearing castle, Ata strolled through its rubble-strewn corridors. She sharpened her senses as she probed the tumbled stones with purpose. Most of the world yielded to her touch, but there was resistance here.

A barrier. Nearly imperceptible, but plain as sunlight to her keen senses.

Ata caressed it with her heritage. Like light reflecting on the surface of water, the magic made the barrier discernible. She pressed harder; the barrier yielded a measure. She thought it might soon give. 

Then water hardened to glass, then stone, then diamond. She could press no further in.

Ata relented with a sigh. Few things could resist her, and all those that did posed a grave threat to the Kin. But she had lived too long to heed fear.

“Even if I should…”

Lifefire flickered above, drawing up her gaze. In the sky above the ruins, clouds swirled together, forming a towering column, gray and tumultuous. Within it, energy was building and taking shape.

Ata grinned up at the storm.

“You are not the only one who hides, my little friend,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. Her talons pressed through the silver fur spread there to touch the beast nestled within. “They were here all along, tucked inside their den. I wonder if you knew it. And here I thought your loyalty was to me and our mutual friend!”

The thunderhead flickered with lightning. The sky rumbled. Clouds spilled over the jungle beyond the ruins.

Ata sighed and lowered her head. “But I’m afraid you must leave me now. We each have our duty.”

She pressed her nails in harder until her amber ichor stained the fur. But that was only a slight pain next to that from the other creature peeling off her soul.

As the silver fox departed, Ata shed her fur. It fell in a shimmering cloud around her feet, and she shivered. Only in moments of transition did the cold touch her.

Then it was done, and he sat before her. The fox’s fur shone as bright a silver as the coat she had discarded. His sunset-orange eyes stared up at her. She might have thought him reproachful but for the flick of his tail.

“Then why must you make the parting so difficult?” she chastised. “You’re as eager to be on your way as I am.”

A peal of thunder drowned out the ruins’ singing. Ata glanced up to see a shadow brighten against the belly of the clouds. It was wide as the ruins themselves, looming and formidable as few creatures were the world.

The shape tilted its flight to plummet toward them.

“Watch over her, little one,” Ata said, unconcernedly looking back at her companion, “and watch well. I think her time of awakening is not yet complete.”

Pausing only a moment longer, the silver fox darted away, fleeing the storm. 

Ata remained where she was. Anticipation burned through her. Death descended, yet a laugh stole free as its power rippled across her wooden flesh.

Lightning struck where she stood.

Stones shattered. Ancient ruins broke apart. Powder rose into the air, shrouding all in dust.

The clouds flew back up from the desolation, spinning in a circle before spreading out across the sky. As quickly as it had come, the storm departed.

The dust slowly settled in the courtyard below. Empty of intruders once more.

Ata, unharmed just beyond the entrance archway, smiled up at the sky. “Next time, perhaps, my old enemy.”

With a flourish of her feathers, she stepped through the world and vanished.

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1: Sacred

Leiyn closed her eyes, tilted back her head, and breathed in.

Spring was in the air. Though the stiff breeze nipped her nose and chapped her hands, it brought with it scents sweet to behold. Of newborn leaves, and the promise of grass. The prelude to all that would soon arrive.

What stirred underground spoke even more of the changing season. Though the grass remained yellow, her lifesense detected the pops of life as seeds broke free of shells to grow roots and seek sunlight. On the broadleaved trees, the beginning of buds made the branches spark as if they caught flame.

Home—it inundated her every sense.

For a moment, her vigilance eased. The urgency to return to Baltesia and defend her homeland receded. Even the pestering thoughts over Sharo’s schemes and if Ata had yet tracked him down faded to the back of her mind.

She only inhaled and exhaled. Appreciating this fleeting moment. When even Feral's stench, cultivated over weeks, had a comforting edge.

"You stink," she muttered to the horse.

The mare huffed and tossed her head. Smiling, Leiyn reached out to stroke her mane.

And froze.

Something lurked beneath the fragrant bouquet. A sign of danger.

Hoping she imagined it, Leiyn inhaled again, deeper this time. There it was again—a caustic warning to nearby creatures.

Smoke. Must it be smoke?

It could mean nothing. Foolhardy hunters, young or desperate, might venture up this way from around Folly, risking titans and wild beasts to earn their next meal. Or perhaps conditions in the south had driven folks north to try their tools at taming the land. The frontier resisted such efforts at every turn, yet it had not stopped hopeful colonists from making the attempt each spring.

But it could be an omen. The specter of war hung heavy over the lands, even this far out into the Titan Wilds. Instead of settlers, enemies might linger near. A ranger did not ignore a potential threat. Especially when they were the last one. 

In the north, at least.

Exhaling, Leiyn expanded her awareness through the wilderness. Though her mahia always lay open, it contracted to half a league around her when she was not embodying it. Now, she reached across dozens of leagues, searching for the source of the fire.

It took moments to find the intruders, and a moment more to fan suspicion into flame. The hill on which they camped was distinctive. Though she had not often experienced the Titan Wilds through her mahia, she knew this land too intimately to mistake it.

Thirty humans squatted amid the ruins of the Wilds Lodge.

Leiyn held little as holy in her life. Though she paid homage to the Saints and beheld Almighty Omn with wary respect, they were distant beings, their sanctity disconnected from the day to day of living. It was the same with Refugio, the island central to the Catedrál, despite the claims of its priestesses that it was the place closest to the divine in all of Unera.

Now, for the first time, she understood sanctity. For these trespassers trod on her hallowed ground.

She did not know who they were, but where they walked was cause enough for anger. Yet she did not storm off in pursuit as she might have a year before. Experience had hammered home Tadeo’s oft-repeated lesson. She could not afford to be rash.

Neither could she ignore it.

Dismounting, Leiyn took her longbow in hand and slung her quiver of broadhead arrows across her back. Her remaining long knife was sheathed at the back of her weapons belt. The pouch of amber beads, gifted by Mother Xepi and brimming with esse, were tied to the front. The titanbone falchions she had claimed from the Iritu ruins of Qasaar hung from either hip. She had not tested them against ordinary steel, but if they could slay lyshans, she suspected they would suffice here.

Her clothes were less satisfactory. Though imbued with an ancient mahia—Inheritance, as Ata called it—they would defy a killing blow as handily as plate armor, but the aqua-and-gold tunic did not blend in among the spring-green woods. Still, if a battle lay ahead, she would need the protection.

“Stay,” she murmured to Feral, reaching out with both her hand and magic. The horse flinched away, but settled as the calming touch took effect. She smiled grimly. Xepi’s trick had worked this time; with the unruly mare, it was always uncertain.

Turning, Leiyn pulled her cloak tight about her, then slunk into the shadowed boughs.

* * *

A dozen signs betrayed them. The glint of sunlight on helms. The regimented fortifications ringing the camp. The color of their coats. The style of their tents.

But most telling of all was the flag they flew above the ruins: a yellow orb arrayed against white fabric.

Suncoats.

Leiyn tightened her fist on the bow stave until the ashwood creaked. She tried to draw a breath and calm her racing pulse. Her chest felt enwrapped by a coil of rope.

Suncoats had burned her home. That they would defile it a second time was an insult too far.

Breathe. Just breathe. Air does not know worry.

She held back not from the daunting odds alone. Should it come to that, she suspected she could more than match their force. Reaching the edge of the forest encircling the Wilds Lodge, she sought after the faint connection ever present in the back of her mind.

The thread had frayed from time and disuse, but enough remained that she could feel the ash dragon swimming through the molten rivers far below. He had kept near her, even as she left behind the mountain from which he had first erupted, which she had taken as inspiration for his name.

Clouded Fang had taken a shine to her, it seemed.

Noticing her attention, the ash dragon turned one burning eye upon her. Her impression of him was too vague to be called sight, yet somehow, she knew he beheld her. Leiyn stiffened at his attention. Before, he had been her salvation, filling her with lifeforce so that even Man’nah, lord of the lyshans, could not kill her.

Yet Leiyn doubted she would ever feel easy before titans. Their minds were too strange, their motives uncertain. Did they have thoughts like humans, or act by pure instinct? Though she had named the dragon, she was not so certain of him as to depend on his mercy.

The titan lingered a moment, then moved on, his presence fading from her awareness.

Air whooshed from Leiyn’s lungs. She only took a moment before focusing back on her surroundings. The titan’s inconstancy was only the first complication. The second lay to the south of the hill. 

She and the Suncoats were not alone.

On the south side of the hill lay another score of intruders. Though she had yet to travel around the Lodge’s ruins to see more, she doubted they were more Suncoats. Holding the advantageous position atop the highest point around, there was little reason to split their forces. More likely was this was an opposing faction; a militia from Folly, perhaps, or a force mustered from the few farms this far north. But she would not pin her life on that hope.

All too easily, she could imagine Isla’s expression at her plans. How Batu would shake his head, and Acalan frown. Teya, at least, would smile and fondly call her “Redlock.”

For their sakes, she could not throw away her life after a notion of vengeance. Not when she was one of the few Baltesians who could wield mahia, an ability sorely needed in this war. Nor were these men the true object of her hatred. They were pieces in a greater game, moved by players Leiyn had yet to fully identify.

With a last glance at the Lodge, Leiyn sighed and melded back into the woods.

She gave the Ilberian soldiers a wide berth as she made for the second camp. Evening was swiftly falling; the forest grew dark and still. 

All the better. 

By her lifesense, she could see all that was alive—and in these woods, that was most everything. The roots that might have tripped her. The branches that could lay her low. Ferns, flowers, and shrubs lit the forest floor, guiding her through with scarcely a sound. Even dead leaves were outlined by feasting bugs and a shimmer of infinitesimal life. 

This was her territory. Her sacred land. She was a predator prowling through the shadows, prepared to defend it.

Dusk had set in as the camp came into view. Noting the positions of the four sentries posted around the edges, she subdued her magic and observed what she could with her eyes. No fire lit their camp. They were sheltered among trees rather than out in a clearing. Despite this and the gloom, she could pick out enough details from the nearest watcher to draw her conclusions. One difficult to accept.

Plainsriders.

Their leather lamellar armor, their horsebows, their hair pulled up into topknots and bound with red fabric—all signs pointed to the Gazian counterparts to the rangers. The realization brought a fresh flush of anger.

Leiyn stubbornly fought it back down. To reason out this mystery, she needed a clear head.

Think, Firebrand, for one Legion-damned moment.

She came up with three explanations. The first was a stretch: that this was another attempt by the Suncoats to stage an incident. The Ilberians who had attacked the Lodge had dressed as Gasts; perhaps they now attempted a similar ruse. But who would it be for, and what would they stand to gain? Their allegiances were already out in the open.

The second thought seemed more likely. Taban, the snake who had seized the Gazian Greathouse for his own, knew the Wilds Lodge had fallen. By his prior actions, he appeared aligned with Ilberia. Thus, he might have brought his plainsriders to bolster the Suncoats’ position, but did not trust his allies enough to camp directly with them.

There was a third possibility: the moorwarden was seizing land for Altan Gaz, taking advantage of the vacancy left by the rangers. Taban’s ambition was certainly sufficient to the task.

None of these scenarios left the Gazians as allies. Considering plainsriders had tried killing her and her friends in the recent past, she doubted they could be.

Leiyn flared her lifesense and sat back on her haunches, gnawing her lip. Two groups of enemies, and she could do nothing about either of them—not without significant risk.

The prudent ranger would continue south to report it to Mayor Itzel, then leave her to handle them. She had an urgent mission of her own: conveying tidings of the Gast alliance, then standing by her friends and Mauricio as the Ilberian Armada landed on their shores.

But she could not leave. These raiders trampled on her home. How could she not come to its defense?

She felt afar for Feral, left behind with her saddlebags. Unsure how long she would be gone, Leiyn had supplied the horse with water and feed. She would not suffer from neglect. For herself, however, it would make for an uncomfortable night and a likely pointless vigil. But her mind was made up.

Stubborn fool.

Leiyn leaned back against the tree, laying her bow and its nocked arrow across her lap. Settling in for the long watch.

Her opportunity took mere minutes in coming.

She sensed him: a man moving beyond the periphery of the scouts, then squatting down. Relieving himself, she guessed with a grim smile. He was just far enough away from their camp for a quiet conversation to go unheard.

Like a jaguar in the night, she closed in on her prey.

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2: Transgressions

As the plainsrider pulled up his trousers, Leiyn stepped out from behind the tree, an arrow trained on his eye. 

The man jerked around and went still at the sight of her weapon. His hands still clutched his unfastened pants, his long tunic bunched up around his arms. His weapons belt lay out of reach on the ground.

“Not a sound,” she said in Kalgan, just loud enough to carry across the ten strides between them. “No more than you have already made.” Her lips quirked in mockery.

To the man’s credit, a hard stare swiftly replaced his surprise. “Ranger. So you survived.” 

He spoke back in Baltesian, and spoke it well, though with enough of an accent she had to concentrate on his words.

“No thanks to you lot,” she said in her own tongue, then nodded toward the camp. She had positioned herself so the trees hid her from the closest scouts. “Come to pillage what’s left of the Lodge, have you?”

“We are not pillagers, Ranger Leiyn.”

He knows me. Simple enough to guess how. She and Isla had been conspicuous during their brief stay at the Greathouse.

“Invaders, then,” she amended. “Seizing land not your own.”

“We take it not for ourselves, but for your people.”

Her patience frayed to its last strand. Leiyn had to stop herself from pulling the bowstring taut.

“Help me understand.” She bit off each word. “You mean to fight Suncoats for Baltesia?”

“Our alliance says it will be so.”

If the plainsrider was lying, he did it well. His gaze never wavered, and he showed few signs of nervousness, despite remaining in a compromising position. 

Iron nerves. A reluctant admission, but no less true for it.

Tempting as it was to see if he would hold steady before a drawn bow, she knew better than to draw unless she meant to loose. For the moment, he remained under her control. His fellows had noticed nothing amiss, judging by their stationary esses.

“Ranger Leiyn,” the plainsrider said slowly, “I understand your mistrust. When you visited, our position was different.”

“Your position. The one where you tried killing me and my friends, you mean?”

“Yes. An Ilberian conqueror offered an alliance. Altan Gaz saw an opportunity for expansion.” The man shrugged. “We had our orders. Would you not obey yours?”

Leiyn flashed him a tight smile. “If it meant butchering innocents? No, I wouldn’t.”

To her surprise, the plainsrider smiled as well. It was far from a pleasant sight. Gaps showed between teeth, and scars across his lips pulled wide.

“You always stood up for innocents—I remember that well.”

“Do you?” An odd thing to say, but she considered it from a wary distance. Refused to let it tip her off-balance.

“You do not remember me? The boy you fought to protect the Wilds bastard?”

The memory rose with his words. She had to hold back a laugh.

“Altun, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember you. Weren’t so brave back then. Even with friends at your back, you still slunk away after the beating.”

“You are right.” Altun spoke without a trace of defensiveness. “I was a coward and a bully. But experience can reform a man.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t seem much like a new man.”

“Ranger. We need not see eye to eye, but listen to what I say. Your governor, Mauricio di Siveña, requested of Taban Khyan that we plainsriders secure the frontier. Premier Itzel welcomed the aid.”

“Premier”? Leiyn was vaguely familiar with premiers, officials placed in charge of swaths of land back in Ilberia. Used here in Baltesia, it was certainly an elevation from “mayor.” She wondered at all that had occurred in her absence for Itzel to rise so high.

And what she might have compromised to gain it.

“The Ilberian Union lands upon your shores,” Altun continued. “Altan Gaz now stands with Baltesia. We are your allies, not your enemies.”

Memories of fleeing the Greathouse flashed through her mind. The nighttime flight across the shadowed plains. The arrows falling. The fiery pain of one piercing her leg. The titan rising from the river and overwhelming her.

“But if we were not,” the plainsrider pressed on, “what would you do here? Fight both us and the Ilberians? Leave them to terrorize your people? You cannot kill us all. I would welcome your bow in our raid, but if you do not trust us, then I ask that you stay out of our way.”

She bared her teeth, but before she could spit out another insult, her lifesense alerted her to movement. A scout was headed their way.

“Fesht,” she muttered under her breath, then spoke loud enough for Altun to hear. “I’ll be watching. If everything isn’t as you say, then know I’ll hunt you down. Every last one of you.”

The approaching watchman shouted something in Kalgan, still too far for her to make out. Leiyn backed away, lowering her bow as the distance widened between her and Altun. The plainsrider watched her depart, calmly tying together his pants.

“At midnight,” he called after her. “You will see we are true then.”

Cursing, she retreated into the forest, feeling like a fox fleeing before a hunter. But come midnight, she would hide no longer.

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3: Under A Moonless Sky

The moons peeked through the trees. Leiyn watched their progress as she tracked Altun and the plainsriders through her lifesense. The Catedrál had little to say on the moons, far more concerned as it was with the sun, but Tadeo had told her of the Gasts’ perspective. Great Teyao and Young Chiuni, the natives named them. They were called the guardians of the night, seen as the counterpoints to the titans of land and sea.

It was never a belief she had bought into. But knowing now that titans could be allies as well as antagonists, she wondered if any truth lay in it.

Chiuni set first, then Teyao. Dawn was still far off, yet Leiyn had expected the assault to begin while there was still light to see by. She suspected that, despite Altun’s seeming sincerity, there would not be an attack at all.

Yet the plainsriders had not settled down to sleep. They sat or moved about tasks she could not tell by mahia alone. She tracked Altun as he moved from warrior to warrior, like he refreshed them each on a plan.

Feshtado fool, believing that man.

She had been as far from trusting Altun as she could have been upon their first encounter. The altercation had arisen during the summer she and Isla had spent at the Greathouse. Altun, then a young man come early into his strength, had tormented Batu, a scrawny boy still far from his own growth spurt. Leiyn had been especially keen to brawl in those days. She had given the bully a sound enough beating that he and his friends had given Batu a wide berth for the rest of their stay.

She had always wondered how the young plainsrider had survived after they departed. He had given her the credit when the matter resurfaced, but she doubted fear of her would have lasted long.

Life had clearly left its mark on Altun. He moved with a limp, favoring his right leg. The old wound seemed high on his leg, judging by his gait and where he pressed a hand to it. Scars aplenty had marked his face as well. Most telling of all had been his composure at the pointed end of her arrow. A hard lesson had taught him to control his emotions, forging an angry boy into a formidable foe.

Or ally.

Though she did not wish to, she had to consider the idea. Once, she had believed Gasts to be her enemy through a tragic misunderstanding. It was conceivable that the same had happened here. Still, it felt less likely. She had only heard of the circumstances of her birth from the biased and grief-stricken viewpoint of her father. Taban had betrayed and hunted them down, making his position unequivocal. 

Yet Baltesia needed allies in their war. She would not put it past Mauricio to bury the hatchet if it meant bringing Altan Gaz into their fold.

A sigh hissed between her teeth. I’m trying not to be rash, she thought to Tadeo. But must it be so egreshti hard?

As time passed, Leiyn’s expectations sunk lower. Yet, waste of time or not, she had already decided. Relenting from her watch only to relieve herself—and keeping a careful eye out for ambush—she had just pulled up her trousers when the plainsriders finally congregated.

Hurrying back to her post, she kept her hand on the bowstring and peered in their direction. It was the night’s darkest hour. By her eyes, she could detect little more than movement among the shadows. Her lifesense, however, tracked the twenty men as they went silently up the hill. Only one remained behind, watching over their horses. Their hunched approach bespoke of sneaking up on an enemy, as did the hour. All was as Altun had said it would be.

Leiyn tailed them as she chewed through the decision. Isla would have told her to stay out of the fight. Batu would have remained silent, torn between loyalties. Teya, however, would have been here by her side, no matter what.

If there is a fight, she thought the scout might have said, choose the winning side.

The plainsriders split into several groups. Four moved around to the east of the hill atop which the Lodge’s ruins sat, staying within the shelter of the woods. Another four did the same to the west. Of the remaining company, Altun and three others moved from the forest cover out onto the open plains.

Leiyn had to admit it was the correct move: sending a split vanguard to remove the sentries before they could sound the alarm was prudent. Should the plainsriders gain the advantage of surprise, their superior marksmanship would cut down the drowsy Suncoats without weakening their own company.

She tensed and untensed the bowstring as each group moved into position, spaced more or less equally around the perimeter. Then, by an unseen signal, they advanced up the hill.

Leiyn looked at the hilltop camp and noted the Suncoat sentries by their esses. They had posted a single man in each direction. A testament to degrading discipline? Or did their company have enough wounded to make the unwise course necessary? 

Whatever the cause, this was likely to be their last watch.

The thought should have brought her vindictive satisfaction. Instead, she dreaded it. She would feel every lifefire being snuffed out. Sense every death like a shadow of her own. As her mahia grew, her weakness matched it in proportion.

It was not noble to be callous to killing, yet part of Leiyn wished she could return to the numbness of before. When she had buried her mahia deep. When violence did not cut her to the quick.

No. Never again.

She could not return to the woman she had been. The devil who could have killed an innocent Gast and thought herself justified.

If this was the cost of atonement, she would pay it thrice over.

Leiyn bared her teeth at the darkness, then crept closer, only stopping at the edge of the field. There, she watched the scene unfold.

The plainsriders closest to her had paused. Though specific actions were difficult to discern by lifesense alone, they were close enough to mark their targets. She saw no sign the Suncoats knew what was coming. Though they were the more certain of her enemies, it was enough to almost pity them.

Bows thrummed as arrows flew.

One sentry collapsed, his esse falling dark. Then a second. A third. The fourth’s light darkened as he sustained a grievous wound, but this one did not entirely fade.

A scream pierced the night, scraping shivers along her skin.

The camp roused at once. Leiyn heard a plainsrider curse as Altun led a charge up the hillside. The other two groups also spurred into a sprint, as did those warriors left in reserve. Their charge went unopposed, but seeing the Suncoats form into lines, she knew that would change once they passed the barriers.

Altun reached the ashen walls of the Lodge and leaped over them to meet the Suncoat line. Three of his men were beside him a moment later. The reserves, holding a mixture of bows and other weapons, remained a little way back. 

Dark slices through lifeforce showed wounds multiplying on both sides. Bellows of pain and rage broke the peaceful night.

Leiyn squeezed the wood of her bow until it groaned. The moment had come. She had to decide. Would she do as Isla would and stand to the side? Or go Teya’s way?

As if that was a choice.

Scarcely had the resolution formed than Leiyn was running up the hill toward her old home.

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4: Blood & Ashes

Air hissed through her teeth as she raced through the tall grass. Her bow, nocked and ready to draw, swung side to side with every stride. The evidence of battle grew, the screams and stenches that haunted her nightly.

Drawing on her amber beads, she drew out the esse from two of them and channeled it into her body. The hunger and aches from the long vigil faded, and an insistent vigor rose in their place.

She pressed on faster.

Deep below, a dragon roused and aimed a burning eye at her. She longed to reach for Clouded Fang, but blocked him out instead. She had to keep him at a distance. She was being rash enough without relying on an uncertain titan.

The fallen watchtower loomed from the shadows, backlit by fires spreading through the camp. Shadows danced across the grass as warriors fought and slew each other. Stop to consider them for even a moment, and she feared icy death would inundate her lifesense.

Leiyn surged up the ashen mound, then skidded to a halt as the battle came into full view.

A stalemate had blossomed. Though most of the Suncoats were half-dressed, their numbers surpassed the plainsriders, and they attacked with equal measures of discipline and savagery. Their line, though untidy, held against the plainsrider push. An underfed and unshaven lot, they fought with the ferocity of cornered beasts.

This night, they would live or die. By how they fought, they knew it.

The element of surprise was not Altun and his men’s only advantage. Spry and experienced, they wielded assorted weapons against the soldiers. For every fallen plainsrider, three Suncoats lost their lives.

But the night’s result was far from determined. Entrenched behind shields, spears, and a stake barrier, with crossbowmen providing support from behind, the Suncoats had halted the advance. Drill and coordination compensated for what they lacked in individual skill. Plainsriders, like rangers, trained for solo combat. Though Leiyn’s concept of military strategy was basic, she knew enough to realize if the Ilberian line was not broken soon, the Suncoats would likely repel the assault.

Wincing with each wound inflicted, Leiyn climbed the ruins of the wall next to the fallen watchtower. From there, she had a view of the soldiers sheltered behind their shields. Raising her bow, Leiyn sighted her first target along the back of their rank, an arbalist aiming at Altun. Anchoring her hand at her jaw, she held a moment to judge the angle, then loosed. 

The arrow flew, barely visible until it sprouted from the Suncoat’s chest, punching through coat and steel. The man spun to the ground, black staining his lifefire.

Death reached into her mind.

“Fesht!” She staggered, nearly slipping down her precarious perch, before withdrawing her mahia from the dying man. Gasping, Leiyn tried catching her breath as she shook away the creeping sensation. Surrounded by death, it felt all but impossible. Her magic flitted to each snuffed life as if she might fix it—or consume its fading succor.

What’s wrong with me?

Surging back to her feet, Leiyn pulled back her mahia as much as she dared, limiting her focus to dozens of paces around her. Nocking and drawing, she sighted a second marksman and exhaled, trying to steady her shaking hand, then loosed.

Her arrow shot past her target, a tremor sending it too high.

Startling, her target ducked for cover behind a tent. Leiyn cursed under her breath and tried to force herself to calm. As if that was likely to work.

Not now, Firebrand!

No time for frustration or bafflement—she had to keep dismantling the ranged support. The plainsriders had gained a little momentum; lose it now, and they would be driven back. The Lodge would remain in Suncoat possession. 

She could not allow that. Tadeo’s bones and those of the other fallen were littered across those ashes. Trampled by the boots of their killers, or those like them.

She would be their revenant. A ranger returned from the grave, come to avenge them. A revenant did not suffer from the death it dealt. It killed without mercy.

Don’t feel, she told herself, drawing again, limbs trembling. Don’t feel any of it.

Only a few crossbowmen remained in sight. As she sighted one, two turned, quarrels pointing at her. A third—the man who had evaded her before—emerged, his weapon loaded and leveled.

“Shit!”

Leiyn pivoted back around the fallen watchtower, sliding on the detritus as she went. Three cracks cut through the din. Bolts flashed through the air where she had stood just a moment before.

She was already scrambling back up. With their quarrels loosed, she had the advantage; a bow was quicker to reload than a crossbow. All three men had bent out of sight to load fresh bolts, but she spotted another just cradling his for a shot.

Moving quickly, outpacing her hesitation, she loosed. As her arrow flew, she heard his weapon release.

A plainsrider spun to the ground. A split moment later, her arrow caught the Suncoat in the neck.

Leiyn rocked back, mahia reaching for both dying men at once.

“Legion take it all!” she spat as she clawed back control. “Focus, damn you!”

Even with her magic flitting about the battlefield, she sensed the trio of crossbowmen emerging from cover. Aiming for her. She had seconds to decide her course.

Leiyn raised her bow, then blanched before their lifted weapons. She spun back away.

A quarrel whished by, close enough to rob her of breath. She waited for the second and third to follow.

They never came.

Silently railing at herself, Leiyn slid down the ashy slope and ran around the tower, searching for a fresh vantage point. The Suncoats had her previous location pinned. A new one could buy her the time needed to take them out. 

If I can steady my damned aim.

She went a score of strides away from the brunt of the fighting, the darkness hiding her movements. As she moved from the fight, her mahia seemed to settle. Cautiously, she extended her lifesense around her, watching for ambush. 

Staked barricades remained in her way, but the arbalists’ previous positions came into view. By both eyesight and magic, she detected one marksman still aiming at where she had been. Waiting for her to emerge.

Don’t botch this, Firebrand.

She held her breath as she slowly rose, arrow trained on the Suncoat’s eye. Letting the air out in a steady hiss, she quieted the clamor inside her, then loosed.

The man’s head rocked back, his crossbow cracking as its quarrel thudded uselessly against the ground.

Her mahia kicked like an overeager hunting dog, but Leiyn was ready for it. Reining it back in took only moments now. She had grown too used to the quiet. Battle calluses had peeled and torn away.

No longer. Once more, she had to numb herself to all she did.

Weaving between the spikes of the barricade, Leiyn advanced on the remaining Suncoats with a nocked arrow, lifesense picking out the two crossbowmen left, crouched and reloading. Moving behind a tent, she kept her bowstring loose, waiting for her moment.

The plainsriders stole it from her.

The Gazians roared as they broke through the Suncoat line and flooded into the camp. Altun led the charge, his limp disguised by his quick stride, his scarred face lined with fury. She watched his hammer rise and fall, crunching through the head of the first arbalist and sending a wave of darkness through the Suncoat’s lifefire. Then he was charging the second, round shield lifted as the man rose and aimed, a mere dozen paces away. Close enough for the quarrel to pierce a compromised shield and kill the man holding it.

Leiyn had drawn and loosed before she could have a second thought.

Her arrow caught the Suncoat in the throat. He fell, limp as a strawman, his life bleeding into the ground. Taking a moment to steady her reaching mahia, Leiyn turned to find Altun’s gaze on her. He gave her a nod.

Despite the reluctance plucking at her chest, she returned it.

Turning away to scan the area for any lingering foes, she found the battle was quickly concluding. With their defenses dissolved, some of the Suncoats had run, but to no avail. Their own barricades slowed them enough for a group of plainsriders to cut off their escape. Those who did not keep fighting threw down their arms and fell to their knees, hands raised in surrender.

Leiyn lowered her bow and retreated beyond the Lodge’s borders. Altun had been true to his word, but there was still opportunity for treachery. Standing amidst the tall grass covering the hill, she watched as weapons were collected and hands were bound. Less than a dozen Suncoats remained, and all looked to be wounded. She grimaced as she noticed how young some of them were, scarcely old enough to be called full-grown.

War spares none, Tadeo had said one night as the rangers prepared for potential dangers. The young least of all.

The plainsriders had suffered their own toll. Only three lay completely still, but a dozen had taken dire injuries and were being tended to. This victory had come with a great toll.

But whose victory is it?

She could help those suffering. Xepi had taught her enough of healing that she was confident she could keep all but the most grievously wounded alive.

Yet Leiyn kept her distance. None were dying, and it would put her in a compromising position besides.

There was a deeper concern. Little as she wished to admit it, her mahia had been a liability during the fight. Until she mastered this newfound sensitivity, she could not risk using it unless there was no avoiding it.

At length, Altun turned and, spotting her, picked his way across the battlefield. When he came within a dozen paces, Leiyn half-raised her bow in warning. He halted. Blood covered the leather plates of his lamellar armor and dripped from his hammer and domed shield. He stood with the sloped shoulders of the weary. Yet it spoke to his skill that his esse showed only the slightest wounds taken.

“I have done as claimed, Ranger,” he said in Ilberian. “Do you trust me now?”

Leiyn forced a low laugh. “I’ll wait to hear what the Lord Governor has to say first.”

The plainsrider nodded, seeming to have expected no less. “If you have an audience with Lord Mauricio di Siveña, tell him what happened here. Altan Gaz keeps her promises, as does the Baishin.”

Her lips curled. After all she had suffered at the hands of plainsriders, the words were too ironic not to sneer.

“And tell Premier Itzel of Folly as well,” Altun added. “She requested a report.”

“Never fear. She’ll know.”

Leiyn backed up a step. It would be better to leave before more plainsriders were freed from their duties in case they meant to pursue her. Before she had taken another, though, Altun spoke again.

“And Ranger, if you see Batu Khatas when you travel south, give him my best.”

She bared her teeth, then turned and fled into the night.

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5: The Premier of the Frontier

The leagues to Folly passed swiftly.

Leiyn had much to keep her mind occupied. The events at the Lodge spun through her head, their implications even more prescient than their horrors. The significance of the Suncoat occupation, the trustworthiness of the plainsriders, the possibility of an alliance with Altan Gaz—questions crowded her head, and she had answers to none of them.

Only that Itzel might have explanations and the prospect of seeing long-absent friends kept her sane. Soon, the mysteries would be cleared away, the mayor’s promotion included.

When she could no longer endure idle speculation, Leiyn set to practicing her mahia. The battle had revealed its deficiencies in stark detail. She could only imagine Mother Xepi’s disgust had she borne witness to them. The shaman had already been reluctant for Leiyn to depart, claiming she still had too much to learn.

“Attend to it each day,” Xepi had said before Leiyn left Qasaar. “Semah is not unlike a muscle. Neglect it or use it poorly, and your control and power will fade.”

Leiyn had promised the irascible woman as much and committed to memory techniques designed to improve her control and capacity. Yet, though she had touched upon them each day, she had not pursued the exercises with much enthusiasm.

The battle at the Lodge had changed that. Now, each day as she rode atop Feral, whether the spring rains fell or Omn showed Its blinding face, she committed herself to her training. She stretched her seeking to its limits, then sought to divine as many details about a remote lifefire as she could. Distance became murky when experienced through the magic, but from her estimations when atop a hilltop, she guessed she could sense creatures as far as three dozen leagues away, if only vaguely.

When beasts strayed nearer, she practiced manipulating their lifeforce. Confounding their senses as she had once seen Zuma do to Suncoats, she tested her abilities on deer, birds, and other critters. Once she had squirrels walking drunkenly along branches and deer bumping into trunks they had not seen, she put it to a more practical application, luring and dazzling a rabbit only to take it down with her bow. Though it saved precious time otherwise spent hunting, Leiyn could only bring herself to use it once. The trick made her feel guilty, as if it broke an unspoken vow between predator and prey.

She was still becoming sure of her magic, yet she judged her progress might have won a nod from Xepi. Though the shaman would no doubt have followed it up with a reminder.

Beasts are one thing, she imagined the shaman saying. Humans another. And the sach’aan another realm entirely.

The specter of their enemies haunted both her waking hours and her sleeping ones. Dreams of lyshans came nightly. Sometimes, Man’nah battered her apart, and Clouded Fang was not there to help her mend. Others, she would find herself in the Iritu halls to be ambushed and torn to pieces, no Ata present to rescue her.

Those moments reminded her how frail her body was, even when supplied with mahia. How vulnerable she was alone. She had only come this far through others’ aid.

A sore reminder while she traveled the Titan Wilds with no one but Feral for company.

Sharo figured prominently in her dreams as well. Often, he stood to one side, laughing as she was repeatedly slaughtered. Sometimes, he would taunt her with cryptic warnings. “‘Ware the Wither, Oldsoul. Your weakness is my strength.” The words needled her even upon waking, and though she saw little wisdom in them, she could not seem to shake the omen.

She had some thin reasons for reassurance. Ata had mentioned that lyshans would not dare cross the Silvertusks. Perhaps that remained so. Perhaps some enchanted barrier, like the one that protected Qasaar, prevented them from coming over the mountains.

Yet Sharo was devious. He might have found a way around such protections. After all, he had influenced the Caelrey and Altacura to do his bidding—at least, she assumed he had from all he had claimed. That meant he either had the means to leave the Barren, or his sorcery reached far beyond his body. Not such a far-fetched prospect considering the depths of his Inheritance and the years he’d had to expand its capacity.

Still, that she had made it this far suggested that Sharo did not wish to hunt her, or that he could not. The lyshans had suffered a grave blow, their scarce numbers decimated. Even beings as ancient as they would require time to lick their wounds. Or perhaps Sharo bided his time, allowing Ilberia and, if they were unfortunate, the other Ancestral Lands to grind down the Tricolonies before he swept in to stamp out any remaining resistance. 

Driven by her fears, Leiyn remained dogged in advancing her martial magic as well. She practiced drawing on her esse to fuel her body’s strength and speed. She grew accustomed to fighting while augmented, honing her skills to deadly efficiency. When she sustained minor injuries from wayward branches or bumping into obscured roots, she practiced healing. Her fight with Man’nah had demonstrated the swift strain from which her mahia suffered in battle. Clouded Fang could not help her if she lost the willpower to wield his font of lifeforce.

Of equal importance was her study of the scavenged Iritu artifacts. She delved into the enchantments imbued in her clothes, swords, and arrows, seeking to understand them. Even her bowstring drew her attention, having replaced the worn one on her longbow with one supplied by Qasaar’s hidden barracks.

Slowly, she identified the weaves in the lifeforce. They were remarkably similar to the knotted nature of infected wounds, though constructed in a rigid and orderly fashion. Some weaves appeared to be for toughness; these she could tell by the thickness and tightness of the pattern. Others, like in the arrowheads and sword edges, possessed killing intent. They resembled barbs in the arrowhead, the frayed tips of the weave sharp to dig in and tear. The swords were less chaotic, but still looser and more flexible than those in the clothes. Waving the blades around, they seemed to have the amplifying effect of a whip with each slash, making each strike deadlier still.

Other weaves, such as those in the talismans, defied her comprehension. Though she studied them in the darkness when dreams had denied her sleep, she could not understand how each motif created its effect. They remained as mysterious as magic was to those devoid of its touch.

Her most vital artifacts were the amber beads Xepi had gifted her. Filled with esse, they provided a source of lifeforce when all others failed. Despite their small size, Leiyn had been surprised by how much esse they held, the ten together containing as much as an entire tree.

Even with all these tools, she feared it would not be enough. Soon, she would have to confirm she could draw upon Clouded Fang—or other titans—as she ought to be able. For the moment, she was spared the necessity, and her journey proceeded swiftly.

Following the old ranger paths, she noticed how already they were becoming overgrown. Grass sprouted where hooves and feet had once trampled the ground to dirt. Leiyn paused at parts, taking in the slow decay. Yet another reminder that, even after the wars were through, life here would never be the same.

Nor would she.

* * *

After a week of travel, Folly’s walls came into view. The guard admitted her on sight with a gap-toothed grin. Leiyn returned it hesitantly as she led Feral inside.

She braced herself for the press of lifeforce, but after her time at Qasaar, Folly’s population was easy to bear. Perhaps, in time, even Southport could become endurable. Not that she ever wished to spend enough time in the capital to find out.

She went straight for the town hall, where a groom took Feral to the stables. A servant ushered Leiyn to the parlor and poured her a glass of brandy before departing.

Barely had she had time to fidget before Itzel walked in. Leiyn turned and raised her glass toward her.

“I hear you deserve a toast, Premier.”

The former mayor paused, eyes flickering from the cup to Leiyn’s face. “I would accept one. Though I’m surprised you’ve already heard the news.”

Leiyn took another swig of brandy. The alcohol burned pleasantly as it went down. After months of Gast liquor, it was a delight to indulge in Baltesian brandy once more.

“Rangers hear everything,” she said with false cheer. “I thought you of all people would remember that.”

A smile flitted across Itzel’s lips. She moved to Leiyn to press her arm, firm but friendly. “I do. And I’m sure you have questions for me. First, let me say how glad I am you survived your trip north. From Isla’s report, it sounded a… laborious task.”

All she had suffered at the hands of lyshans flashed through Leiyn’s mind. Though her broken bones and torn flesh had healed, each injury remained in her memory. Wounds of the mind were ever slower to heal.

She drained her glass and set it down hard, then began pouring another.

“You could say that,” she said finally. Setting down the decanter, she straightened with her cup in hand and met Itzel’s gaze. “So Isla and Batu made it this far, at least?”

“You need not fear for them—I’ve report they arrived at Southport. But please, sit. There’s much to tell you, and I would hear what you have to say.”

Leiyn glanced at Itzel sidelong. “A report for my premier?”

“For a friend first, I hope.”

Smiling, Leiyn sauntered over to the adjacent chair and slouched down in it, watching the amber liquid as she swirled it around the glass. “I’m glad the position hasn’t gone to your head yet. Care to explain how you were promoted?”

Itzel pursed her lips. “There isn’t much to say. Lord Mauricio heard of our efforts here on the frontier and wished to express his appreciation. My elevation to premier formally places me in charge of all the land beyond the Gorge de Omn within our borders.”

“Quite the responsibility.” Leiyn looked at the premier over her glass. “That’s more land than lies to the south of the canyon. How far does your ambition extend, Premier?”

“Please, Leiyn.” The older woman’s face grew drawn. “I know you enjoy needling figures of authority. But, for this night, I’d appreciate if we pretended like these were old times. If we were like before all this began.”

Sometimes, Leiyn forgot Itzel’s age. For a woman in her late forties, she seemed to possess every bit as much vitality as Leiyn. Her esse certainly burned strongly enough. Yet her years showed in her furrowed brow, in the gray along her forehead and temples, the pinch around her mouth. The realization softened Leiyn’s suspicion—if only slightly.

“Sorry. I heard about you becoming a premier from the last people I wanted to come across.” She watched the premier, gauging her reaction. “From plainsriders.” 

Itzel did not flinch or show other signs Leiyn would take for duplicity. Instead, she sighed. 

“I wondered if that was it. Explains your attitude, at least.”

Leiyn bit back a retort, refusing to act as combative as the premier made her out to be. “It’s true, then? That they’re fighting on our behalf, at your request?”

“Yes. I know, Leiyn,” Itzel rushed to say as Leiyn stirred. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what they did to you. But Baltesia needs allies. We need Altan Gaz. I’m sure our Lord Governor is keenly aware of that fact. The Greathouse moorwarden is in Southport even now, negotiating for acceptable terms of agreement. Last I heard, the prospect of an alliance across the Tricolonies looked promising.”

Leiyn forced her jaw to relax. “I understand that. But an ally you cannot trust isn’t worth much. I’m guessing this ‘moorwarden’ is named Taban? Taban Khyan?”

“Yes.” The premier seemed to read the emotions flitting across Leiyn’s face. “People come into power in many different ways, some right and some wrong. But when we need their cooperation, it won’t do to dredge up the past. We must look to the future.”

“If you say so.” Bitterness laced her every word. “And what of their previous agreement with Armando Pótecil? Or has that, too, been swept under the rug?”

“No. We have not forgotten, nor will we. But with the conqueror’s fall, it seems Master Taban has reconsidered his options and been swayed by our offer.”

An edge gathered in Itzel’s voice. Better than the weariness, to Leiyn’s mind. Even if it threatened to cut.

“And what exactly is that?” Leiyn pressed.

“Concessions of land. Gifts of coin. Special trade agreements.” The premier waved a hand like banishing an unpleasant odor. “I’ll spare you the details. From what I understand, the governor strives to give as little as he can. But for Altan Gaz to defy the Ancestral Lands, some sacrifices must be expected. As Tadeo used to say, ‘The least given for the most gained.’”

Thinking of Tadeo—killed and burned on the orders of the same conqueror with whom Taban had briefly allied—soured Leiyn’s mood further. She downed the rest of her second glass and stood to fetch a third, striving to leash her temper.

Itzel spoke into the silence. “Of the plainsriders’ task—do you know if they succeeded?”

“If you mean clearing out the Suncoats from the Lodge’s grounds, then yes.” She cast a rueful smile in Itzel’s direction. “In fact, I helped them.”

“Did you?” The premier narrowed her eyes. “Without killing Gazians, I trust?”

“None this time. The Suncoats were the more obvious enemy.” Her glass full, Leiyn moved back to her chair and perched on the edge. Though she had traveled all that day, she was already beginning to twitch with restlessness. All this talk of war had her itching to return to the road. The only way she could ensure her friends were safe was if she was back in Southport herself.

Itzel took another sip of brandy. “Very well. You have my thanks for lending your aid. With those Ilberian soldiers gone, the borderlands are clear of their presence.”

Her chest loosened. “That’s welcome news,” she admitted.

“If only the war proceeded as well on other fronts.”

“The coast doesn’t fare well?”

“Not nearly as well. At last report, Ilberians have made landfall at several locations up and down our coastline. Each will be heavily fortified and backed by enough manpower to be impossible for us to rout. Yet, at least.” Itzel took another long drink. “From these, they’ll have access points to march deeper into our territory—or the other colonies, should it suit their strategy.”

“Marvelous,” Leiyn said drily. “And the cities?”

“Southport suffers an embargo. Most of the Armada surrounds Anchor’s Refuge. They say the sea is so dark with them the sun no longer touches the waves.”

Leiyn snorted a laugh. “What poet said that?”

“The governor, actually. He’s always had a floral hand.”

Despite her doubts to its truth, Leiyn could not help picturing the scene. Were they a score? Two score? A hundred? The Ilberian Armada was famed across Unera for its might. The Tricolonies could not hope to match it.

A titan could even the odds. 

Trepidation trilled through her. Though she had located a kraken in Southport’s bay and controlled it enough to kill the treacherous conqueror, that scant victory had ended with Zuma’s death and nearly destroyed every Baltesian ship in the harbor. She had progressed much since then, but even now, could she leash it as she had Clouded Fang? A spark of the shaman might still be with her, but Zuma could not save her if she failed again.

Ignoring a thing does not make it go away.

Tadeo’s old words came to her, as they so often did. Face it head on. Normally, the memory of his advice brought comfort. Now, it only awoke the terror of letting him down.

I’ll try, Tadeo. I’ll try my damnedest.

Itzel heaved a sigh, drawing Leiyn from her thoughts. “And then there’s the trouble between our own people.”

“Between our people? What is it now?”

“A division of loyalties.” The premier eyed her with pursed lips. “You didn’t think everyone would forget our Ilberian roots, did you?”

Leiyn shrugged. The night the Lodge fell was burned into her mind. Where her loyalties laid was never in question.

The premier seemed to glimpse her thoughts, for she shook her head with a small smile. “Why am I not suprised? Since you’ll be riding through the thick of it, allow me to appraise you of it. Here on the frontier, those most loyal to Baltesia have started calling themselves ‘Freefolk.’ They’re no more than a loose coalition spread across the territory, but they’re aligned in their purpose: rooting out and opposing the Unionists, or ‘Goldbloods’ as they call them, those still outspoken in their support for the Ilberian Union.”

Leiyn sipped her brandy. “Doesn’t sound such a bad thing. Can’t have traitors in our midst.”

“Ah, but that is precisely the question: Are they traitors? How should they be punished, if they should? Who should administer the punishment? If the law is in the hands of every man and woman, the tyranny of mobs is not long in following. It is no longer Gasts who suffer hangings without due process and judgment, but anyone deemed disloyal to our cause.” Itzel raised her gaze to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “That is not the freedom I am fighting for, nor the country I wish to create.”

Leiyn followed the premier’s gaze to the mantel to see a wooden carving centered atop it, one of a howling wolf. She would have recognized its carver’s style anywhere.

Tadeo.

Little wonder why Itzel looked to him in this moment. The lodgemaster had possessed an unwavering sense of justice, even in cases where the lines between truth and lie became blurred. He had done his best to instill those same lessons in his rangers, and Leiyn liked to think he had succeeded with her. Even if a few of them had taken a long while to sink in.

Justice must not fall so swiftly it was uncertain. It should be decided by the weight of evidence, not by the noose or knife. The times her arrow had flown in the face of those principles cut at her now. Her bleeding errors only made her more resolved to correct them moving forward.

Leiyn looked back to the premier. “Nor I,” she murmured. “For my part, I will make sure our codes of law are upheld.”

Itzel smiled at her, a fond crinkle to her eyes. “I know you will. But enough about Baltesia. Tell me of your mission beyond the mountains. Isla was vague on the details, though I understand there is some… greater threat?”

“There was.” Is, a part of her pointed out, but Leiyn ignored it. “It’s taken care of. And the Many Tribes are now our allies.”

Itzel stared at her a moment longer before loosing a surprised laugh. “You should have said so from the start! Never thought I’d see the day that Leiyn Firebrand would negotiate an alliance with the Gasts.”

A reluctant smile won free of Leiyn. She wondered what the premier would say at her having an intimate relationship with a Gast. For the moment, she kept it to herself. Perhaps later, she would feel comfortable bringing those personal matters to light.

“Nor I,” she voiced aloud.

“When will they march? In what numbers? How many shamans will they bring? Lord Mauricio is eager for these details. I’ll send the postriders ahead of you with a summary so he may know what to expect as soon as possible.”

Leiyn opened her mouth to answer, then was surprised she could not. Only then did she realize how many of the specifics she had overlooked in the final negotiations with the Tetrad. She remembered Acalan mentioning Qasaar housing two thousand warriors and scouts, but she did not know precisely how many would come to Baltesia’s aid.

However many they were, she knew they would come. She trusted Acalan—to make no mention of Teya—too deeply to believe they would not honor their word. It helped that they stood to gain from complying with their agreement.

The mayor watched her, impatiently awaiting her answer. 

“Five hundred,” Leiyn settled upon. Better to promise less than more. “They’ll arrive by autumn.”

Itzel waited a beat before prompting, “And the shamans?”

“Ah… none.”

“None.” The premier’s eyes went flat. “They believe they can claim part of the Titan Wilds for five hundred warriors alone? And you made this promise to them, Ranger Leiyn?”

“Don’t ‘Ranger Leiyn’ me.” Leiyn gripped her cup tightly enough that the glass protested. With an effort, she set it down on the table between them. “The enemy beyond the mountains decimated their shamans, even more than we did during the Titan War. They have none to spare. And the Many Tribes bring more than just warriors. They wield artifacts imbued with ancient magic. Artifacts such as the ones I wear.”

Itzel scanned her Iritu garb with a hard gaze. “Those? They appear ordinary to me, if a touch outlandish.”

“But you don’t possess mahia, do you?” Leiyn exhaled, trying to rein in her temper. “There’s more. I received training while I stayed in their city. I can”—she tried to find the right words—“do as their shamans have done in the past. I can command titans.”

It had been uncomfortable to first reveal she possessed Wilds magic to Itzel. Knowing the news would reach Folly eventually—Leiyn’s role in the revolution had been too prominent to hope otherwise—she had broken the news herself on the journey north. The then-mayor had accepted it calmly, devoid of any astonishment. It made her wonder if Tadeo had known more about her magic than he had let on and confided those suspicions in his beloved.

The skepticism Leiyn had expected then now showed on Itzel’s face. “You have a shaman’s abilities?”

“Yes.” Leiyn did not let her gaze waver. She refused to show the premier her doubts. She could still command titans. She had to.

“Very well.” Though she plainly did not believe it, Itzel waved a hand. “But you are only one, Leiyn, and new to these… abilities. The Union has hundreds of odiosas, and Saints only know how many priestesses possess similar powers.”

Leiyn could tolerate it no longer. Draining her glass, she stood. The brandy had gone to her head, but she made sure to appear steady.

“I know, Itzel. I know the odds are poor. But this is all we have.”

The premier stood with her, leaving her glass on the table. The tension seemed to have left her shoulders as she stepped closer and rested her hands on Leiyn’s forearms.

“I know you did all you could. Never doubt I know that. I have seen you too long through Tadeo’s eyes to believe you would give less than your all.”

Leiyn met her eyes. A mistake—her own began stinging. Looking aside, she blinked rapidly. Part of her longed to pull away. Another part wished Itzel would hold her like the mother she had never known.

The premier did neither. Instead, she ran her hands down to grip Leiyn’s own. “I expect you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yes. In the morning.”

“Then come and eat with me. We’ll speak of happier things. But before we do, Leiyn, make me a promise.”

The woman’s words drew Leiyn’s gaze back to her.

“For Tadeo’s sake—and mine—don’t fight this war on your own. I know how you can be. How you believe you must bear your burdens alone. But you’re not alone. You have your friends, the governor. You have me. Accept help when it’s offered. Don’t make me fear more for you.”

Though she had longed for motherly comfort only moments before, Leiyn hardened to it now. Squeezing the premier’s hands, she pried hers away.

“Don’t worry about me, Itzel. I’ve stayed alive this long.”

Itzel only gave her a long, studying look before leading the way out of the parlor.

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6: Freefolk

The jays still chirped their morning songs by the time Leiyn rode Feral out of Folly’s south gate.

“Kill a Suncoat for me!” the young guard posted there shouted after her. “Or two, if you can!”

“I’ll make it three!” With a last wave, she turned and coaxed her mare to a trot.

Her head still ached from one too many brandies with Itzel the night before, but the fresh air soon settled it. With her mahia open and aware of lifeforms leagues afar, Leiyn rode Feral at her ease. Even the irascible horse was mild-mannered, not making a single attempt to unseat her rider.

It being early in the season, she encountered few passersby that first day. Only the most enterprising—or deluded—of merchants braved the trip north when chance snows might fall. As a second and third day passed, the traffic grew thicker. Leiyn admired the folks trudging over the muddy road, mules and wagons in tow. By their looks, few were trained to defend themselves, yet they persisted in their livelihoods, war and weather be damned. It was for that Baltesian spirit that she pushed south each day.

On the fourth day, a glimpse of bushes alongside the road caught Leiyn’s attention. Smiling, she dismounted and led Feral over.

“See what we have here, old girl? Crebberries!”

To the untrained eye, the fruit would look far from ripe. But that shade of deep green was exactly how crebberries were supposed to be.

She popped a few of the berries off and held them out to the horse, keeping her fingers straight to avoid tempting the mare to bite them. Feral was suspicious, snuffing the emerald orbs for a moment before slurping them up.

With a wry chuckle, Leiyn rubbed the horse saliva from her gloves onto her trousers—the Iritu magic would soon take care of the mess—then picked off some for herself. Sour, spicy, and sweet all at once. Her eyes watered from the first mouthful. 

The mare nudged her for more. Yet halfway through another helping, Feral raised her head and skirted sideways. Leiyn stiffened, scanning their surroundings and reaching for her bow. For all Feral’s faults, her mare was not skittish. Even if she had not sensed danger herself, she heeded her horse’s fears.

Only then did she see him.

Dead—she could readily see that without mahia. Swinging from the tree positioned at the crossroads just ahead, crows had already plucked out his eyes and were working on the rest of him. Flies buzzed about the body, loud and busy to ears and lifesense. Judging by his state, he had been recently killed; a few days gone, at most.

Leiyn checked carefully with her lifesense, but the nearest esses were a league down the road. A small village, she guessed. Still, she moved with the same care as if predators lingered just out of sight.

“You can stay,” she murmured to Feral, giving the horse a comforting nudge with her mahia before padding toward the corpse, unstrung bow in hand.

Reaching the spot, she stood before the gently spinning cadaver. He looked to have been a young man, well-built and tanned from a life spent outdoors. His clothes, simple and homespun, showed him to have humble origins. Wet as the spring had been, the body reeked with rot.

A sign hung from his neck, looped over the noose. Painted upon it in a scrawling hand and with poor spelling were two words: Goldblud Pyser.

Goldblood pisser. It should have been reassuring. A show of loyalty to the colony winning out over allegiance to the Crown. Yet Leiyn’s frown only deepened.

She studied the body closer. His clothes bespoke of field labor rather than travel. No rifled belongings spilled at his feet. He had not gone far from his home before meeting his end. Unless roves of Baltesian fanatics roamed the Frontier Road that she had not heard tell of, it left one conclusion.

This had been a local boy. A farmer’s son. And his neighbors had killed him.

She stared at the corpse, mind turning as slowly as his body. No doubt the so-called “Freefolk” that Iztel had told her about were behind this. She wondered what the boy had said or done to warrant his fate. Surely, it took more than conviction to condemn someone you had known your whole life.

Back on the road north, Feral shifted, impatient to leave the morbid scene. Still, it was a long time before Leiyn sighed and turned away. Much as she wanted to cut the boy down and bury him, good reason prevailed.

Best not to piss off the locals yet.

She was comforted that Gast custom was to let bodies lie out in the wilderness, to give of their flesh to the world that once sustained them. It was the best good his body could do now. Enough of her remained an Omnist, though, to be uncomfortable at leaving the dead to rot.

Leiyn mounted Feral and kept moving south, but her thoughts remained on the swinging corpse. This was where wars began and ended: neighbors pitted against one another. Lives and homes destroyed over ideas. All of them pieces moving to strings, never seeing the hands hovering over them.

Another tally against you, Sharo. Her hands clutched Feral’s reins. Another debt you’ll pay in full.

The threats rang hollow even in her head. After all, a ranger could not hit a target that never showed.

* * *

She meant to pass through the nearby village—Carmenar, according to its entrance archway. But with a fresh drizzle starting and evening creeping closer, she resigned herself to entering the single inn, whose weathered sign declared it to be “the Gourd and Corn.”

Just to sleep, she told herself as she handed over Feral to the stableboy. I’ll keep my nose clean.

Stepping inside, Leiyn found the inn’s name to be fresh paint on a rotten interior. The stink of it, sour and acrid, almost drove her back into the rain. A banked fire was the only light with the windows boarded against the weather. Water had stained the wooden walls, a promise that rot had long set into them. A drip fell in the far corner, a bucket positioned to catch it. As Leiyn moved to the counter, the planks creaked with each step, even with her light footfall.

It was a wonder the place remained standing.

“Small beer,” Leiyn asked of the barkeep, a skinny man with a miraculous head of hair for his age. After she handed over Union coppers, the man stared at them, then scooted them back across.

“Colony coins only.”

Leiyn studied him. His manner remained mild, but there was a determined cast to his lifefire. He was deadly serious.

“Coin is coin, isn’t it?” She took one copper and tapped it on the counter. “Made of the same stuff.”

“Colony coins or nothing.”

“Here, lass. I’ll trade you.”

Leiyn tensed as the man seated at the table behind her stood and made his way over. A rancher, telling by his wide-brimmed straw hat, though farmers had also begun adopting the fashion. He was fine-featured for his profession, hard labor only roughening him around the edge. His eyes were bright in the firelight.

Thinks himself pretty, no doubt.

The man withdrew a few coppers of an unfamiliar design. Leiyn peered at them, ensuring they were of similar thickness, before shrugging and making the trade. The barkeep accepted these new coins without comment, then fetched her drink.

“Join me,” the man said as he returned to his table. “It’s too gloomy a day to sit alone.”

Leiyn thought of refusing. She had been around enough men of his ilk to guess his intent. She doubted she would have been agreeable even if she was inclined toward the male persuasion.

But the dead youth swung in her mind’s eye, hollow sockets staring. Accusing.

She sat at his table, setting down her saddlebags next to her. The man raked his eyes over her for a long moment before speaking. 

“The name’s Emilio. Yours?”

Giving her name went against both her mood and purpose. Still, if she meant to coax him into conversation, she had to give him something.

“We’ll see if you earn it.”

It snagged him like a hook would a hungry fish. Grinning, he leaned forward. “I bet I can. Well then, what brings you to Carmenar? Few like you pass through.”

“Wouldn’t think many pass through at all, these days especially.” Realizing she had to give some straight answers, Leiyn added, “I’m coming from Folly.”

“Folly? Right at the edge of nowhere, that town. Never been, though you hear tales. Do all ladies there wear such odd clothes?”

“Some.” If he did not already know, she saw no need to enlighten him, and even less the benefit of divulging her garb’s Iritu origins.

Emilio eyed her. Hungry still, but growing wary. “What were you doing up there?”

Leiyn sipped her drink and forced herself to swallow. Weak as the flavor was, it left behind a vile film in her mouth. But it would not kill her—which was more than she could say for the water, had she chanced it.

“It’s my home,” she lied. “I’m south on an errand for my aunt.”

“Must be some errand to send a young girl all this way on her own.”

Young girl. Leiyn would have snorted at that any other time. Instead, she forced a smile and hoped it did not look as brittle as it felt.

“It is. Came across a sight that gave me a startle a league back, though. Someone left a man hanging.”

The rancher leaned back, his smile disappearing. “Serves him right. Goldblood pisser.”

Leiyn’s pulse quickened. She had only thought to squeeze him for information, not to find herself in this position.

Sitting across the table from one of the murderers.

“You knew him?” she asked cautiously.

“Knew him?” Emilio harrumphed and looked about to spit on the floor, then swallowed with a look at the inn’s proprietor. “Francesc lived next door.”

“What happened?”

The rancher opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes narrowed. “You came here with Crown coins.”

Leiyn kept still. She did not fear him. Not only did she doubt his martial prowess, but her magic would be more than enough to overwhelm any he might possess. Even the half-dozen others in the room were of little consequence, though their attention made the hair on her neck stand on end. Still, it was instinctual to brace before a larger creature’s ire.

“As I said, it’s all I had. Not from lack of loyalty to the colony—we just haven’t gotten any others so far north.” She forced her rigid shoulders into a shrug. “I’m Baltesian, through and through.”

The rancher did not move for a moment longer, then he smiled and leaned forward. “’Course you are. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

His hands shifted to lie in the center of the table. Leiyn moved hers away from her cup. She wanted to appear friendly, not give him hope where it could only founder.

“The Goldblood pisser?” she prompted.

The man cleared his throat. “Bastard set to sabotaging the town like a damned ferino. Set my cattle free. Spoiled Teppo’s larder with rats. But the barn was the last straw.”

It was growing harder and harder to pretend affability with this man. Ferino had once rolled off her tongue as easily as any curse. Now, it stank as the foulest of insults. But for the moment, curiosity triumphed over distaste.

“The barn?”

“He burned it. Burned it even with all Ruy’s livestock in there. Can you believe it? Stole away the goodman’s livelihood in a night. Damn near burned down his house, too, and his family in it, on account of the sparks. If the rain hadn’t come…”

“How’d you know it was him?”

The rancher stared at her. “We knew, alright? He was always going on about ‘Union’ this and ‘Union’ that. And we’d caught him at stuff before. The boy had it coming. Even his parents must’ve seen that.”

Leiyn imagined the parents. How it must feel to know their son swung in plain sight of the open road and be able to do nothing about it.

“We?” she repeated. “So it wasn’t just you?”

It was a question too far. Emilio stared at her, shallow charisma melting away. “What’s it to you? You ask a lot of questions, girl. And you still haven’t given me your name.”

Leiyn placed her hands back on the table, flat against the wood. She sensed the stares of the others in the room. If her time as a ranger had taught her nothing, it was that resistance was best nipped in the bud.

This called for a show of force.

“Who I am doesn’t matter. It’s who I know that should make you worry.”

“Is that right? And who’s that?”

“Premier Itzel.” She let the name fill the silent room. “Surely you’ve heard of her? All that happens here is within her jurisdiction. And the murder of one of her citizens would make her very interested. As would the name of the man behind it.”

The rancher jolted to his feet, looming over her, calloused hands bunched into fists. But though his esse writhed with anger, she knew the fear that fueled it.

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep, girl,” the man growled. “We don’t abide by Goldblood pissers here.”

“And I don’t abide by murderers.” Slowly, Leiyn rose as well. The other villagers were standing, too, though none came closer or took up weapons. She rested her hands on the hilts of her falchions. “I meant what I said; I’m loyal to Baltesia. But I also carry out her justice.”

“Is that right?” Emilio sneered. “Think I should fear a young girl’s knives?”

“You would if you’ve heard of rangers.”

“Rangers!” The rancher barked a laugh. “They’re dead, you dumb chit! Suncoats burned them all. You won’t pull the wool over my eyes with that Legion-shit lie.”

Leiyn stared hard at him. Once, his words would have been enough to incite her to violence, or at least the threat of it. But she had seen enough death this day. And she remembered all too well the pain of each life being snuffed out on the ashes of the Wilds Lodge.

“You and your comrades are in luck,” she said, each word measured. “I’m in a hurry at the moment. But once I come back through, I wouldn’t count on being so fortunate.”

“You think you’ll come back through?” But even the outraged rancher seemed to have caught on to his peril. His eyes flitted over her figure once more. This time, he seemed to notice all the weapons she bore and the familiar way she carried them.

“I do.” Leiyn cast her gaze across the room. “If those behind Francesc’s killing are still here, it’ll be their bodies hanging at the crossroads.”

If there was going to be an attack, she expected it then. But though Emilio panted with rage, and the others across the room stared resentfully at her, all remained where they stood.

Cautiously, Leiyn bent to pick up her saddlebags and bow. Channeling a bit of her esse for strength, she showed the ease with which she carried them, reinforcing the impression that she was not one to be trifled with. Then, drink mostly untouched, she walked unhurriedly toward the door. Her lifesense tracked the men even as her eyes left them. None moved to assault her back.

“Clear out!” she called over her shoulder before stepping out into the rain.