Yes, but Lug was right. We’re just children. We shouldn’t be the ones doing it. If only the adults would listen to us.

Maybe if she went back to her parents with evidence. Maybe if she told them about Elowen – made them fly to the Cryptwood and hear her story . . .

‘They still wouldn’t believe it.’ She spoke the words into the evening breeze, imagining the wind carrying them away to the patch of brown mud in the distance that was the Scrubbings. Where Lug was probably crying himself to sleep right now.

Liska looked over to the corner, at her backpack that she had hastily stuffed with blankets, spare socks and underwear, along with a water bottle and her father’s pocketknife. She tried to imagine herself out in the wilderness of the Blasted Waste, surviving on rabbits and wild garlic. She tried to imagine Lug doing it.

They wouldn’t last five minutes.

With a growl of frustration, she slammed the window shutters closed and flopped on her bed.

It had been such a good idea. Such a chance at adventure . . . But she’d let herself get carried away by it, like a stupid child. Lug had been right to worry all along.

‘Root and branch!’ she yelled into her pillow, then wrapped herself in her cloak – being careful not to change shape – and buried her face in its musky fur.

Her parents weren’t back from the council yet, but when they finally arrived she would try one last time to convince them about Nammu’s heart. Perhaps they would believe her and send a party of warriors up there. Perhaps they would ignore her and carry on with their own plans to defeat Bitterblight and Noxis. Who knew? But whatever happened, it would be up to them. She was done with it.

Lying there, exhausted by all the excitement of the day, by all the plots and plans that had been zipping through her head, Liska gently drifted off to sleep.

*

Screams.

Liska sat bolt upright.

It was deep in the night. She had been fast asleep and somebody’s screams had woken her.

Was it a dream? No, I can still hear them. It’s coming from outside.

Liska ran to the shutter and threw it open. The sky outside was painted bright orange and for a moment she wondered why. Then she remembered what was built on the mountain’s ridge, alongside their tower.

The signal fire!

Liska turned from the window and ran out of her room. Her sister, Ylva, was in the hallway strapping on her leather armour and cloak. The doorway to their apartments stood open, letting in the chaotic sounds from outside, along with a whiff of smoke, cold mountain air . . . and the unmistakeable, acrid stench of rot.

‘Ylva!’ Liska ran up to her sister. ‘What’s happening?’