“This is impossible.” Getting to my feet, I take the bag and run the string between my thumb and index finger.

I know this string. It’s handmade by warriors-elect early into training. The multi-step process is a lesson in cooperation with your fellow first-years. My own fingers were stained by the dye for days, despite my best efforts to scrub it off with Vera’s most expensive soap.

“Where did you come from?” I ask it. I bring the bag close to my nose. A sweet floral scent shines through the salt of the ocean air, smelling of earth and berries.

I’m transfixed, so much so that I miss the figure approaching from the bluff. An unsteady footstep gives the human away.

On the ridge above me, a little girl stares down at me. She’s maybe eight or nine years old, by the looks of her, and bundled in a knitted hat and cloak. Rogue strands of blond hair stray from the braid down her back. Her fists are pulled up and clasped against her chest like she’s shielding something.

Meanwhile, I am ragged, hair matted and dotted with blood, and in a tattered coat that doesn’t belong to me. I haven’t washed my face in days and am covered in sweat and dirt, but the girl does not look afraid like she should be.

She says something in the humans’ tongue as I rack my brain for what to do. She’s seen me, so I know what my training would say. But she’s just a girl, and the humans already know we’re here. My first kill wasn’t about to be a little girl, human or not.

I could take this portion of the cure and run as if I’d never seen her. But how would I ever make it? Even without humans to watch out for, it would take too long to get back in my sorry state. And if I managed to make it back, there were the other sick children to think about. How could I live with myself if I returned without enough to save them, too?

My thoughts churn faster, but everything goes quiet when the girl says one word—safe.

I look up.

“Safe,” the girl says again. “My mother sent me to look for you. She is like you.” She straightens up. “Loyalty above all.”

I say the three words back before I have the mind to think any further. This girl’s mother—maybe she knew a warrior. Maybe she is one. I don’t have a wealth of options or time to think. I raise the bag and point to it, trying to pick simple words.

“Flower. Plant.” I indicate toward my eye, which I can now open fully. “More. Will you help me?”

The girl exhales and nods. She motions to herself. “Isla.”

“Rowan,” I reply, returning the gesture.