What would it be like to have been raised in a culture that’s so free? What would it have been like for Trystan to have grown up in a land that accepted him instead of forcing him into hiding? What would it have been like for me to have freedom without the threat of wandfasting hanging over me like an ever-present shadow, with so little choice of work and study and clothing? With free access to Sanjire root?

I don’t want to resent the Easterners for their vast freedom, but for a moment, I do, wondering, how could any of them possibly understand where I’ve come from. Or where Bleddyn’s come from, her situation in the West unimaginably worse than mine. There’s such mind-bending power for women and everyone else here and it’s worth fighting for.

Not just for them, but for all of us fleeing here, as well.

My gaze snags on a sign hanging from a shoppe selling syrup-drenched lavender heart waffles, the same sign affixed to many of the other shoppes and outdoor restaurants. All of the signs possess the same flowing black Noi lettering stamped on purple parchment along with a depiction of the Noi people’s ivory dragon goddess, Vo. I make a mental note to ask Bleddyn about the signs as the street narrows and we near a toy shoppe that does not display one.

The store’s proprietor, an old Noi woman, wears a bright violet tunic embroidered with whimsical purple frogs, lilac moon-decorated lace wrapped around her white hair. She smiles broadly at us as she readies an outdoor table covered with her playful wares. A white dragon goddess pendant hangs around her neck, and ivory bird earrings grace her ears, her braided hair a cottony white and decorated with purple silken flowers.

The hand-painted figurines she’s setting out catch my eye and I stop, overtaken by a surreal sense of déjà vu. I pick up a Vu Trin sorceress figurine, blue runes marked on her black uniform, curved swords at her sides, silver stars strapped across her chest. Her black hair is fashioned into artful coils, her expression heroic and determined.

These toys...they’re so similar to the ones Gardnerian children play with. But completely altered in their allegiance. Instead of wicked, sneering Vu Trin with menacing poses, the sorceresses are uniformly valiant. As are the Wyvern-shifter figurines, the attractive shifters partway shifted, with horned heads and gleaming black wings. Sapphire dragons are also set out for play, their expressions strong and benevolent.

And there’s an Icaral.

I pick up the figurine, my emotions tightening as my thoughts fly to Yvan and the golden thread of Wyvernfire embedded in my lines. Like Yvan in his glamoured form, the Icaral is a brown-haired Kelt, eyes a glowing gold, black feathered wings fanning out majestically.

My throat cinching, I set the figurine down.