North. They mean to cross the grasslands into the Nuvalyn Empire then. It seems the surest route to safety, but the queen’s soldiers will know that as well. If the group travels at night, keeping close enough to the edge of the Dead Wood where Evewyn’s patrols aren’t permitted, they might stand a chance.

But what about Vos Gillis? Theyen said the shamanborn were being smuggled onto ships to escape Evewyn.

“What about south?” I say. All eyes turn to me, but I focus on Ronin.

He doesn’t appear to mind my interruption. “Even if they reach the coast, a ship can’t be guaranteed. In Vos Gillis, several shamanborn have already been captured and await transport to the prison.”

My shoulders tense. Theyen hadn’t mentioned that. I suppose even Kendara can’t protect every shamanborn who sneaks into the port city.

Ronin addresses the shamanborn. “Queen Meilyr has issued a decree that if any of you are caught, you’re to be returned to the Valley of Cranes for execution. Her soldiers have been given leave to take any means necessary to subdue you.” He lets his words settle, lets the fresh horror of their reality sink into their wearied bones. Then he repeats, “You must go north at nightfall.”

My hands ball into fists. Perhaps sensing my urge to argue with Ronin’s refusal to protect them, Phaut rests a hand on my shoulder.

A small voice says, “Suryali?”

My head jerks, seeking out the speaker. The girl looks no more than ten years old. Unlike the older shamans, her eyes are still gray. She’s gaunt, little more than flesh stretched over bone.

She looks fragile like a baby bird, the likeness made more striking when she cocks her head and tugs on the sleeve of the man beside her. “Is it her?”

“That’s just a lightwender, little one,” the man says. But now that it’s been spoken, the shamanborn pass the word around in a flurry of whispers, the same word the earthwender healer uttered in my dream.

Beside me, Phaut gives a light cough and translates in a whisper, “Little Sun God.”

I stiffen. Are they referring to me?

Their murmurs grow in volume as some are quicker than others to realize who I might be. Those farther back stand to get a better look, as if I’m a performer at a spectacle. I step back as their gazes flit from me to Ronin. I’m surprised when Ronin does nothing other than nod once. A confirmation.

My nostrils flare. Is this another test? The little girl stands from the table. Others follow, their steps shuffling and hesitant as they approach. The urge to shrink into the shadows and disappear as Kendara taught me is nearly overwhelming.

“Suryali,” they repeat in hushed voices. One reaches out. I stumble back, alarmed, and yank my cloak away from his outstretched hands.