Bleddyn cradles a cup of lavender Xishlon tea in her broad green hands, her emerald eyes glancing toward the busy main thoroughfare. “Not yet,” she whispers, “but Jules Kristian is forging them.” She fishes some folded parchment out of her pocket. “I have papers here for Olilly, though. She’s been fully approved because she came over with the Lupines.” Bleddyn shrugs, pursing her lips. “She came with the military package. Like me.”

Mora frowns as she pockets the vital documents, moral outrage simmering to the surface. “A child shouldn’t have to bring a military advantage with her to be allowed refuge.”

“It’s the way of the world, Mora,” Bleddyn says with a jaded look. “Ask me how much compassion there was for Urisk children in the Western Realm.”

“We should be better than that here in Noilaan,” Mora insists. “We used to be better than that.”

Bleddyn’s mouth gives a sardonic twist. “Mora’lee, you need to accept the fact that the Noi seem hell-bent on going down the same path as the Western Realm.” Bleddyn glances at the restaurant across the street, a perfectly spaced row of Noi flags hanging from its awning. There’s a purple sign with black Noi lettering fastened to the restaurant’s street-facing wall, a sign that Mora has noticed cropping up more and more—NOILAAN FOR THE NOI.

An older Noi man garbed in Xishlon purple is setting the tables. He catches their gazes and gives them an unfriendly glare.

“This is how it starts,” Bleddyn says, narrowing her eyes at the man. “First the flags go up. Then the signs. Then the touting of whatever religion is dominant as the ‘One True Faith.’” She looks at Mora. “Before you know it, children are huddled in tents outside a runic border getting infected with the Red Grippe. And almost no one lifts a finger to help them.”

“And war is declared,” Mora grimly states.

“And war is declared,” Bleddyn agrees, picking up one of the purple morel pasties piled on a lavender plate. She takes a bite and shoots Mora a look of appreciation. But then her gaze snags on the restaurant across the street once more, her expression regaining its grim cast. “It’s all going to hell, Mora. I don’t see a happy ending to any of this.” She angles her head toward Olilly and Ghor’li. “But at least those kids can have a nice Xishlon. And Sweet Gods, Mora, these pasties are good.”

Mora gives a short laugh, then sighs as she looks at Olilly and Ghor’li. “At least they get to try nu’duls before the Mages swoop down on all our heads.”

Bleddyn pats the runic blade sheathed at her hip. “We’ll give them a run for their money before they take over the world.”

“Maybe Noilaan will win,” Mora archly replies, but it’s hard to suppress the fear that’s straining to rise up.