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“We have evidence of unauthorized use of ikonomancy in the area. Please stay calm”—he grimaces as Jem lets out another groan—“and assilentas possible. I remind you that we, the Wardana, are here to protect. Unauthorized use of ikons is extremely dangerous, and we are duty-bound to protect the public from rogue, untrained ikonomancers.”
Dalca and the slinky, good-looking one enter as Casvian drones on, every word of his speech perfectly rehearsed.
“Please.” Amma steps in front of me. “Come in. Whatever you need.”
They see only a frail old woman, white hair tied in a tidy bun, shoulders bowed under a worn shawl, a smile framed by deep lines etched inchestnut skin, once-dark eyes filmy with age, hands trembling around the head of her cane. Amma shoots me a glance, and I read the warning in her gaze:If they see you as an ant, be an ant. Don’t give them a reason to look at you.
“I’m so sorry,” I grit through my teeth, ducking my head and stepping aside. “The stormtouched are fragile, but I’m sure you’ll be careful.”
Casvian pushes past us with a snort. The prince’s eyes slip from my face without acknowledgment. I am too far beneath him for him to even pretend to see me. I glower at him, daring him to meet my gaze. If he has guts enough to barge into my home, he’d better have the bravery to look into my eyes as he does it.
As if he heard my thoughts, the third Wardana looks at me with a strange, studying expression in his golden eyes.
I glare back at him, and the corner of his lip twists in an expression like the distant cousin of a smile. I take in the vertical slit of his pupils and his too-sharp canines—a cat’s eyes and a cat’s smile—and his smile widens as he sees that I understand what he is.
Stormtouched. Like most of the people at Amma’s. The only difference is that he wears blood-red and so has power.
I’ve only heard of one other Wardana who was cursed by the Storm. She was the hero of the fifth for a couple years, until she lost her life during a stormsurge. But she hadn’t been touched by the Storm herself; she had inherited her curse from a stormtouched parent.
That was lucky for her, since it meant the curse was mild enough that she could fight. Though some say that to be stormborn is to live with a ticking clock, that the curse is merely dormant until the day that it wakes.
Perhaps he, too, is stormborn.
“I’ll be careful,” he promises gently. I don’t fail to notice that he speaks only for himself.
Giving me a small nod, he follows the others. I shut the door behind them, folding my fingers against the wood until their trembling dies down. Crossing my arms, I turn and face the room.
The Wardana go from bed to bed, peering at every face. Looking for someone. Looking for Pa.
My heart thuds an erratic, staccato beat, and I focus on the stormtouched to keep my gaze from going to the kitchen. All I can do for Pa is make sure I don’t give away his hiding place.
Casvian, the mirror-haired one, stops beside Jem and picks up the large jar of baby teeth peeking out from under her bed. He yelps, and Jem catches the jar he drops in surprise. They share a few words, too quietly for me to hear.
My gaze drops to the nearest bed, to Gia. Barely eleven. Her wooden feet stick out from under her blanket, and I tug the sheets back over them. Fat tears well up in her eyes, and I kneel beside her, wiping her cheeks with my sleeve. Her mother left her on our doorstep two years ago, after Gia touched the wall of the Storm.
I reach for Ma’s locket where it hangs under my shirt, drawing strength from it. She wouldn’t let anyone barge into her home.
Following in the Wardana’s wake, I go to the stormtouched one by one, offering soft touches so they know I’m here. The two newcomers shrink into themselves. I give them space, swallowing down the terror that rises when I think of what they could give away. Better not to draw attention to them.
Jem grabs my hand as I pass by. She holds fast and tugs me down to the edge of her bed. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she hisses under her breath.
I scowl. Her curse dances across the features of her face, aging her in front of my eyes. Jem’s curse is the only one I’ve seen like it. At the moment, she has auburn hair and the unlined face of a woman in her twenties. But by the time she goes to bed, what’s left of her hair will have gone white, and she’ll be wearing the wizened face of a woman dying of old age. In the morning, she’ll wake up a baby. Over and over, her body fits a lifetime’s worth of growing into a single day. The jar under her bed is filled with all the baby teeth she’s lost.
She doesn’t let go of my hand, and I’m not about to make a fuss, so I stay put and watch the Wardana.
Casvian holds a brass gadget, noting things with the air of a researcher. He’s slenderer than the other two, who are built like warriors. He’s clearly the ikonomancer of the group—while he draws the ikons, Dalca and the stormborn will handle the fighting.
Dalca might have the build of a Wardana fighter, but his eyes—blue as a summer sky and striking against his sun-darkened skin—are as cold and assessing as a king’s. The telltale eyes of those with royal blood; the eyes of the Regias.
Though Dalca’s no more than a dozen feet away, he’s no more touchable than the sun. We all watch him like we’re spellbound, like we have no choice.
It’s not because of what he is. It isn’t even because he’s attractive, in a sharp, still way.
It’s that he’s at once the past and future of the city. In the way he walks, in the way he fills the room, there’s something that says he cannot be destroyed. He’s safe the way the rest of us never are.
Has he ever known fear? Has he ever felt hunger, much less feared it? Has he ever huddled with others to ward off the cold? Why would he, when he can step into the sunlight whenever he pleases?
Does he even fear the Storm? One day, he’ll be Regia, with the power to fight it. Power the likes of us can never imagine.
