I wake to a pounding headache that makes me wish I hadn’t regained consciousness at all. The rough wooden floor beneath me digs into my shoulder, while the sour-sweet smell of old beer and dust fills my nostrils. As I try to shift position, I discover I’m bound tight—arms, legs, even my fingers have been carefully immobilized with coarse rope that chafes against my skin. Someone clearly isn’t taking any chances. The ropes are professional grade too, not the usual rough hemp the local guards use. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

  Across from me sits a man in laborer’s clothes, but everything about his posture screams military training. He’s perched on a wooden chair like he’s ready to spring into action at any moment, his shoulders squared and feet planted firmly on the ground. His face is a mask of concentration, brow furrowed slightly as if he’s working on a particularly challenging puzzle. When I clear my throat experimentally, he doesn’t so much as blink. Channeling something? It’s not unlike the channeler on the wagon that tried to guide it through the gate.

  The room I’m in appears to be some kind of storeroom, though it’s been cleared of most of its contents. What remains are a few empty barrels pushed against the walls and some abandoned crates gathering dust in the corners. A single high window lets in a shaft of afternoon sunlight, the dust motes dancing through it making my head throb even worse. The air has the peculiar stillness of a space that’s been sealed off from the outside world for too long, and beneath the musty wood smell, I catch a whiff of something chemical that I can’t quite place. It’s nothing like the tannery district though, that’s for sure.

  Despite my throbbing headache, I wonder if I should risk entering quick-sight, curious about what this military-trained laborer might be channeling. My experience the last time I tried doesn’t give me great confidence in my success this time, but I need information, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone behind me to bonk my head. Since they’ve bound me and have a guard here I’m disinclined to think I’d immediately get killed if I do. Still, there’s an element of tension coiling in my gut like a cold, slippery eel. My dry tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I weigh my options, the metallic taste of fear mixing with the lingering staleness from unconsciousness.

  In the end, I decide to chance it. The juice flows smoothly as ever, the world around me slowing to its familiar crawl, and I immediately note I’m again surrounded by a rune of the sort I’d just barely seen before my head made an unexpected acquaintance with something solid. I’d sort of anticipated it, but I’m still shocked at the speed with which the man reacts—his eyes snap to mine with laser focus, all pretense of disinterest vanishing in an instant.

  A small, unfamiliar rune materializes just inches from my face, its geometry deceptively simple. My heart rate spikes as I realize he’s already formed it—feeding juice into it would take him a fraction of a second, far too quick for me to do anything about it in my current bound state. The implied threat is crystal clear: whatever this rune does, it’s nothing good for me. When I realize that, I can’t help but try to remember it. It’s literally right there, and the vagueness that normally cloaks other people’s formed runes barely has any effect when they conveniently form it right in front of my face.

  “Release your quickening," he says, his voice carrying that particular distortion that comes with speaking and listening in quick-sight. There’s no emotion in his tone, just the calm certainty of someone who knows they hold all the cards. I consider my options, which takes approximately no time at all since I have none. Reluctantly, I let go of quick-sight, the world snapping back to its normal pace. The two runes vanish along with my juice-sight, but the memory of their presence lingers like a phantom itch I can’t scratch.

  I wonder if he’s just keeping it formed there all the time, waiting to activate it, or whether he waits until he detects that I enter quick-sight. Clearly that large rune is how he’s able to detect that I do.

  It annoys me that there’s such absurdly simple runes that I have no knowledge of. “Burst”, as I term it, is massively complex by comparison. It’s no wonder I had a hard time learning channeling, when I started out with what I can only term as a ‘hard’ rune by comparison.

  Both runes hang there in my mind’s eye, their geometry deceptively simple. The first, which I guess I’ll call the ‘detection’ rune, has three curved lines intersecting at precise angles, with a small hook at one end that seemed almost like an afterthought. I kind of wonder if that’s a modifier of some kind? The unknown rune that was used to threaten me resembles a set of intersecting half circles.

  My headache provides the perfect cover as I squeeze my eyes shut, using the gesture to burn every detail into my memory. People here seem to hoard their runes like they’re diamonds, but if they wave them right in front of my face, what do they expect?

  Maybe this man expects me to already know what it does? That would explain why he didn’t tell me anything about what it did, though perhaps he simply calculated—correctly—that any rune materializing inches from my nose would send me backpedaling. If someone conjured ‘burst’ that close to me, I’d be equally terrified, but at least I’d understand precisely what flavor of obliteration awaited me.

  My thoughts drift to Mairi, and my stomach twists with sudden anxiety. She’s probably still waiting at our meeting point, pacing restlessly by now, her small hands fidgeting with that shiv she keeps hidden. I really should have known better than to split up—every instinct I’ve developed over a whole damn lifetime screams that it was a rookie mistake. I guess I’d just never felt like it would apply to real-life.

  The image of her face, brown eyes wide with growing concern as the minutes tick by without our return, makes my chest ache. Mairi’s been through too much already. The thought of her figuring out I’ve been captured and attempting some reckless rescue on her own, sends a fresh wave of panic through me. She may be fierce and capable beyond her years, but she’s still just a child—my child, in all the ways that matter. And I’ve left her alone.

  Calum might stop her from doing something stupid if he’s back there with them, but that’s a big question mark as well if I’ve been captured. Has he been back to our hideout? Has he tried to figure out where I went only to be captured in turn?

  It occurs to me that my primary concern right now isn’t my own survival. Instead, I find myself circling back to Mairi, and worry for what will happen to her. Not because I fear she can’t survive without me, but because I’m terrified of what she might do in an attempt to save me. The realization brings an unexpected warmth to my chest, even as it increases my anxiety.

  I almost want to laugh at the irony—finally finding someone worth protecting, only to realize they’re much more capable of protecting themselves. Though I suppose that’s what the best kind of family is—not needing each other to survive, but choosing to fight for each other anyway.

  “Shit,” I mutter to the empty room. “She’s going to do something stupid.”

  I need to get out of here before she gets it into her head to mount some half-baked rescue attempt. The thought of her getting caught—or worse—because of me makes my chest constrict painfully. No. That’s not an option. I need to escape, and I need to do it before Mairi decides to play hero.

  It’s a bit hard to think through the pounding headache, but I make an attempt to figure out where I am anyway. There’s nary a sound coming from outside, so this place is either pretty well isolated, or far outside the city. Even our hideout—well, former hideout—had a steady drone of city noises in the background.

  After yesterday… was it yesterday? I don’t know how long I was out. Either way, after our burst based rescue attempt I have just a bit less than a third of my juice remaining. This realization surprises me. I didn’t pay attention at all in the moment, but it seems to me that I used the bursts a great deal more than I should have been able to on two thirds of my juice. Do runes require less juice as you get more familiar with them?

  I imagine they’ll get around to more interrogation at some point, hopefully quickly, so I can figure out a way out of here, but meanwhile I’d love to experiment with that. Since the man in front of me freaks out from me just entering quick-sight, it doesn’t seem like this is the time or the place though. I have to guess they don’t expect a random person on the street to have any knowledge of runes, so maybe the fact I’ve only entered quick-sight so far will give me an opportunity because they underestimate me.

  Not much I can do now except wait and hope I suppose. Please give me some time Mairi.

  An unknown amount of time later, the heavy door creaks open, admitting a familiar figure—the captain or something who’d orchestrated my capture. He now wearing a pressed uniform in what I assume are imperial colors, rich burgundy and gold that catch the meager light filtering through the high window. He looks more relaxed now, his earlier tension replaced by an almost casual confidence as he waves away my silent guardian. The scent of expensive cologne mingles with the musty air, creating an incongruous layer of refinement over filth. The other man hesitates for just a moment before nodding and departing, leaving me alone with the captain who settles into the recently vacated chair with the easy grace of someone completely assured of their control over the situation, the wood creaking softly under his weight as he adjusts his sword belt with practiced nonchalance.

  “So,” he begins, his tone conversational despite the circumstances, “a commoner channeler. It would be amusing if it weren’t so concerning.” He leans forward, studying me with the kind of detached curiosity one might direct at an unusual insect. “The fruit must have been quite a surprise when you found it. Did you even know what it was when you ate it, or did you just stumble into power like a blind man finding gold in a midden heap?”

  I feel my jaw tighten at his words, the pulse in my neck quickening even as I force my face to remain blank. “Commoner,” he’d said, the word dripping with such disdain it might as well have been spat rather than spoken. His eyes raked over me like I was some curious rodent that had learned a clever trick—amusing, but ultimately beneath him. Clearly, in his world, people like me aren’t supposed to have access to such power. It’s the kind of arrogance that can work in my favor, if I play this right.

  To some extend it amazes me that he manages this kind of casual disdain in Dutch. I always thought my native language was, well, pretty good at keeping people equal. But it appears it was all an accident of inflection.

  The captain shifts in his chair, and I catch a glimpse of genuine curiosity beneath his condescending exterior. “Tell me about the fruit,” he says, his tone softening slightly as if trying to coax information from a particularly slow child. “Where did you find it? Were there more? Even a simple description would be… helpful.” The way he emphasizes that last word carries an unmistakable threat beneath its surface, but also betrays just how desperately he wants this information.

  Yeah, I’m definitely not going to supply these guys with information about the tree I know about. I can’t say I’ll keep the secret if he starts doing things like torture me, but I’m not going to roll over that easily either. What I need is a convincing excuse.

  I consider my lie carefully, knowing it needs to be both plausible and vague enough to be unverifiable. “Found it in the forest,” I say with a shrug that pulls uncomfortably at my bonds. “It was just lying there, glowing blue. I was hungry. It didn’t seem that different from any other apple.” So much for a convincing excuse. It sounds weak even to my own ears, but it’s the best I can manage with my head still throbbing and the captain’s penetrating stare making it hard to think straight.

  The captain’s lips curl into a knowing smirk as he leans back in his chair, clearly unimpressed with my attempt at deception. “Interesting,” he drawls, though his tone suggests it’s anything but. “You know, I’ve interrogated quite a few people in my time, and there’s something rather telling about the way someone’s eyes shift when they’re constructing a lie.” His fingers drum a slow rhythm against the arm of his chair as he studies me. “Yours, for instance, hardened the moment I asked about the fruit—like you were preparing for battle rather than conversation.”

  He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that makes me wince. “Let’s try this again,” he says, his voice taking on an edge of steel that wasn’t there before. “And this time, perhaps consider that while I’d prefer to handle this civilly, I have other methods at my disposal.” The threat hangs in the air between us, and I can’t help but notice how his hand comes to rest casually on the pommel of his sword, a reminder that civility is very much optional from his perspective.

  I backtrack quickly, like I thought, the idea of him sticking me with that sword is enough to make me drop all my plans at deception. Part of me feels disgusted with myself, but ultimately the tree isn’t whats important to me.

  “Uh, right. I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t enjoy that kind of conversation, so I’ll tell you.” That means revealing more than I really want to, but maybe I can keep some key details hidden? I’ll just stick to the truth, and then maybe I won’t trigger either his natural or magical skill at figuring out lies.

  The captain’s eyebrows shoot up, genuine surprise flashing across his face. He takes a step back, studying me with renewed interest, as if I’ve just transformed into an entirely different creature before his eyes.

  “Well,” he says, almost to himself, “that was unexpected.” He cocks his head slightly, the way a bird might examine something shiny and unfamiliar. “Most channelers I’ve encountered would sooner lose a finger than reveal information so readily.”

  A slight frown creases his brow as he circles the chair, his boots making measured clicks against the stone floor. I can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes—the recalibration of whatever strategy he’d been preparing to deploy.

  “But then again,” he continues, his voice dropping to a contemplative murmur, “most channelers I’ve dealt with weren’t commoners.” He says this last word with a curious mixture of disdain and something that might almost be pity. “I suppose when you stumble into power rather than being born to it, you lack the… fortitude that comes with proper lineage and training.”

  He straightens his already immaculate uniform and settles back into his chair, apparently having resolved whatever internal conflict my quick capitulation caused him. His composure regained, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly all business.

  “Very well then. Let’s hear it. And do try to be precise—my patience, while considerable, is not infinite.”

  I swallow hard, my throat dry from thirst and fear. The floor beneath me seems to leech what little warmth remains in my body. I’ve never been amazing at standing up to authority figures, even back home. I mostly just tried never to get into those kinds of situations. And now, with him threatening me with a sword instead of dismissal? It’s just a fruit tree. Not worth dying over.

  “So uh, I kinda did find it in the forest.” That part was as true as it could be. “I was on the way here at the time, and I felt some curious force tugging at me, you know?” My voice wavers between attempted formality and my natural cadence. His repeated “commoner” jabs dig under my skin like splinters. My shoulders stiffen, jaw tightening before I force it to relax. Back home, I had a house, education, respect—not some noble, but definitely not… whatever he’s implying. Ridiculous that it bothers me when I’ve been living as a street thief most of my time in this world. I’m far below a commoner. But I don’t see myself that way. Even sleeping in alleys and scrounging for food, the fact that I could channel allowed me to keep up the pretense that I’m something more. Better than… commoners? The thought makes me flinch internally, but doesn’t feel entirely wrong.

  The captains eyes widen perceptibly, and he mutters something under his breath that’s too low for me to catch.

  “Speak up if you want me to hear you.” I tell him, the reaction automatic, before my brain catches up with my mouth. All that frustration has me in a mindset that automatically recalls my mothers words. I flinch at the realization of what I’ve said, as I wait for his reaction.

  To my great surprise, the captain doesn’t really seem to notice my faux-pas. The only thing my words seem to do is jolt him out of his introspection. His earlier condescension is suddenly replaced by sharp interest. “That’s impossible,” he says, leaning forward with sudden intensity. “Only those who have already consumed a fruit can sense others. The resonance between their vessel and the fruit’s power creates that pull.” His eyes narrow as he studies me more carefully now, as if seeing me in an entirely new light. “Unless…” He trails off, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. “Tell me exactly when you first felt this… tugging sensation. And don’t lie—this could be more important than you realize.”

  I shift uncomfortably against my bonds, trying to find the right balance between seeming cooperative and not revealing too much. “I was… well, I was dying, honestly,” I say, letting some of the raw memory of those early days seep into my voice. “Hadn’t eaten in days, had some kind of infection that was making me delirious. I remember stumbling through the forest, not even sure which way was up anymore, when I felt this… pull. Like someone had tied a string to my chest and was gently tugging on it.”

  The captain leans forward, his earlier skepticism replaced by intense focus, and I find myself wondering what it is that I’ve said. This doesn’t sound like valuable information to me. But there’s something in his expression—a mix of disbelief and dawning understanding—that makes me think I might have accidentally stumbled onto something significant. My head throbs as I try to parse his reaction, to figure out what exactly about my near-death experience has captured his attention so completely. The way his fingers drum against his chair seems less threatening now, more… contemplative.

  I wait in anticipation of whatever reaction will undoubtedly come. When it doesn’t come, after him staring at me like a particularly interesting specimen for about ten seconds, I dare chance a confused query “If it’s not too much to ask? What about that is so interesting?”

  The captain’s smirk softens into something almost scholarly as he settles back in his chair. “Well, since you asked so politely,” he says with a hint of dry humor, “there are rare cases—very rare—where people on the brink of death develop an ability to sense the fruits. The prevailing theory is that the body, in its desperate attempt to survive, somehow attunes itself to their power. It’s fascinating really, though largely academic since most who develop this ability don’t survive long enough to make use of it.”

  He leans forward, his earlier hostility momentarily forgotten in what appears to be genuine academic interest. “You see, consuming the fruit doesn’t just grant the ability to channel—it also provides a remarkable boost to one’s immune system, often enough to overcome whatever ailment brought them to death’s door in the first place. But timing is crucial. Most who develop the sense through this method either can’t reach the fruit in time or succumb to their injuries before the fruit’s properties can help them. You must have been extraordinarily lucky… or extraordinarily stubborn.”

  Huh, so I might have really died had I not eaten those fruits. That’s… not something I was expecting. I was sure it was the rabbit. Or given what he said, maybe it was just a combination of all factors, and I just somehow squeezed through. I can’t say that I haven’t noticed since though. I’ve felt remarkably sturdy since eating the fruits. I kind thought it was just a property of this world, since I ate them so early in. How many deaths have I avoided because I did so?

  “Actually,” I say, unable to completely suppress my astonishment, “I ended up eating four of them, that might have had something to do with it.” The captain’s face goes through a fascinating series of expressions—first confusion, then disbelief, and finally something approaching horror. His carefully maintained composure cracks as he jerks forward in his chair, his mouth working silently for a moment before he manages to sputter, “Four? You ate… four fruits?” The way he says it makes it sound like I’d just casually mentioned drinking an entire ocean.

  His reaction is so profound that I almost feel bad for dropping this revelation on him. He runs a hand through his hair, muttering what sounds like calculations under his breath, and I catch fragments about “value” and “waste” and something that might be “council’s annual budget.” When he finally looks at me again, there’s a new expression on his face—a mixture of revulsion and reluctant respect, like someone watching a street performer eat live insects. “Four fruits,” he repeats, shaking his head slowly. “Do you have any idea… no, of course you don’t. You just found some glowing fruit in the forest and decided to make a meal of it. Extraordinary.”

  “Actually,” I say, being pretty happy with both the way his expression has softened, and with the fact that this feels like a completely safe topic, “I was pretty disappointed at first. Here I was, starving to death, and these glowing fruits didn’t seem to fill my stomach at all. Just gave me this weird buzzing feeling instead.” I smile faintly, remembering those desperate moments in the forest. “I mean, I kept eating them because I literally had nothing else, but I remember thinking it was just my luck to find the magical equivalent of celery—all show and no substance.” The captain’s expression twists even further at this casual dismissal of what I’m starting to suspect he considers incredibly rare and valuable magical artifacts, and I have to bite back a smile at his obvious distress.

  The reaction doesn’t quite make sense to me though. He can’t be that highly ranked, and they gave him a fruit, so they can’t be all that rare and valuable. At least there’s an upper limit on their value just based on that. I know for a fact that the garrison in the bastion here has one or multiple trees growing inside. I may not have seen them, but I certainly felt them, standing in front of the gate.

  I duck my head in what I hope passes for contrition. “I’m sorry if I sound flippant about the fruits. I truly had no idea they were so valuable. Are they really that rare?” The question comes out genuinely curious, as I think about the massive tree I’d stumbled across, bearing hundreds of the glowing fruits. The thought of each one being worth what the captain seems to be implying makes my head spin.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The captain’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “Rare? The entire League has perhaps a hundred fruit-bearing trees, each producing no more than two or three fruits per year. We, across the entire country, have a few hundred. Growing them is possible, but it’s extraordinarily difficult and time consuming. We’ve planted trees two hundred years ago that are now finally bearing fruit! The fruits collect power in its purest form. Without them, it takes ages for a channeler to re-gather energy.” His eyes narrow as he studies my face. “A single fruit is worth more than minor nobles will see in their lifetime, and you…” he trails off, shaking his head in apparent disbelief, “you ate four of them like they were common apples.”

  The captain’s words echo in my mind as I process the implications. If each tree only produces two or three fruits per year, then the massive tree I’d found, laden with hundreds of glowing fruits, represents an impossible bounty. My heart rate quickens as I realize my confused frown must have given something away. I force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression, but I can already see the captain’s keen eyes narrowing, his academic interest sharpening into something more predatory.

  He walks slowly towards me as his earlier conversational tone completely vanishes. “You’ve seen something, haven’t you?” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “A tree, perhaps?” His hand moves to rest on his sword hilt again, but this time the gesture isn’t casual—it’s deliberate, meant to remind me of exactly what’s at stake. My mind races as I try to think of a way to explain my reaction without revealing the fact I know about a tree, and more importantly, that it doesn’t seem to follow any of the rules he seems to be playing by, but I know I’ve given something away. The captain’s expression tells me he’s already pieced together enough to know I’ve stumbled across something more than just a few fruits.

  The captain’s shift from scholarly interest to predatory focus triggers something deep within me, a visceral response that transcends conscious thought.The same certainty that had gripped me when I first felt I was in a different world—not just knowledge, but bone-deep understanding that leaves no room for doubt. The need to protect the secret of the fruit tree wells up inside me with an intensity that startles me, somehow overwhelming my instinct for self-preservation. It’s not a question of whether I will protect it, it’s a universal constant, like the speed of light.

  My mind races through possible options, each more desperate than the last, as I realize with growing clarity that this conversation can only end one way. The captain’s carefully controlled posture, the way his hand rests on his sword, the calculated pressure of his questions—it all points to someone who’s accustomed to extracting information by any means necessary. The thought of enduring torture frightens me nearly as much as the certainty that I’ll eventually break and reveal everything.

  Not caring about the results, I drop into quick-sight, absently noting the detection rune surrounding me. The captain’s eyes immediately widen, and he begins to form the same rune the earlier guard used. I ignore the fact it is right there in front of my face. Instead, I generate a whole chain of miniscule burst runes in the center of my bindings. I’ve only tried to make so many at once a few times, after I saw Mairi do it. I know it is possible, but even so it’s not an easy thing. It’s odd how my spark gives me an instinctive understanding of my surroundings that lets me form the runes inside the bindings. I suppose that is how the channelers on the wagons form their runes at the proper locations as well.

  Trying this strains my ability to multi-task to the maximum. But I form all the runes with barely any hiccups. It’s ironic how I’m completely immobilized, but it has zero effect on my ability to channel. I guess this is why they had someone near me to stand guard all the time.

  All these actions have taken barely half a second, and I see the beginnings of a conflicted expression forming on the captain’s face. Like he’s incapable of believing that I’m actually going through with what I’m doing even with that rune floating in front of my face. It occurs to me that he might not be able to see me form the tiny burst runes behind my body. If a wooden crate partially blocks the perception of that lighthouse rune, then maybe a human body will completely block these. Plus it’s pretty dark in here. It won’t help me once I feed those runes, as they’ll light up like fireworks. It wouldn’t be all that different, but I imagine still impossible not to notice.

  I’m lying there in a stand-off, with both of us staring at the other in quick-sight. The captain is just holding the new rune there right in front of my face, clearly unwilling to escalate when the only thing he’s seen me do is enter quick-sight, or whatever those bozo’s called it. There’s a frown on his face, as if he’s trying to figure out something or the other.

  What I need is a distraction. I could use burst, but… From everything I’ve heard, a commoner channeler that found a tree in the middle of nowhere is potentially valuable, but based on everything Rhona and Iain said, nowhere near as valuable as a new rune, and I’m not willing to bet that they know ‘burst’ already.

  I begin forming a new rune, the same one that he uses, behind his head, and his reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and the rune in front of me starts to be fed, as he whirls to see what rune I am forming. I’m never going to finish forming and feeding it faster than he can feed his, but that’s not necessary. I can feel the air near my head heating up as his rune gets fed with more and more power, and in a rush, I realize what’s going to happen to my face if that’s allowed to continue.

  All the little burst runes get fed at the same time, and my bindings snap like they’ve been snipped in half. A tiny part of my brain wonders how that works, with all the different strands in the rope, but there’s no time to truly consider it. I launch myself backwards by pushing off with my whole body, but even as I’m moving, the air in front of my face grows uncomfortably hot. I close my eyes for fear that the heat will burn my eyeballs.

  Mairi will be so happy once she learns of this fire rune, I think. Even as my flesh burns.

  But it’s enough. I focus on my spark to ignore the pain, which feels infinitely easier while in quick-sight. I feel the captain form another rune between mine and his body, feeding it almost before it forms. As I roll out of the way of the heat flash and scramble to my feet. I keep pushing more and more juice into what I’m nearly certain is some heat or fire rune. I have little concerns about being flashy, flashy is good for me since it will call the league’s soldiers down on this place, and give me a great distraction.

  I can feel the captain’s fire rune already losing power, the heat is noticeable even all the way at the edge of the room, the floor below it smoldering, and if continued, will undoubtedly set the whole thing on fire.

  I smile as I feel the power in my own rune building. I’m going to… And then suddenly my juice runs out. My rune flares one last time before fizzling out.

  Time resumes itself, and pain immediately blooms on my face—a searing, blistering agony that makes my nerves scream in protest. Fuck, that hurts. The smell of my own singed hair fills my nostrils, acrid and nauseating, while tiny embers still dance across my skin like malicious fireflies. My cheeks feel tight and raw, as if someone had taken sandpaper to them and then held them too close to a campfire. Sweat beads and instantly evaporates in the lingering heat, leaving a salty residue that stings the fresh burns. I can taste ash and copper on my tongue, my mouth dry as kindling. And I can’t sink back into quick-sight to make it go away. The thought scratches at my mind like fingernails on slate—I should have thought of that before I…

  I sink to the floor, staring at the captain, whom is standing behind some sort of spinning blue disc, looking everything like those friggin magic circle shields in cheesy anime. The floor in front of him is scorched black, and flames are licking at the roof, but it looks like he’s perfectly safe behind his… whatever it is. I regret I can’t make out the runes that make it up from this distance. It looks like some sort of formation of them?

  I watch the captain emerge from behind his shimmering barrier, his face a study in contradictions. Amazement battles with fury across his features as he surveys the charred floor and smoking walls, his carefully maintained composure cracking to reveal genuine astonishment beneath. His hand still rests on his sword hilt, but the gesture seems almost forgotten as he takes in the full scope of what just transpired—a commoner channeler, actually knowing—and more importantly, using—runes. He may not know how I destroyed my bindings, but it’s not too far fetched to imagine I used the same rune I used on him. Even if he doesn’t suspect I learned it right then and there, knowing it at all must be pretty uncommon.

  I slump against the floor, my initial surge of desperate energy fading into bitter disappointment. I’d come so close to escape, had felt it within my grasp for one brief, electric moment. But now, with my juice depleted and my face seared by the literal heat of our magical exchange, I can only watch as the captain’s amazement slowly crystallizes into something harder and more calculating. The look in his eyes tells me that whatever value I held before has just increased exponentially, and with it, any hope of an easy escape has evaporated.

  The worst thing is that I could have anticipated this outcome. Didn’t I just figure out that I used a lot less juice to make the familiar burst runes yesterday than the first time I did so? Pouring all my energy into a brand new rune is like asking to get ruined.

  Two soldiers burst through the doorway, their weapons half-drawn as they survey the smoking room with wide eyes. Their practiced military precision falters at the sight of the charred floor and smoldering walls, replaced by an almost comical uncertainty as they glance between their captain and me, slumped against the far wall. The acrid smell of burnt wood fills the air.

  The captain waves them away without even turning to look at them, his eyes still fixed on me with that same calculating intensity. “Go prepare the standard competency assessment for new channelers,” he says, his casual tone a stark contrast to the destruction surrounding us. “And someone put out that damn fire before it spreads.” The dismissal in his voice is clear, and the soldiers hesitate only briefly before backing out of the room, closing the door behind them with a quiet click that seems to echo in the charged atmosphere.

  The captain observes me, his eyes narrowed to calculating slits, until a replacement guard can be arranged, while I suffer through the result of my actions. My skin sizzles with angry heat as though branded by invisible irons, each throb of pain sending waves of nausea through my gut. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper, determined not to give the stone-faced captain the satisfaction of hearing me whimper.

  I really, hope these aren’t anything worse than first degree burns, though I’m pessimistic that’s actually the case. I’m doubly happy I closed my eyes, even if opening and closing them now is utter agony.

  I lie on the cold floor, wanting to touch the skin of my face, but too afraid of what I’ll find to actually do so. The burns throb in time with my heartbeat, and I can’t help but imagine what I must look like—probably like someone tried to cook half my face. My fingers trace the edges of the worst spots, each touch sending sharp spikes of pain through my nerves, and I wonder if I’ll end up with scars. It would be just my luck to end up permanently marked by my own stupidity. The worst part isn’t even the physical pain—it’s knowing that I had one shot at escape and I blew it by getting cocky. Mom always said my temper would get me into trouble one day—I doubt she ever imagined it would lead to me getting my face burned off.

  After some time, without any audible instructions from the captain, what I can only assume to be a medic comes to look at me. I open my eyes just the moment it takes to notice the man to enter the room, then immediately close them again when I see no obvious threat from him.

  I hear him coming closer, and sit down next to me, rummaging through what I can only suppose is some form of kit. Eventually he gently touches me, and indicates I should roll onto my back.

  “Ik ga je insmeren met zalf, ok?” he says, his voice gentle. I’m honestly surprised by the tone. Neither the captain nor the other guards have been very welcoming so far. Maybe it comes from the profession?

  The medic’s touch is surprisingly gentle as he applies a cooling salve to my burns. His careful movements and professional demeanor speak volumes. The ointment brings blessed relief wherever it touches, though the process of applying it is its own special kind of torture. Each area has to be cleaned first, and I can feel where the fabric of my dress melted into some of the burns. My arms, neck, and face got the worst of it from what I could see, angry red blisters covering nearly every inch of exposed skin. I try to focus on the relief that follows the initial sting of treatment, but it’s hard to ignore just how extensive the damage is.

  The medic seems to have his own idea’s about the extent of the damage, exasperated grunts leaving his mouth once every while as he works on a new area. The salve makes opening my eyes a bit easier, and I see him turn towards the captain. “We hebben hier niemand die…?” he trails off, looking meaningfully at the state of my body, and waving his hand back and forth. The captain shakes his head with an expression that I could almost be amusement. He grunts. “Niet hier nee. We hebben er niet genoeg die dat kunnen om ze op een gevaarlijke infiltratiemissie te sturen.”

  I wonder what they’re talking about. Even understanding the words they leave a lot of things unsaid. Something about the medic asking for it makes me feel like they’re talking about magical healing. Even more magical than this fantastic ointment. It feels the same as the one that Ronain gave me so long ago, though it would have been impossible to cover all these wounds with the little bit I had left. On the plus side, it does mean that I can practically feel the pain disappearing.

  I know it’s not quite as magical as that. It’s the sedative effect taking hold, but still. If the stuff works like Ronain’s I might just walk away from this without significant scarring.

  Through the haze of pain-dulled awareness, I watch as several servants hurry into the room with buckets of water and sand. They work efficiently, dousing the smoldering remains of wooden crates and scrubbing soot from the stone walls, their movements practiced and methodical. The acrid smell of burnt wood gradually gives way to the musty dampness of wet stone and ash, though occasional wisps of smoke still curl lazily toward the ceiling.

  The captain’s boots scuff against the gritty floor as he approaches, and I force myself to look up at him despite the pain it causes my tender skin. “Well,” he says, his voice carrying an unexpected note of respect beneath its usual authority, “I suppose I should thank you for solving our immediate staffing issue. Burning through all your juice like that—quite literally, I might add—saves us the trouble of posting round-the-clock guards.” His lips quirk in what might almost be a smile as he surveys the destruction around us. “Though I must admit, your method of achieving this was rather more… dramatic than necessary.”

  The captain’s words wash over me like tepid water, his congratulations, while seemingly sincere, feeling like a snake’s. “Well done,” he says, gesturing at the scorched walls with an almost proprietary pride. “Most channelers take months to achieve that level of control, even with proper training. I can’t imagine how you stumbled into this, but we’re going to find out everything you can do. Tomorrow’s assessment will be… interesting.” The way he emphasizes the last word makes it clear that ‘interesting’ could mean anything from mildly challenging to potentially lethal, and I feel my stomach twist with uncertain dread.

  I lie back on the cold stone floor, my freshly treated burns tingling with the salve’s numbing effect, and try to make sense of my new reality. Just hours ago, I’d been a curiosity, a strange anomaly to be studied and perhaps exploited. Now, having demonstrated both the ability to use runes and the willingness to use them aggressively, something in the calculation has changed. Certainly the captain has entirely dropped his dismissiveness of me as a commoner, as if the very act of using a rune makes it impossible for me to be treated as one. The uncomfortable thought occurs to me that that is exactly what I was thinking earlier. That my ability to channel makes me special. The attention should probably frighten me more than it does, but all I can muster is a sort of detached fascination with how quickly one’s circumstances can change when magic enters the equation.

  The captain’s voice takes on an almost paternal tone as he outlines my potential future, his earlier hostility softening into something closer to enthusiasm. “This is an opportunity,” he says, gesturing expansively at the scorched walls around us, “to become something more than just another street rat with stolen power. Pass tomorrow’s test, and you could join the ranks of Imperial channelers—respected, trained, given purpose beyond mere survival.” The way he describes it makes it sound like he’s offering me salvation rather than conscription, and I have to admit there’s a seductive quality to what he’s promising after months of living in shadows.

  The one thing that makes it all feel like a sham is that it comes right after a nasty interrogation that ended with a fight. Does he truly think I believe anything he says? Why hasn’t he proceeded with his interrogation in the first place now that I’m at his mercy? Doesn’t he want to know about the tree any more? Did he just forget about the whole thing in the excitement of discovering I can channel? That stretches credulity, but would be very welcome if so. I can’t shake the feeling that it’d be just as impossible to say anything the next time around, and I doubt I’d have as much chance fighting back with my bare hands.

  The captain’s gaze sweeps over my bedraggled appearance, lingering on my bare feet and the scorched remnants of what was once a serviceable dress. “And speaking of proper training,” he adds, his lip curling slightly, “we can certainly do better than…” he waves his hand vaguely at my attire, “…this. Imperial channelers don’t skulk around in rags and bare feet like common thieves. They command respect, and dress accordingly.”

  I resist the urge to curl my toes under or attempt to smooth the singed fabric of my dress. Sure, I probably look like something a cat dragged through hell backwards, but his condescending tone makes me want to set something else on fire—preferably his perfectly pressed uniform. The mention of shoes feels especially grating after Mairi’s and Calum’s earlier teasing.

  “Though,” he continues, pacing a small circle around where I’m lying, “I suppose your current state of… disarray… rather proves my point about survival versus prosperity.” He stops, and I can practically hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “The Empire takes care of its own. Those who serve with loyalty find that loyalty amply rewarded.”

  Either the man is running through a prepared spiel, or he’s lost in his own world. Does he think I’m just another recruit? I can’t follow his train of thought at all.

  The way he keeps dangling these carrots of legitimacy and comfort in front of me would be almost amusing if I weren’t in so much pain. It’s almost as if he’d picked up a random kid with talent off the street and was now promising the world if only they would serve him. Like he completely forgot I just tried to burn him to a crisp, even if he was a lot more successful at it than I was.

  And has he somehow failed to connect me with the destruction of their base? I was captured barely hours after their hideout erupted in magical flames, yet the captain speaks as if recruiting a promising novice rather than interrogating a suspected enemy. Maybe the fact I somehow spoke their language puts me above suspicion? Perhaps they’ve attributed the explosion to League intervention, I realize, unable to imagine that a handful of street children could have orchestrated such devastating resistance.

  I suddenly realize that my hair has been on full display this entire time. I’ve gotten so used to having it covered up that it’s a shock to realize they’ve all seen it and not remarked on it even once, but I suppose it makes sense since the Empire seems to be the ones with the black haired spies.

  I stare at the ceiling, a bitter taste in my mouth as I realize how easily I might have accepted his offer if he’d given it to me just a few months before, when I just stepped foot into this city. I feel absolutely no loyalty to the League, which I’ve been living in mostly by accident, and the fact that the captain would offer me all this even though I’m a woman, well, lets just say my impression of the Empire as a civilized nation is a whole lot better. Before meeting Mairi and the others, the promise of legitimacy—of being able to walk the streets without constantly checking over my shoulder—would have been intoxicating. The thought of proper clothing, regular meals, and most temptingly, the ability to exist without my black hair marking me as an outsider, would have been nearly impossible to resist.

  But then, they tried to kill those that were mine to protect, they tried to kill Mairi, and everything changed. I can’t see them as anything other than the enemy.

  But there’s no reason why they should know that. If he’s so willing to consider me a promising recruit, to overlook the fact I tried to kill him, and that he found me in the most suspicious of circumstances right after his hidden base was blown up, who am I to reject that?

  I shift against the cold stone, not having to face the relief in my voice, as I address the captain. “You know,” I say, running my fingers along the edge of my scorched dress, “just getting off these streets would honestly be worth it. The League…” I trail off, shaking my head with what I don’t have to pretend is genuine frustration. “The way they let children starve while preaching about freedom and independence—it’s almost worse than open tyranny.” The words come easily, perhaps because they contain a whole lot more truth than I’d like to admit.

  The captain’s responding laugh carries a note of genuine amusement that makes my skin crawl, though I manage to keep my expression appropriately earnest. “Ah, the classic conundrum,” he says, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture. “The League preaches freedom while children starve in their streets, while their leaders sit on their gilded seats stuffing themselves. Meanwhile, we offer them security, a better live, and no lesser freedoms. Yet the truly terrifying part?” He pauses, his eyes gleaming with something between mirth and contempt. “The people of this city would rather clutch their illusion of independence than accept help from those they’ve been taught to fear.”

  The question bursts from my lips before I can stop myself, I find myself wanting to disagree with what he says even though I don’t necessarily disagree with it. I don’t feel obliged to defend the League, but hearing my enemy dismiss it makes me want to retort. I grab onto the one thing I’m certain is a problem with anything called an “Empire”, something even worse than the fake democracy the League suffers from. As far as classic conondrums go, this is as close as they come. “And what happens when your precious emperor flies off the handle?” I smirk, the words carrying just a hint of the bitterness I feel toward authority figures who claim to know what’s best for everyone else.

  The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake—not because of their insolence, but because of the genuine confusion that spreads across the captain’s face.

  “Emperor?” he echoes, his brow furrowing as if I’ve said something fundamentally nonsensical. “Do you mean Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress?” The question hangs in the air between us as my mind struggles to process this revelation. All my assumptions about this world’s patriarchal nature—assumptions reinforced by months of watching men dominate every position of power I’d encountered, of having them get to do all the important jobs—suddenly shift beneath my feet like loose sand. The captain’s matter-of-fact tone suggests this isn’t some recent development or unusual circumstance, but rather the natural order of things, and I find myself wondering just how many other aspects of this world I’ve misinterpreted as being global, when they might be unique to the League.

  The revelation about the Empress sends my mind spinning, forcing me to confront the uncomfortable uncertainty of the information I have. All those stories from the kids—tales of imperial cruelty, of families torn apart and lives destroyed—are based on a caricature of the empire. Whatever they’ve heard, or seen from within the League. Apparently it actually places women in positions of genuine power. Not just as spies or pawns, but at the very pinnacle of authority.

  I think of Mairi’s fierce independence, of Rhona’s natural leadership, and wonder if perhaps we’ve been fighting against a system that might, in some ways, offer more opportunities than the supposedly free League. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, forcing me to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, the world isn’t as black and white as I’d like it to be. The Empire’s use of women as spies takes on a different context now—not so much exploitation as just another option available to them.

  But… The Empire’s treatment of women, the League’s ideals of freedom—none of it matters compared to the urgent need to find the kids and make sure they’re safe.

  I shift against the cold stone floor, a grim smile tugging at my lips despite the pain of my burns. If the Empire wants to make me a proper channeler, complete with training and resources, then I’ll gladly accept their offer. Not out of loyalty or belief in their cause, but because every skill they teach me, every bit of power they help me cultivate, is another tool I can use to track down and protect my makeshift family. Let them think they’re molding me into their perfect soldier—I know exactly where my true allegiance lies, and it’s not with any flag or crown, but with a group of street rats who took me in when it seemed like everything was lost.

  “I… grew up in the League,” I stammer, trying to mask my genuine shock about the Empress with what I hope passes for ignorance born of propaganda. “They always just said ‘the Empire’ or ‘Imperial forces’—I guess I just assumed…” I trail off, letting embarrassment color my voice as I realize this admission of League upbringing might actually help explain away my earlier hostility. The way the captain’s eyebrows rise slightly tells me he’s buying it, or at least willing to accept it as a plausible explanation.

  “Ah, of course,” the captain replies, his voice dripping with patronizing understanding. “I can hardly fault you for such… limited knowledge. The League does so love to paint us as demons incarnate, spreading their tales of Imperial barbarism while conveniently forgetting to mention that a woman sits upon the highest throne in the world.” He shakes his head with exaggerated sympathy, as if pitying the poor, misguided soul before him. “Though I must admit, it’s rather amusing how they manage to simultaneously fear us as unstoppable conquerors and dismiss us as backwards savages. Propaganda rarely concerns itself with consistency.”

  The captain’s amusement fades into something harder as he moves toward the door, his boots scuffing against the ash-covered floor. He pauses at the threshold, turning back to fix me with a gaze that carries none of his earlier academic interest or careful diplomacy. “One last thing,” he says, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity that seems to fill the small room. “This little display of yours? Consider it your one allowance for… youthful defiance. Try anything like this again, and I won’t waste time with assessments or training opportunities.” His hand rests casually on his sword hilt, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers tighten around it. “I’ll simply execute you where you stand. The Empire has survived centuries without your particular talents; we can certainly continue without them.” With that, he steps through the doorway, leaving me alone with my burns and my depleted juice.

  Youthful defiance? How old does he think I am?