“A movement has sprung up,” Bleddyn explains. “The Vo’nyl. They’re pushing for a majority on the Noi Conclave. Their leader just won a seat using the slogan stamped on all those signs.”

“Oh, Bleddyn...” Dread rippling through me as I take in sign after sign. “The Noi should be careful. Or it’ll be like Verpacia all over again.”

She gives me a grave look. “Oh, it could be even worse. The Vo’nyl want to shun all magic other than Noi. Forbid any religion other than Vo’lon.” She frowns, her emerald eyes tightening. “They’re completely reactionary, afraid all Westerners are set on polluting their magic and destroying their culture.”

She quiets as we weave around a merchant’s table selling purple moon pendants hanging from silver chains stamped with glowing sapphire Noi runes, then another displaying statues and jewelry and small fountains depicting the Vo’lon faith’s purple Source Tree, so much like the Ironwood Source Tree present in the Gardnerian faith.

“There’ve been some mob attacks on refugees,” Bleddyn confides.

An outraged dismay rises, sour on my tongue, as I think of the Night of the Burning Blessing Stars, assaulted by the horrific memory of Olilly in Rafe’s arms, blood streaming from her mutilated ears, her hair brutally shorn, and Bleddyn, beaten bloody and crumpled in that dark alley.

“They used to hate only the Gardnerians and Alfsigr here,” Bleddyn says as we pass a store selling countless purple finches in moon-shaped cages, “but now it’s becoming a hatred of everyone fleeing the Western Realm.”

I clutch the Black Witch figurine, stunned by this terrible news, barely registering the soft whir of rune ships passing above. The rich aromas of foods seasoned with unfamiliar spices wafting around us as we enter a dense restaurant district, outdoor seating areas narrowing the tree-lined central road.

“Here we are,” Bleddyn announces as we slow to a stop, and my brow rises at the sight of the most fantastical restaurant I’ve ever seen.

It’s based in a sizable rune ship tethered against the Sixth Tier cliffside, a glass-walled cockpit set above the main deck. The ship’s side doors are thrown open to reveal a cramped kitchen with steaming pots set on a broad stove. There’s a small seating area sided by runic-orb-decorated plum trees, the cliff’s startlingly sheer drop just beyond. I recognize the flowing, deep-green script emblazoned on the ship’s side to be Smaragdalfar Elfin lettering.

“What’s this restaurant called?” I ask Bleddyn, not able to read the script.

“Gylloryyon,” she answers. “It’s a subland flower—a purple orchid that’s a popular gift here at Xishlon.”