“We need to go,” I say, offering her my hand. She takes it while coaxing Tibryl awake with a gentle nudge, and Nym’ellia and I help them both up as the brush to either side of us rustles.

Alarm leaps through me as dark figures emerge. I move to draw my blades but freeze when the Wand sizzles warningly against my calf. My hands poised over my hidden weapons, I face down the four Vu Trin soldiers before me, their runic swords raised, charged sapphire runes marked on steel.

Holy Ancient One.

“Halt where you are,” the most severe-faced soldier orders. The image of a dragon has been shorn into her close-cropped hair.

My heart slams against my rib cage as the Vu Trin draw closer, blades raised, and Tibryl clutches her mother’s tunic, whimpering. My fists twitch as I ready myself to wield my weapons and that’s when I notice it—the Vu Trins’ eyes aren’t focused on me at all, but on Nym’ellia.

“State your name, Gardnerian,” the severe soldier barks in the Common Tongue and Nym’ellia flinches like she’s been struck.

The terrible realization swoops down—They think Nym’ellia is the Black Witch.

“Please, Noi’khin, leave us be,” Emberlyyn implores as Tibryl starts to cry, which seems to rouse Nym’ellia from her momentary stupor.

“Stop scaring her!” she demands.

My own outrage flares. “Nym’ellia’s not Gardnerian,” I insist, even as fear of discovery grips tighter hold.

“Look at her ears,” Emberlyyn manages as she pulls in a wheezing breath.

The sorceress stalks forward and roughly pulls up Nym’ellia’s hair. Nym’ellia recoils from her unkind touch, and I resist the urge to throttle the soldier.

“She’s been cropped,” another soldier pipes up in the Noi language, looking concerned. She’s young and striking, her long black tresses loosely tied back. Her willowy posture slackens as she lowers her sword. “Heelyn,” she says gravely to the harsh soldier, “do you understand what’s been done to this girl?”

Heelyn’s narrowed eyes flick over Emberlyyn and Tibryl, and I can see the situation falling into place in her mind—the girls part Gardnerian, part Urisk. She grimaces, then glares at Emberlyyn, and I can almost hear her thought. Consorting with a Mage.

Her gaze slides to me as my fear ramps up.

“Who are you?” she demands in Elfhollen.

“Ny’laea Shizorin,” I manage, throat gone dry.

“Your destination?”

I force myself to hold her piercing stare. “East.”

“Have you seen any Mages?” Heelyn glances suspiciously at Nym’ellia, as if her black hair and green glimmering skin alone make her suspect.

Ire flares. “No,” I say, incensed by her treatment of Nym’ellia. “Are you looking for someone?” I regret my outburst immediately.