As she watched, horrified, the elders destroyed the other books, and the old king did nothing to stop them. Talyri managed to steal a letter written by Vernasha herself, which one of the elders had possessed. She—and I—stand by its truth. She guarded the unnamed book for the rest of her life, as did her successors. As did I.

It is a terrible thing, to force a witch to hide from her fellow sisters. It is a terrible thing to destroy a book in order to better live a lie.

The Kion oracle once told me that my writings would one day change the world. I wished I had asked her if I would change it for the better or for the worse…

I leave you with a symbol I found in my research: the mark of the People of the Shadow. My predecessor told me it marks those who guard the secrets to shadowglass. Perhaps it can be of use to you, my dear reader.

I wish I had the strength to denounce Kion’s lies. But I am too old, too tired. Safe within Istera’s tolerance, I have neglected my duties to my sisters in the southern kingdoms. I am sorry. May this redeem me.

Shaking, I gently laid Sakmeet’s letter aside, and picked up the other page.

“What does it say?” Kalen asked.

“Beware the Dark asha,” I read in Vernasha’s flowing hand, “for the only good bone witch is one deprived of heartsglass. Temper them, weaken them, collar them if you must. They are Little Tears’s seed, none of whom must come to pass.”

The veritable asha Lady Altaecia waited as the last of the winds deposited us at Ankyo’s port. On any other day, the harbor would be alive with the sound of merchant ships and merchant greed, a jarring cacophony of language and dialects that had everyone from Gorvekai hunters from the Srevny Fjord down to the camel eaters of Karinsha haggling and bargaining for precious cargo. But a blockade was in progress, with soldiers outnumbering the traders fifty to one. We were one of only three docked ships, and for good reason.

Smoke curled out of the city of Ankyo, twisting against the evening heat. From the pier, I could see fallen houses, the pristine, white walls common in Kion architecture reduced to rubble and dust. Teams of masons labored to clear the streets, but many citizens, stricken and shocked, huddled underneath the curved roofs of other surviving buildings, still clad in their weekday finest. The jewels in their hair were a discordant note among the wreckage. They were not people used to poor defenses.