But even in the bright light of day, my belly full and warm, I shiver at the memory of the trees and that lone, strangled scream. Although I pity his death, I can’t summon any remorse. He did try to kill me, after all. I only wish I’d gotten more answers from him.

“Why would someone try to kill you?” Saengo asks, scowling down into her tea. Last night, she’d grown bored alone in the library and followed me out the window in time to witness the attack. Thank the Sisters no one besides Ronin knows she’s my familiar.

“He mentioned me being a weapon against the shadowblessed, which doesn’t make sense. Controlling the Dead Wood benefits everyone, not just the shamans.”

“I don’t think he meant the Dead Wood. As a shaman, you’re an enemy by default. The Empire once tried to conquer Kazahyn. Think about what it must mean to shamans that another soulguide has appeared after so long. The last one was the founder of their kingdom.”

My nose wrinkles. I don’t like the reminder of expectations built around preconceived notions of who I am. I’ve been contending with such notions all my life, namely that I will never attain anything because of my low birth.

“Imagine what would happen if the Yalaengs got their hands on you,” Saengo continues. Her voice grows hushed with worry. “Or me. If they think you’re a threat to their power over the Empire, then they’ll kill us. Or just me and use you as a powerless figurehead to—”

I toss a chunk of mango shaped like a bird at her. It splashes into her nearly empty teacup, spattering her pale cheek.

“Sirscha! Really?” she says, exasperated. But the dark cloud over her eyes clears and a smile pulls at her lips. “How did Kendara ever wring any discipline out of you?”

“Focus on the problems we have now.” I reach for more mango. “Not the ones you’re adding in your head.”

She grabs for the grapes just as I lob another chunk of fruit at her head. We’re both laughing, juicy ammunition primed for attack, when the door opens. Saengo slams back into her seat, grape-filled hands hidden in her lap. She’d be the picture of decorum if not for her twitching lips and the way her hair sticks straight up in the back. Neither of us had bothered to wash up before breakfast.

Unlike Saengo, I don’t hide the beast-shaped fruit fisted between my fingers. Instead, I pop a papaya-drake into my mouth.