“They give me no choice,” he said in his official declaration.
The sanctions came down like an executioner’s sword.
No one was to send the scrublands aid. No one was to give them loans. And no one was to engage with them in any form of trade—from the heart of the capital to the port city of Darmoor.
And all the while, the white harvest spread. Their stores and granaries depleted and lay empty. Before livestock could starve to death, they were slaughtered. Their meat dried and shared with those who had the least access to food. For three more years, Firgaard turned its back while scrublanders starved. Mothers, unable to feed their children, were forced to give them up. Fathers left to find work across the desert or the sea, sending what they could back home to their families.
Those who stayed behind refused to give in. They gleaned what they could of their harvests, eating the small portions of grain that weren’t diseased. They fished and hunted. They took in their neighbors’ children and gave what little food they had to those who needed it most.
They survived.
And their anger grew.
Four
Roa woke to a loud, persistent sound.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
She sat up in Dax’s bedroll, alone. The sun was bright against the canvas tent, giving it a honey-colored glow, and the temperature was rising.
That sound—like someone banging two pots together—quickened.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Odd,thought Roa, raising her hands to her ears.They must be—
A blood-chilling scream stopped her thoughts.
Scrambling out of the bedroll, Roa dashed out of the tent in her bare feet.
She saw them immediately: two dragons. One the color of brown scrubland rock, the other a pale gold the color of wheat. Each of them was twice the size of a horse, horns twisted for goring, wings spread wide as they approached thehorses. Horses that were rearing and screaming, their eyes rolling in panic.
They couldn’t run. Their ropes kept them tied.
On the other side of the horses stood the source of the clanging. Just outside the cook’s tent, next to an open fire, stood her brother Jas. One hand held an iron pot, the other held an iron spoon. He beat that pot with all his strength, his attention fixed on the predators, trying to scare them off.
He knew as well as Roa just how badly they needed those horses.
The sound was near deafening. The dragons shook their heads, but it didn’t stop them. They prowled closer. Within heartbeats, they would be within range, their knifelike talons ripping into horse flanks.
Roa couldn’t let that happen.
Jas’s attention wavered, catching sight of his sister. Seeing what she was about to do.
“Roa, no!”
But Roa was already drawing her sister’s knife and running for the horses.
She grabbed hold of the rope and brought the knife down hard, sawing back and forth, praying to the Skyweaver—who was good at severing things—to help her.
The rope was too thick. It burned her hand and fought against her blade. And all the while, the dragons drew nearer.
Snap!
The rope broke. The horses bolted, running straight past Jas and between the tents, leaving Roa alone and unprotected.
She looked up. The dragons stood over her now, hissing and clicking, their forked tails thrashing. They spread their wings, big as sails, and Roa gaped at the translucent membranes where the sunlight glowed through.
