Suddenly its little light extinguished and the crypt was plunged into darkness. Lena shivered. The creature was silent and still, the slight warmth quickly fading from its body, as if it had never been.

Is it broken?

She waited a few moments more, her heart in her mouth. Somewhere she could hear hurried footsteps, a voice calling—but if they were searching for the butterfly, they were moving in the wrong direction, some way off to her left. Lena opened her palms and ran her fingers along the butterfly’s body. Its wings were fully outstretched, and she liked the feel of the filigree patterns against her fingertips. It was strangely soothing.

But the butterfly didn’t belong to her. She should drop it here and go home.

Even though her mind had decided, her body didn’t move. She shouldn’t take it, should she? She couldn’t. If anyone found out she had removed anything from the crypts, she’d be in trouble. Even if she hadn’t found it on a body, it was still grave goods. Who would believe her when she said it had been flying toward her, as if it had chosen her, as if it had wanted her to take it?

Somehow it didn’t matter: the determination was already hardening in her heart. She wasn’t allowed to have things of her own: even her clothes were shared hand-me-downs, her soft shoes worn thin by other cryptlings’ feet. And aboveground, she knew, the un-Marked children of the upper town had rooms filled with toys and trinkets—and even clothes that only they had worn. Except for the dark birthmark on her cheek, she wasn’t any different from them. So why shouldn’t she have the butterfly? She felt her breath quicken. It was only one thing. Such a small thing. She’d keep it secret, of course. She’d never tell a soul. It would be something hers and hers alone—her only possession. Was that so much to ask?

Lena slipped the metal creature into the inside pocket of her habit, picked up her lantern and sack, and continued on through the tunnels.

ONE

The Hounds

Sixth year of the storm cloud

Lena ran until her lungs felt close to bursting, her feet thumping, sliding on the steep cobblestone road, down the peak of the city toward the walls and the forest beyond.

The Justice’s words rang loud in her ears.

You have been found guilty of magecraft.

The storm cloud was all-encompassing, a thick, poisonous gauze clinging to her clothes, obscuring her path.

I sentence you to die.

Islands of muffled light trembled in the gloom—a lit window here, a patch of fading sunlight there. Her feet thumped into grayness, invisible.

The hounds will eat your flesh.