Zekia was very good at being invisible.

She was also very good at being alone, even in rooms of people. Even when those rooms and those people were in her own mind.

Wesley was gone, again.

He had left her with Ashwood, again.

And this time, he had hated her enough to drill into her mind while doing it.

He’d left holes there, where she was sure there wasn’t space left to leave any more, and now Zekia felt the shiver of emptiness in her bones. He didn’t understand that none of this was a choice.

She’d tried to tell him about the future and how it would be worth it in the end. Every death and every bad thing would make way for the light, because Zekia was saving the world.

She was saving everyone.

She was good.

And once they were done in Creije and Tisvgen, they could travel to Rishiya and begin the next phase. That was where the resistance was, waiting to be liberated to Ashwood’s new realm.

Where Zekia’s Kin was.

Where her family was.

Where Wesley was probably waiting for her to save him again.

He doesn’t want to be saved, her mind chided. Not by you.

Zekia tried to push her thoughts aside, but they were stronger than her. Probably because there was hardly anything left of her anymore. No family. No Wesley. Even her visions had turned against her, only ever feeling like nails in her skull when they came.

Without her Kin to help steady her powers, what should have come to Zekia as wisdom was now always an army of futures that seemed like they were attacking her, fighting for space in her head, and they wouldn’t stop until Zekia had disappeared and all that was left was a shell, filled with their wicked deaths.

Even having Ashwood’s Crafters by her side didn’t help. Zekia needed her Kin. She needed a blood connection to settle her spirit.

It had been worse since Wesley left. Zekia felt more unbalanced than ever. Visions were a funny thing. They were never certain, almost always perilous, and they sent Zekia into a tailspin that made her forget who she was and why she was.

This one was no different.

Or it was different, because it was worse. Because it was the first one in so long that was clear.

Zekia dropped to the floor as the images flashed in her mind.

Her mother was a goddess.

She had bronzed eyes and freckles that sparkled like glitter in the sun. Her hair was a bundle of tight curls, just short enough to touch the very tips of her ears and though she wore a dress the same deep and galactic purple as the Loj—though her smile was warm and her eyes were kind, and the staves against her black skin looked like pretty pictures—she was a fighter.