She waits while I gather my strength and join her. If the girl were any bigger, I’d resent that she doesn’t help me, but her petite frame seems to barely withstand the wind. She tugs at the hood of her cloak and stares at the sea with longing.

No, not the sea. The skies.

I must be delusional. Looping the cobalt string around my finger, I search Isla’s eyes for traces of gold—and find them. She is Leonodai.

The revelation is marred by a dark reality. Of course children like her could exist. The scholars were not shy in our lessons when describing some of the horrors Leonodai women have suffered when captured by the humans. But to see Isla in front of me, living and breathing and looking more Leonodai with every gesture, I don’t know how to feel. All my life, my mother has taught and cared for girls like her. But human blood runs in her veins, too.

Isla stays quiet as she leads me inland and into a stretch of forest. Gray trees twist up and around each other, and sheets of peeled cyprus bark litter the ground. A large stone house with a battered rooftop comes into view. The dirty windows and disrepair give it a forgotten air, but the smoke from the chimney says otherwise. Patches of weeds grow unmanaged around most of the square garden plots, but two burst with verdant plants and vegetables. When we reach the doorstep, there are humans’ words above the entryway and a strange symbol. The girl sees me pause. Her mouth tries to form words, probably to translate for me, but she ultimately frowns.

“This is my home,” she says.

Doubt seizes me. This could very well be a human’s trap—but Isla had to have come from somewhere. Cold, hungry, and battered in both mind and soul, I don’t have many options other than to trust. The girl knocks a rhythmic pattern, then opens the door. My knees shake at the warmth that sweeps out, wrapping around my body like a hug from a friend.

Inside, a woman tends the fire, but she straightens up as we enter, her jaw slack with what I can’t decide is relief or surprise. Gold flecks the hazel of her eyes, catching in the light of the fire burning in the hearth behind her.

“Come in, warrior,” the woman says in our mother tongue. “Come in.”

Warrior Ellian sits me down in front of the fireplace, hands lifting my limbs as she examines my wounds.

“You were smart to eat the flower,” she says. “But you took way too much too fast. It’s no surprise that your mind is a bit foggy. It’ll take a few hours before you feel like yourself again. What is your name?”

“Rowan,” I manage.

“Well, warrior Rowan,” she says. “Welcome. You’re safe here.”