“They shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t be yours.” The words were heated.

“You can take it up with the Ancients, then—if you can find them. I didn’t ask for them.”

“Give them to me. Give them to me, and I will allow you to leave unharmed.”

Kaylin shook her head. “You know that’s not the way it works. Or maybe you don’t. But that’s not the way it works.” No. If she could have gotten rid of the marks at the age of twelve, she would have given them to anyone who asked. She might have—and she was far less proud of this—given them to some other poor sod, just to be free of them.

And she wouldn’t have the life she had now, and she loved that life. Mostly.

Hope squawked. Kaylin wasn’t certain who he was speaking to—she assumed it was Azoria. Azoria clearly heard the sound of his voice, and turned toward him, her eyes rounding before they narrowed in simmering resentment. Her body blurred in place, flickering as if the form she wore required concentration.

Hope squawked and spread his wings in one sudden snap of motion; the wings extended far beyond their normal size; they stretched across the whole of Kaylin’s face as they continued to expand. She noticed the moment the texture of the wings—still transparent—shifted, from something that might have been a glass rendering of leather to something with actual feathers, and she knew that Hope was no longer sitting on her shoulder; when he spoke, she knew he wouldn’t be squawking.

“No,” he said. “But those who are not meant to hear will hear nothing intelligible. It is the nature of my communication. Do not waste time or breath arguing with Azoria; she understands reality only as it pertains to her. The world beyond her is part of her story; there is no independence in any of it.

“To Azoria, the world reflects her. Whether it bows to her needs or defies them defines whether or not it is ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ The lives she touches are, in some measure, there for her needs, her purposes, her examination. She can empathize only when those other lives map directly onto her own. She has moments of great generosity—which you will, of course, never experience. But the generosity is that of a noble ruler, a noble owner. She will be kind to those things that are hers, and the imperative to do so is entirely internal.

“You are, to her, evil. You attempt to take things which are rightfully hers. You have the marks of the Chosen, and she recognizes them. And Severn has the weapons the green hides from almost all of her kin. She is angry,” he added, lifting a hand, palm toward her, as if rejecting her utterly.