The tip of the spearhead touched the staff’s shaft. Power thundered through the air, shaking the city. Breath caught in my throat. My heart hammered in my chest, too fast. So much power . . .

The wood disintegrated.

For a second Stone stood still, the outline of his body glowing with violent red, and then he fell apart, a man made of ash. The spear buried itself in the roof. Its tip shone with brilliant light and a blast wave rolled through the city in a huge circle, sweeping the ash that used to be the coven off the roof.

I braced myself, expecting the impact, but the magic fell short of me. The spear turned dull.

A man landed on the roof, coalescing out of thin air. He was wrapped in a simple gray cloak, worn, with a ragged hem and a deep hood that hid his face. If I had seen him on the street, I wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

“I want to see his face.” I needed to see him. I wanted to see my father.

“I can’t,” Sienna’s voice whispered. “He won’t let me.”

The man grasped the spear and pulled it out. He looked over the city, turned, and slowly, unhurriedly made his way to the door.

The vision faded. I gulped the air. Sienna sank back onto her seat. Sweat beaded on her face.

“The magic pulse, what was that?” I asked.

“The claiming,” Maria said. “He has made the land his.”

“Each land has a people,” Sienna said. “Those who settle on it, those who are born and die on it, their bloodlines bonded to it for generations. Their bodies are buried within the soil, nourishing it. Their magic becomes rooted in it and grows from the land like a forest.”

“Think of it like farming,” Evdokia said. “Before a farmer can use the land, he must clear the trees, remove their roots, dig out the boulders, and pull out the weeds. Very hard to do if the forest is old and strong and the trees have been growing for thousands of years.”

Maria stirred. “But here, we’ve done the farmer’s job for him. We killed the Native people of this land. There is no forest anymore. There are just saplings, families of settlers and immigrants, the oldest from the seventeenth century, but most even younger. Their bond to the land is weak. What you do to others always comes back to you and the balance is always restored. We committed genocide. We destroyed a people and now we have to pay the price for the terrible crimes we perpetrated. The land lies fallow without defenses. All your father has to do is claim it.”