I sit up, angling my face away to hide my eyes. Did I know that I’m … I can’t even think it. I don’t know anything about the people who left me at the orphanage, and the monks certainly couldn’t have known, either. They would have gladly given me up to the Valley of Cranes if they had.

How is any of this real? And why now, when I’m so close to achieving my goal? I half expect Kendara to appear and confess that the entire past day has been an elaborate hoax, an outrageous test to assess my mettle.

But while Kendara can perform feats unimaginable, she can’t make Saengo’s heart stop beating. Nothing will ever erase the memory of Saengo’s sightless eyes, her blood darkening her shirt, every excruciating detail seared into my consciousness.

If I can’t seek vengeance for Saengo, then I need to speak to Kendara. I have to explain what happened and tell her about the ambush. I have to fix this somehow.

But how can we return to Vos Talwyn? Queen Meilyr makes no secret of her hatred for shamans. The former king and queen, along with a dozen other Evewynians, died when a firewender lost control during a performance of his magic and burned down half the festival grounds. The firewender hadn’t survived, either, but that hadn’t been retribution enough for the new queen. She was barely seventeen when she took the throne. She outlawed all shamanborn, regardless of the fact they were innocent Evewynians. She also forbade Nuvali shamans from stepping foot in Evewyn, renewing old tensions with the Nuvalyn Empire.

Some shamanborn fled to the Empire or sought the help of the Spider King. But Ronin turned them away. He enforces the peace between the kingdoms; he does not interfere with how the kingdoms choose to rule their own.

My clearest memory of the shamanborn is also the one I try never to think about. There’s a town near the orphanage where the monks go to purchase supplies. I’d accompanied them that day along with the other kids bound for the capital and the Prince’s Company. The monks claimed they wanted us to get used to busy streets, but that was far too considerate an excuse. Soon enough, their true purpose became clear.

An execution had been scheduled for that morning. Two shamanborn, a woman and her husband, stood on a hastily erected platform outside the town. I don’t remember their crime. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps resisting capture. The monks had forced us to watch.

That day, I had understood the finality of the queen’s power, and that I would never dare to cross it.