And the sympathy thrown my way is seriously beginning to chafe.

“So terrible that they’ve got you guarding the Roach!”

“Couldn’t you arrange for some accident to befall him?”

“Vang Troi has lost her mind. Drive him out, Vothe. Whatever it takes.”

Even letters from my family in Zhilaan show mounting confusion and censure in their refined Zhilon’ile script.

Vothe, you’re the Gardnerian’s guard. Why is he still here?

Vothe, WHY IS HE STILL HERE?

I’m losing patience with all of it, increasingly unable to keep from snapping back against the slurs, my large group of friends and admirers beginning to splinter away. Whispering to each other that I’m losing my way. Shifting my allegiance to the enemy. When, in fact, I’m doing exactly the opposite. And, more and more, I want to stand in open solidarity with Trystan Gardner.

But still, I remain on the sidelines, unable to take what feels like a dive off a cliff. Because the tide of hatred for Trystan is rapidly gaining strength. And I’m brutally realistic about what it would mean to get caught in its undertow, even as I’m swept up in Trystan’s glimmering green tide.

My indecision intensifies as I watch him eat, a dark raven now perched on his shoulder. A current of shame ripples through me.

Because it took the Death Fae to break through all the hatred here and accept him.

It’s predawn the next morning when Heelyn confronts me prior to the start of my post as Trystan’s guard. She strides toward me over the Wyvernguard’s mid-level terrace, a crowd of military apprentices just ahead. Heelyn’s muscular frame is outlined by the overcast sky’s deep gray light, her dark eyes full of zealous heat as a chilly wind rustles the parchment in her hand.

My body lights up with anticipatory tension, the angry purpose coming off Heelyn serving to drive the tension higher, my storm power jostling to life in flashes that sting the underside of my skin.

“Here,” she says, thrusting the paper toward me.

“What is it?” I ask, making no move to take it.

“A chance to redeem yourself,” she bites out.

I swipe it from her, knowing this longtime friend of mine can easily read the lightning flashing in my eyes. My pulse quickens as I spot Trystan’s name in the paper’s leading text. It’s a petition to ban Trystan from wearing his Wyvernguard uniform.

Outrage strikes inside me, swift and hot, as I fist the paper in my hand. “You think you’re somehow aiding the East, doing this?”

“As were you when you tried to keep him out!” she shoots back. “Have you forgotten what you used to stand for?”

I spit out a contemptuous laugh. “Please, tell me, Heelyn. What did I stand for? Condemning someone before even meeting them? Based solely on their lineage? Is that the Vothe you miss?”