“Feral kids?” Broomstick asked. He hated and feared himself, but otherwise he still functioned normally. The key, Sora thought, was to keep conversations away from Prince Gin and Zomuri.

Not an easy task, given the circumstances.

Still, she took what she could get in the moment. “When Daemon and I were here last time, a bunch of children had overtaken the outpost, playing at being taigas. They pelted us with acorns and rocks. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing the Little Ferals again.”

Broomstick’s smile vanished.

She understood immediately. He was worried what he might do to the kids, how he might accidentally charm them, then hurt them.

Sora had another worry, though: the possibility that the kids had been tainted by Zomuri, too.

They pushed through the final curtain of flowers and emerged into a clearing.

“Where’s the Society outpost?” Broomstick asked, confused that there was nothing but trampled undergrowth and mossy boulders in front of them.

“Look up,” Sora said.

He craned his neck upward. “Daggers,” he said. The Society post was a sprawling black structure with black thatched roofs that spanned across half a dozen trees, camouflaged into the shadows of the thick canopy of leaves. Octagonal platforms were interspersed through branches around the tree house, places where taiga warriors could hide and launch weapons in case of attack. And then there were the non-fighting elements of the post, like the hammocks swinging between boughs and the sundeck overlooking a small lake behind the treehouse. Paro Village may have been one of the most remote outposts in the kingdom, but it would not be a bad place to serve the Society.

Twenty or so tiny smudged faces popped up around the tree house, in windows, doorways, and even from the thatched roof.

“Hey-o, fierce taigas of Kichona!” Sora shouted. “We are weary warriors from the north, come to see the great fort of Paro Village. Will you allow us to enter your fortress?” Her phrasing was a bit stilted, but from her prior experience with the children here, they liked playacting. Sora thought the theatrical formality might predispose them to liking her better, instead of pelting her like they had before. Broomstick hung back and watched, keeping himself out of the way.

A girl, about ten years old, stepped forward. Her hair stood in every direction, and it was tangled with branches. Little Feral, indeed.

“Why should we let you in?” she said.

“Are you the commander?” Sora asked, continuing to play their game.

“Yes. I’m Rilyko— I mean, I’m Whiplash.” The girl put her hands on her hips and stood taller. It was cute.

But Sora pretended to take her very seriously. “Commander Whiplash, we are on our way to a secret mission for Emperor Gin. And we need your help.”

“A secret mission?” Her eyes lit up. Kichonans looked up to taigas but the children especially. Sora’s life was their fantasy.