All things possessed a certain prima materia, a pure, intangible substance older than the Universe Itself.

If humankind is formed from such material, from organ to bone to flesh to even the intangible Soul, then surely the Maker can transmute human life.

She had always been strong.

But for the first time, Crier felt truly alive.

Her mind kept trying to analyze and categorize each new sensation, to take this huge nebulous feeling and wrangle it into a shape that made sense. But how? Consuming heartstone paled in comparison. It had always felt like stepping from cool shadow into a patch of sunlight. A comforting warmth, a small replenishing of strength. This was—drinking moonlight. This was her whole body weightless and airy. Crier thought if she went to the sea cliffs right now, the tide would rise to meet her. If she pricked her fingertip, she’d bleed molten silver.

She let her body guide her through the familiar halls of the palace. As she neared the main entrance, she could hear a clamor of voices from the grand ballroom. Human and Automa, so many voices, a hundred at least. Queen Junn’s army. The Tarreenians. The other humans, servant and rebel alike. Was there a difference between the two? Maybe not. Ayla probably didn’t think so. Ayla would probably say: To exist in this world at all is an act of rebellion for us, Just Crier.

Ayla.

Just keep moving, Crier told herself. She trusted Midwife Jezen. More than that, she trusted Ayla. If Ayla said she’d be okay, then she would be. It was simple as that. Ayla would hold up her end of the bargain—it was time for Crier to do the same.

She didn’t see anyone else until she reached the main entrance. Eight members of the Green Guard were stationed inside the huge wooden doors, faces impassive, weapons in hand. When Crier approached, she got the distinct pleasure of watching their eyes widen in shock, if only for a split second. She smiled to herself. Silver eyes, skin covered with glowing runes; she probably looked like a creature from the old stories. One of the deep-sea fish-women who lived in the crevices of underwater rock formations, mouths open, using their long, luminous tongues to lure in prey. Or a candle-witch from the western mountains: a monster who took the form of a beautiful girl, who led her admirers deep into the mountains, lantern bobbing happily for miles and miles while the poor souls in love with her stumbled ever forward through the blinding snow, until they froze to death and the candle-witch devoured them whole.

I am coming for you, Kinok, Crier thought.

To the guards, she said, “Let me pass.”

“It is not safe outside the palace walls, Lady Crier,” one of them replied. “The Scyre’s battalion has arrived.”

“I understand that,” said Crier. “Let me pass.”

Whatever their orders, Crier was not their charge. Moving as one, the Green Guard bowed their heads and stepped aside, clearing the way. Crier pulled one of the heavy wooden doors open just enough to slip through the crack, and then she was free. Outside, late afternoon was shifting quickly into early evening, the sky deepening from clear blue to the color of a new bruise. The air was cool on Crier’s skin. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and kept going. There were more guards stationed outside the doors, but they made no move to stop her; they would have been able to hear the conversation from within. She left them and the palace behind.