My pulse skyrockets as the soldiers all briefly look at me then back toward Nym’ellia and fixate there, as I realize in a guilt-stricken flash—They think she’s me. Just like the soldiers in the Dyoi Forest.

“Full name,” the lead Kin Hoang demands.

Nym’ellia casts a fearful, unsure glance up at Mora’lee, who nods reassuringly. She swallows. “Nym’ellia Elmyllyn.”

The Kin Hoang soldier scrutinizes Nym’ellia, not seeming to spare a detail as dread tightens my gut. Nym’ellia looks transformed, garbed in clean emerald Smaragdalfar clothing, her black hair neatly combed and braided. Mora’s work, I imagine. This kind woman I’m putting in life-threatening danger. Along with Nym’ellia.

Feeling as if I’m about to step off a cliff, I ready myself to throw out a blast of wind with my blade and pray I can outrun these elite assassins. But then the lead sorceress seems to pause.

“What happened to your ears?” she demands of Nym’ellia, the ragged tips of the teen’s ears poking up through her hair.

Nym’ellia’s face tightens with a look of pained outrage.

“They were cropped,” Mora snaps, eyes blazing.

The sorceress peers even more closely at her, then scowls and shakes her head, the dangerous tension on the air dissipating like weapons abruptly drawn down. I let out a shaky breath, remorse roiling through me over putting Nym’ellia in this situation. Again.

The sorceress turns to Mora’lee, seeming to have lost interest in Nym’ellia. “We’re looking for Elloren Gardner Grey.”

Mora’lee’s eyes flick toward the wanted postings tacked to the furious trees. “I’ve seen the posters,” she says shortly. “But Nym’ellia is not her. She’s part Urisk, as you can plainly see.”

Olilly’s gaze pins on the scarred tips of Nym’ellia’s ears, a look of quiet devastation in her eyes.

“You have papers for the girl?” the sorceress asks Mora’lee.

I notice that Zosh Lyyo from across the street is watching the proceedings like a hawk, his teen son wearing a look of concern.

“Of course,” Mora’lee says, smooth as butter. She fishes in her pocket and draws out the identity papers.

The Kin Hoang takes a cursory look at the papers, then hands them back to Mora. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. Sounding like someone thwarted from her true quarry. Me.

“A Blessed Xishlon to you,” the golden-eyed sorceress curtly adds before she turns and throws out her hand in a commanding sweep, urging her fellow Kin Hoang to follow. They fall into step behind her and take their leave.

I exchange an intense look with Bleddyn, hit by a dizzying rush of relief as Nym’ellia rushes to me, the teen catching me off guard when she throws her arms around my shoulders like we’re long-lost friends.