Silvie watched Johnis, who was seated beside her on the rock on which they’d just yesterday rested the two missing Books of History. In the space of twenty-four hours he’d gone from heroic fighter riding the praise of the forests to this hunched form of shame, elbows on knees, chin in palms, silent—so silent she thought that maybe he’d actually lost his voice.

Thomas paced across the clearing, staring at Johnis, Silvie, Billos, and Darsal. He’d said he wanted them all here to hear what he had to say, even though it was Johnis who’d betrayed his trust. Silvie had fallen from grace by following Johnis, she knew. And the other two by association. If one hero could fall so far and so hard in the space of one day, there was no way to trust the other three, they would say.

“One hundred and thirty-seven dead,” Billos growled. “What were you thinking?”

“No need to pile it on. He has enough shame,” Thomas snapped, but then he stopped and faced Johnis. “What were you thinking, boy?”

Johnis didn’t budge.

Silvie had agreed to keep secret the fact that he’d lost the two books until he could sort things out. But she wasn’t sure how he expected to sort out the deaths of 137 fighters. The mourners were already crying in the streets of Middle.

“Mother or not, you have no right to lead my men into battle!” Thomas yelled. “You listening to me, pup? I don’t care if you are chosen, I have half a mind to unchoose you.”

“Please,” Johnis whispered. “Do it.”

“I will not!”

So then this chosen business Johnis has told us about is true, Silvie thought. Thomas, at least, believed him to be chosen.

Darsal frowned. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think we quite understand what he’s been chosen for.”

“To kill 137 of our own?” Billos said.

“Shut it, lad!” Thomas put his hands on his hips and glared at Johnis. “There is a prophecy we’ve followed for years. A child marked by Elyon will prove his worth and destroy the Dark One. We believed that Johnis was that child, but after today’s stunt I’m having serious doubts.”

“No need for doubts, Thomas,” a voice said from the woods. Rachelle stepped out, red tunic flowing around her calves.

Silvie watched her walk gracefully across the grass, eyes fixed on Johnis, who still didn’t budge. This woman, whom many claimed was responsible for Thomas’s fighting skills, had been the stuff of legend to Silvie. Watching the woman now, Silvie couldn’t suppress a tinge of jealousy.

“He may not be perfect,” Rachelle said. “He may be a fool at times, but he’s chosen.”

“What makes you so sure?” Billos asked. “I’ve never heard of this prophecy.”