“Yeah, that kind of hurt, actually,” the boy said, hands moving to his throat and eyes as if only just remembering some phantom injury.

“I don’ unnerstand…”

“Those eagles were my creation, figments I conjured directly into your mind, like making the forest look old and dead. Tell me, how realistic were they? I’ve been working on improving the details of my phantasms. Were they detailed?”

“Look, I don’ know whut the void ye’re talkin’ ’bout. Weren’t no fantazeums or figgymentations or any such nonsense. Jest bloodthirsty godsdamned ruttin’ eagles, ye unnerstand?” Perfidy couldn’t hold back the stream of rather colorful language, her ire rising like a high tide under the light of a pair of full moons. “An’, while we’re on the subject, why would ye hurt when I strangled the eagles?”

The boy opened his lips to respond but closed them when Miss Marin raised a hand. “We’ve handled this rather badly, and for that I’m sorry. The long and short of it is that—”

“Long an’ short of it don’ make a lick o’ sense, why do folks always say that as if it explains ever’thin’?” Perfidy interrupted.

“It means…well, never mind, it is a rather silly expression.”

“Course it is.”

“Anyway, what Jereb here was trying to explain is that everyone who lives in New Dawn has at least one natural magical Ability—some of us, more than one.”

“Ye’re…spellcasters?” Perfidy said, taking a step back. For the first time since the confrontation began, she took a real long look at the entire group gathered before her, as eclectic a bunch as she’d ever laid eyes on.

There was a young, tousle-haired boy who’d seen no more than ten years of life, his face pulled into the kind of scowl that told her he trusted no one and her less than most. He wore the kind of nondescript threadbare clothing one might find on any street urchin in any nameless city in the realm. His face boasted a full six golden leaves, all well separate from each other as though they preferred being alone to making friends. As Perfidy’s gaze flicked by, she noticed one of his feet was half-turned away, as though he was always ready to run if the situation called for it.

Beside him was a gargantuan of a man whose skin was the color of burnt umber. His face was scarred in half a dozen places, a crisscross of wicked slashes healed into long, jagged white lines. Contrary to his dangerous tapestry of past battles, he also wore two bold, golden leaves, one on each cheek, flanking a huge grin, nodding at her encouragingly as her gaze passed by him. His chest was protected by a leather jerkin clasped up the middle with dull bronze buckles. A sword was sheathed at each hip, his huge hands resting casually on each hilt.