Phaut steps in to shield me. She has somehow transformed from guard to protector. But she is only one person. They swarm us, expressions fierce and eager.

“Is it true?” a voice shouts out above the rest. A shaman with uneven hair cut close to her scalp eyes me with distrust. She hangs back with the more cautious of the group, most of whom have half risen from their seats.

“Are you the soulguide?” another shaman asks.

“It can’t be true,” someone mutters.

“You’re shamanborn. One of us. We thought we’d have to travel all the way to Mirrim to find you.”

“She’s just a child,” whispers someone else. Irritation blossoms in my chest.

“We escaped for you,” says a small voice. The little girl with the gray eyes gazes up at me, awe brimming from her smile.

I shake my head. What?

Behind the girl stands a man with shining amber eyes, a shade paler than mine but still jewel bright. He touches the center of his chest. “Six nights ago, every lightwender in the camp felt a surge of magic within us. I haven’t felt the heat of magic in years.” His voice wavers. “It only lasted a moment. Most of us hold faith with the Five Sisters, but we also know the old shaman tales.”

My lips compress. They had felt the awakening of my craft and suspected what it might mean. And if they believed, like Ronin, that the appearance of a soulguide was an omen, maybe … just maybe, that could have been enough to rally them, to stage a revolt big enough to allow some to escape.

Suddenly, I can’t draw a full breath. The weight of those gazes presses around me, their hopes and expectations deposited in my arms while they await miracles I can’t perform. They escaped for me—did that make their protection my responsibility? It’s not a responsibility I want, and yet I wish I could help them. That I could be what they so fervently want.

At the back of the group, a man rises from his seat. He’s taller than the others, but he stoops, as if trying to appear small. When he glances up at me, the glint of purple catches my attention. He’s disheveled and dirty, fidgeting restlessly as his gaze darts uneasily around the encampment. My eyes widen.

It’s the windwender from the night of the attack. The shaman who killed Saengo.

He realizes the moment I recognize him because he turns and runs.

“Stop!” I shove past the shamanborn gathered around me, costing me precious seconds before I’m free.

Phaut is close beside me as we sprint through the encampment, around tables and tents, following the frantic flight of the windwender.