A horrified rush stings through me, my illusions about the perfect Eastern Realm crashing down. This has the feel of the Western Realm all over again. I remember Olilly’s Red Grippe–encrusted mouth and reddened amethyst eyes before I snuck medicine to her in the university kitchens. The sick Smaragdalfar refugees who Professors Fyon Hawkkyn and Jules Kristian were helping to smuggle east, many of them young children. The disturbing rattle of little Tibryl’s advanced cough.

“I made a promise to the three of them,” I say as the border’s sizzling tang of runic energy wafts over us. “I promised I’d help get them to safety.”

“Give me their names,” he offers. “I’ll send someone to find them. Tonight.”

I nod as we descend, only partially mollified.

What about all the other people stuck on this side of the wall?

But there’s no time to dwell. The border rises in front of us, half as high as the mountain range to our backs. As its details come into sharper view, my awe of Noi runic sorcery increases. It’s constructed entirely of luminous, rotating runes, stacked on top of each other and slowly revolving, like a colossal gear system.

Strands of my pale gray hair whip at my face as Trystan angles our skiff toward the border’s apex, a daunting number of military rune skiffs patrolling it. They’re piloted by Vu Trin soldiers, their sides marked with the same ivory dragon stamped on Noilaan’s sapphire flag. The wall’s apex is partitioned into segments delineated by large, floating runes, a single military rune skiff hovering inside each segment.

Trystan swerves right and makes for one of the skiffs.

As we draw near, the skiff flies toward us. A slim rod of sapphire light telescopes out and connects with our skiff’s base in a flash of blue light. Multiple plate-size runes fluoresce into existence, orbiting our skiff.

“Stay low, Ren,” my brother directs as he reduces our speed.

I hug the skiff’s floor while we slow to a motionless hover. Pulse thudding, I dare a glance at the skiff gliding in. It’s piloted by a young soldier, her short, spiky black hair streaked with silver and purple. Her sharp, dark eyes swing toward me and narrow in swift appraisal before her gaze lifts to Trystan’s.

“Where have you been?” she demands, seeming relieved and troubled at the same time. “Vothe’s been looking everywhere for you. You’re not authorized to pilot that skiff without him.”

Bam bam bam goes my heart.

“Minyl, she’s badly injured,” Trystan replies with formidable calm. He gestures toward me. “I can’t worry about Vothe right now. I need to get her to Wrenfir for care.”

I give a start, surprised at his mention of the uncle I’ve never met.