Some agonizing minutes later, and the messenger lands. She drops the white flag in her jaws to the ground before taking her human form. In a rush of gold magic, her bronze lioness fur changes to cloud-white robes and gold armor as her body shifts to that of a woman with olive skin. The messenger’s chest rises and falls as she catches her breath, but she wastes no time. Brushing back sweat from her brow, she kneels before the king.

“Your Grace,” she says. She reaches into the bag at her side and pulls out a charred stack of parchment. “I delivered your message to the human leader. An offer of peace and permanent trade with the Four Kingdoms in exchange for the disease’s cure.”

The king leans forward. A lock of graying hair comes loose from beneath his crown as he does. “And? Where is their reply?”

The messenger’s breath hitches. “They did not give one. They placed our offer in a fire and left.”

“Skies keep us,” the king says as I think the same. Why would the humans turn down our offer? The king covers his eyes, his fingertips rubbing his temples. “Did they give an explanation?”

“No, Your Grace,” she replies. “I waited for one until they were out of sight before flying back.”

They must not have understood, I think. We’d spent so much time convincing the ambassadors from the other kingdoms to agree to a permanent trade route. It took days of bickering, all while sick children continued to fill the healers’ beds in the palace levels below us.

Fear twists like a knife in my gut. The disease would keep killing if left unchecked, but there was nothing we could do.

“Noam, step forward, please,” says the king.

The deserter does so obediently. I know well enough now that he hasn’t forgotten the sense of duty that he shirked when he left. Seeing Noam before the king now, I don’t doubt his loyalty in this moment.

“Noam,” the king says. “You say the cure for this disease is a wild plant, one that grows on the far side of Balmora.”

“That is what my human friends have told me,” he replies. “I have no reason to doubt them.”

If the king has any misgivings about taking information from a deserter, he does not show it. “Then we will send teams,” the king says. “To find the cure the humans have chosen to keep from us.”

“They will know we’re coming,” the Second Sentinel, Hammond, says gravely from several chairs to my right. His gray beard reaches halfway down his chest, betraying his age, but his eyes are sharp and clear.

“I know,” the king responds. “But I will not sentence a generation of Leonodai to death because of my own inaction.”

“What of the High Summer festival?” asks another of my colleagues. “The citizens will be celebrating soon. Should we call off the festivities?”