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“What?” Yusuf shrieked.

Ryn raced down the slope onto the stone plain as the light above the palace beat its wings, sending wind over the sand and filling Ryn’s chest with a cry. The music hummed in her ears, rolling down her limbs, crashing into the enemy as she raised her sword and swung with a strength that sent the first soldier flying backward through the hoard. She stared in astonishment as a flash of metal swung beside her—Heva.

A curved B’rei Mira blade soared toward Ryn’s throat; she stumbled backward as she blocked and thrust her heel into the man’s stomach. He scooted far across the stone as if light as a feather, making several enemy fighters blink in surprise. Ryn blinked in surprise, too.

Grunts and clanging filled the rock. Ryn looked over to find her division engaged in battle: Faro shrieked and ducked, almost impaled by a spear until another prisoner slashed the enemy’s ankles to save him. Heva dropped a man into a heap and spun to stab the next one. Beyond, Yusuf batted away a red-feathered spear. Shadows flew everywhere, overhead in circles, a torrent of chilly wind trying to cling on against the overwhelming rush of air coming from the white light beating its wings above the palace. Three B’rei Mira fighters fell over unprovoked like they’d tripped on something they couldn’t see. Ryn panted, her eyes darting back and forth over the fight, her ears filled with the foreign B’rei Mira tongue as they shouted to each other.

An enormous B’rei Mira warrior in brass armour came running for her, and she swung her sword toward the black haze shivering around his torso like a shield. It shattered like glass.

6

RYN

Once, ‘real’ had been a term Ryn used for things she could touch and feel: flowers, books, pies, gardens. Things she didn’t realize until adulthood were maybe less real than she thought.

Now, ‘real’ was a term priestesses used to describe what others couldn’t see. ‘Real’ was a world of spirits and principalities more certain than the very ground Ryn had been walking on her whole life. The priestesses claimed that everything else was the illusion.

A man in rich purple robes raced from the palace with a sword in his hand, brushing by the white pillars. Five others in servants’ attire sprinted after him with sand shovels, torches, and pitchforks. Ryn watched them plunge into the battle and throw men in red B’rei Mira kilts and armour to the ground. One, then two, three, four, five. Ryn didn’t stop longer to watch, didn’t pause to take a full breath. She shoved a B’rei Mira soldier into a hillside, her chest heaving as she spun back, bracing herself for the next one.

Bodies moved in her vision, but Ryn hesitated, seeing only beige prison attire. Her gaze fell to the dozens of B’rei Mira soldiers in red and brass littering the ground, many with bare chests and broken spears around them. The men and women of Burn Division Twelve stood with glassy eyes, clutching old swords with quivering hands and panting. Yusuf vomited, a loud sickly sound over the rocks. Ryn blinked, then blinked again, still waiting for the next enemy, her hand choking her sword handle in a tight fist.

Across the flat, it was Faro who said what none of them were willing to believe. “We won…” he rasped. Still, no one spoke. No one moved. And then, “We won!” He pumped his fist into the air as he shouted it over the hills, as he screamed it again. Ryn’s gaze darted to Heva as the rest of the men cried out in unison, grabbing each other into hugs, some sobbing as they fell to their knees.

Heva’s dry lips spread into a grin beneath speckles of blood on her face, blood that wasn’t hers.

Ryn expected to wake up on the Mother City prison floor, to open her eyes and see the drips of moisture on the dark cave ceiling, because this had to be a dream. She watched Heva thrust both fists toward the heavens like Faro and jump into the crowd of cheering inmates, crying out the shock of the victory.

Ryn dragged her eyes up to the palace. The giant white light was gone now, along with the shadows. All was still in the skies, apart from the rising sound of four dozen criminals in dirty clothes hollering, jumping up and down, and dancing. A noble in purple stood among them, a tear racing down his cheek. He bit down on quivering lips, then he shouted in triumph along with Burn Division Twelve.

Ryn turned toward the hills, wondering if the Per-Siana soldiers who hid there with their bows loaded had seen what had happened. The fight had only lasted a few minutes—even she couldn’t explain that. She was suddenly grabbed. Faro hoisted her into the air, hugging her waist and spinning as he sang an off-key Weylin song she didn’t know, making her sword slip from her grip and clatter to the ground. Ryn sputtered a strange, unexpected laugh when he nearly lost his balance.

“My lady!” The nobleman approached Ryn, his sandals kicking through dust. A garden of black hair was tucked wildly into a bronze band resting off tilt around his forehead. He passed his sword to a servant behind him as he stared at Ryn with glowing eyes. Half the prisoners slumped into the dirt around them, catching their breath. Yusuf stared up at the sky, traces of illness staining his tunic.

“I’m not noble,” Ryn said to the man. “You don’t have to call me a lady.” She wasn’t sure why she went through the trouble of saying it. Maybe she just wanted to be clear from the start.

The nobleman grabbed her hands anyway, his fingers clean and soft with perfectly manicured nails. His purple robes ruffled, brushing Ryn’s legs when he came in close enough for her to smell his perfumes. “I was left for dead, trapped inside for over a month!” He turned his head and murmured something to his servants in another language. One raced into the palace and came out a minute later hauling a large burlap bag.

“This is one of my most prized possessions,” the nobleman said as the servant set the bag before Ryn with a sharp clattering sound. “I made it for my late wife, but I want you to have it!”

The servant tugged the mouth of the bag open before Ryn could think to accept or turn it down. Murmurs broke out through Burn Division Twelve and every criminal leaned in closer to see when something gold glimmered inside. Faro even whistled.

But Ryn shook her head and tugged her fingers out of his soft grip. She took a step backward, bumping into Faro standing behind her. “I can’t accept this. I don’t even have a way to carry gold around.”

“You won’t be carrying it,” the nobleman laughed, showing off clean white teeth. “You’ll be wearing it! What kind of a commander dresses like this?” He scowled down at Ryn’s oily, stain-covered clothes. “I can’t let you roam about in such garments after you saved my life.” He reached into the bag when Ryn didn’t and pulled out a gilded face mask, shinier than the gold artwork she’d seen even in the King’s palace. It captured the daylight like the surface of water.

“It’s armour!” Heva yelled, reaching into the bag herself. Ryn eyed the mask—a sparkling triangle with wings out the sides and other fine details fit for a rich noble. She shifted her footing.

“What’s your name?” the nobleman asked, drawing Ryn’s gaze off the bag of treasures as Heva dragged out a pair of greaves attached to boots with absurdly high heels and held them up with a questioning look.

Ryn bit the end of her tongue, not sure if ‘Ryn’ was right anymore. Not when Burn Division Twelve was already calling her Adassah. “My name is Adassah Cahana,” she decided. An Adriel name from beginning to end. The sort of name Damon thought belonged to a disgusting pig.

“I’m Liothin Karimi,” the nobleman said, then he tilted his head and scratched the bronze band. “Cahana,” he mulled.

Ryn answered the question he didn’t ask. “I’m an Adriel.”

There was a weighty pause as it settled in, to the nobleman, and to any prisoners around Ryn who hadn’t figured it out by now. Then, Liothin Karimi’s face broke into a smile, showing his neat teeth again. “Wear my armour for me, Adassah Cahana. Represent Per-Siana in it. And tell anyone who asks that you got it from me.”

Ryn glanced down at herself. She was shorter than the average maiden, and even with all Heva’s training in the palace, she’d never gotten the impressive muscles Heva had. She was sure it would take a lot more than a suit of armour to fix her.