The target did not need CPR. The assassin. Whatever he was. Whatever CPR was. He needed another broken nose.

Someone needed CPR. Agent stared at the sky like it could answer her when she had asked nothing.

She was still kneeling, her right foot twisted from when she had tumbled backward. Rain bucketed down. More lightning sheeted the sky.

Agent put one hand on the ground beside her. Then lifted it again. Water ran with blood down her arm as gravity tried to pull it back.

It was not the assassin’s blood. She knew that.

Her gaze slipped further—to the shape on the ground that had not moved. The rest of her followed.

Body still misaligned from when the assassin had armed himself from it. Hair and cloak slathered on the soaked ground. Crimson she could hardly see between lightning strikes but which found its way onto her own clothing, her pants, her hands.

The girl still stood there, apart, waiting. Agent’s eyes flicked from her to Mara’s face—but only for an instant. The eyes were open. The mouth, too. But breath—gone.

Agent pulled herself the remaining distance to the body. Her hand hesitated over the chest before landing there. Blood pushed itself past her fingers—slowly. Not quickly.

Slowly was a problem.

There was no heartbeat. She wasn’t sure.

“Mara,” Agent whispered, leaning close to the woman’s face.

Still no breath. That wasn’t…that wasn’t the issue.

Her other hand joined the first. Fingers interlaced.

She knew that hold. The heel of her right hand pressed down—hard—into—against—

The chest moved. Agent inhaled sharply and pressed again—deeper this time.

The blood came faster—and Agent froze.

“Illegal,” she muttered.

Her hands came away, hovering near her own chest for a moment. Red until the rain washed the color away.

Mara did not move. Agent reached for her head, adjusting the airway. When her fingers came away from Mara’s cheeks, they left them tinted.

“Is she asleep?”

It was the girl. Eyes tracking like they hadn’t been before—but locked on Mara. Agent’s head jerked up towards her.

No. Mara was not asleep. That was the problem.

Agent knew that now.

The girl bent over, closer to both of them. Her breath caught as she reached out—and Agent caught her hand.

“Don’t touch her,” the woman gritted.

The girl jumped back—the fastest movement Agent had ever seen from her.

Now Agent felt Mara’s wrist—carefully. Then the side of her neck.

Nothing.

No heartbeat. Of course there was nothing.

There should be sirens. There should be—

No. Agent slammed her fist onto the brick. Pain tore through her.

No sirens. No EMS. No police. No—

That was gone. That didn’t exist here.

Her fist dropped into something else. Something open…grasping. Her fingers found Mara again, finding the source of the blood this time. She pressed her hand into one of the wounds. Trying to stop the flow.

It stopped.

That was not the point.

Behind her, someone stopped. Rain ran off them so hard Agent could hear where they were.

“You okay?”

She did not answer them. A hand landed on her shoulder, and Agent jerked around.

A villager. Specifically, a short man with baggy pants and a hat that looked more like a sack. The rain glanced off it. Impermeable, then.

His eyes widened as he stared past her. The volume of his voice dropped—he stood very still.

“Who is that?”

Agent followed his line of gaze. To the girl—no, not to the girl. To the body. To Mara. To the blood. To the knife that still lay on the ground.

“Mara the hunter,” the man breathed before she could answer him.

“She—” Agent began, and stopped.

He knelt beside her, his hands moving quickly. But only for a moment.

“She’s—”

His eyes locked on Agent.

“You—”

Agent’s breath shattered.

She was moving before he could grab her. Before he could finish the sentence.

Before anyone could say Mara’s name again.

The girl was gone now. Agent did not try to follow her. She simply stumbled to her feet and ran. Not towards Mara’s house. Not towards the tavern.

Away.

Somewhere behind her, the man shouted. First for her—and then for help. Agent kept running.

She did not stop. The ground stopped her—almost ten minutes later, when her already-twisted foot slammed into a hole in the ground and sent her entire body into rigidity. Agent didn’t fall forward—she curled as she went down, sideways. Her face thudded into the mud.

Just like yesterday. The yesterday that was all she knew. Before Mara.

Agent screamed something into the dirt, into the rain, into the cold that had come back. The sound broke halfway as she was abruptly sick. Everything spasmed out of her.

It didn’t make her feel any cleaner.

She lay there for a minute, the side of her face slathered in mud, her mouth… She brushed her sleeve across it. The sleeve of what had been a uniform shirt.

FBI agent—that was what she was. What she had been.

Agent was not her name.

Veronica did not care.

Veronica Kane. That was who she was. From Virginia. Thirty-four. Trained in CPR and countless other things. Here, ground into the dirt of a world that had no North Star.

Veronica was sick again.

She rolled away, her ankle screaming at her.

Slowly, reluctantly, Veronica sat up. Pulled her leg closer to her. Stared at it through the rain. At the diluted blood that had ended up there somehow.

Blood. It was all over her. She saw that now.

Mara’s. Mara’s.

Mara was gone.

Veronica jerked her ankle in closer, ignoring the pain that nearly doubled. She rocked back and forth, holding the joint tightly. Eventually the pain eased, and her grip loosened slightly.

She struggled with her jacket. It was still zipped and tied around her waist. Now she tugged it free and wrapped it around her ankle after feeling the bones.

No fracture. No loss of control.

Just a sprain.

The pain laughed at that.

Veronica bit it back and stood. Her balance tottered for a moment.

Then she lifted her head and scanned her surroundings.

The rain was still coming—though not so heavily now. She didn’t remember how long ago the last roll of thunder had been.

The storm was ending, then. And the village would come alive.

Veronica could not be here for that.

The girl was gone. Veronica realized that again. Her clothes… She must have been another stranger. And the notebook. That would have been why Mara had been walking with her.

Why had Mara helped her—Veronica?

Veronica’s filthy hand came up to her face, pressing against her lips as she moaned softly. Not in pain. In something else. Something that was getting out of her whether she wanted it to or not.

“Mara,” she winced.

The girl. She had seen the girl before.

Hannah Lee. The thirteen-year-old Veronica had been supposed to find.

Veronica’s chest tightened as her hand went to her belt. No gun. Not anymore.

It hadn’t been loaded, anyway.

The other one—Ben. Ben Lee. Twelve.

Hannah was here. Ben must be here.

And she was here for them.

“Oh—” she spat, her face twisting. One foot—her uninjured one—drove deeper into the mud. “…Yeah, no.”

The book was soaked. So was she.

The woman had been trying to help her. Hannah knew that. But she did not know the other one. The one who had attacked.

And so Hannah had left when the first woman stopped answering. Hannah did not know if she had heard her. But she could not have been asleep. Not with that much…blood.

Hannah shivered, holding the notebook more tightly against herself as she walked on. The rain was lessening, but that was not important. Ben was important. The book was important. That was about all.

One foot slipped against the bricks, but Hannah caught herself and kept walking. Her knee hurt—from what, she didn’t remember. Every part of her was tired, but she was almost more awake now—mentally, anyway. That didn’t make it any better. She didn’t know where Ben was. She didn’t know who any of the women had been. Not the one who had come alone, and not the two later on, and not the man who had attacked them. No one.

She was alone. Her thoughts were quiet about that. She would have written it in the notebook, but the pencil was gone—left behind somewhere—and the pages were stuck together.

Still, she clutched it as she walked up to the house.

It was hardly a house, but Hannah ignored that, stepping up to the door. Even that was wet. A splinter caught her hand as she put it out and knocked. Too tiny to bother about.

Maybe the knock hadn’t been loud enough. Hannah hit the door again.

It opened. A tall woman stood there—blond-haired and cloaked with a smile on her face.

The smile shifted as the eyes narrowed slightly. Hannah tipped her face up, their gazes meeting briefly.

Then someone moved behind the woman.

“Hannah!”

The boy was in front of her now, his face lit up as he threw his arms around her, wet though she was. Hannah stared at him, almost stepping backwards as her body stiffened.

He caught his breath—hard.

“Hannah?”

The woman was standing over her again, her smile completely gone now. “Ben—”

Hannah started. Her eyes flew to the woman’s face.

“Ben?”

He pulled her closer, something in his face twisting. “Hannah—”

Her gaze went back to him. He looked… There was something about him that was…important. Hannah couldn’t place it.

Ben, the woman had said.

Hannah’s face tightened. “Ben,” Hannah noted again.

He was too close. She pushed him away slightly, just with her left arm. The right arm still held the notebook against her chest.

His mouth dropped open in a way that startled her—

The woman stepped in between. “Hannah,” she murmured—her voice almost too quiet. “You don’t remember…?”

“Remember,” Hannah echoed.

She stared at the boy again. At what she could see of him before he turned away and the woman redirected Hannah’s gaze with a gentle touch to her face.

“You’re soaked.” The woman shook her head. “Step over here…please.”

She pulled Hannah over to a corner of the single-room building—close to the fire. Hannah sat down slowly, crossing her legs. Her eyes widened as the heat hit her face.

“Good,” the woman whispered. She bent down into Hannah’s view again. “My name is Elin.”

The rain had stopped by the time Kael stumbled his way up the steps to one of the castle doors—a low, outdated oaken panel that was used just infrequently enough to be left unlocked. He brushed his sleeve across his nose and mouth again before he opened it and stepped in—the bleeding had nearly stopped, but there was still enough blood on his face to make it a slightly concerning picture.

Whatever his last precaution did, it wasn’t enough to prevent Anna from staring blankly at him the instant the door shut behind him.

“Midnight,” she observed.

He did not appreciate that—he had never felt farther from the name “Midnight.” “It is morning.”

“Your face is bleeding,” she went on in that way of hers that invariably reminded him of Nyra at her sharpest. “Are you—”

His hand shook briefly at his belt. At the empty sheath.

Anna was the Queen’s adopted daughter. Kael bit his lip—not hard enough to taste blood. He already did. She did not need to hear anything from him.

He couldn’t just walk away, either.

“Going for a walk?” he questioned, eyeing her boots. Neat, laced, and white. In other words, disagreeable to mud.

She tipped her head. “Mayhaps.”

Something trickled down the side of Kael’s face. He blinked—too hard and fast to be intentional.

“Is your nose okay?” Anna’s eyes widened.

“My nose,” he repeated—slowly.

She nodded. “It looks…funny.”

That was enough. Kael stepped past her, his hand going up to his face as he kept walking without looking back even once. If she were going to get him into trouble, she could do that later. Now—he simply wanted to talk to Nyra.

Who was probably asleep.

He would let her sleep. Kael marched up to his room instead, even though it was only a room away from hers.

He had not cleaned the mirror for as long as he could remember, but now he sloshed some of the cold water onto the glass before using his hands and the water basin to try to clean his face.

His nose was crooked. He did not feel inclined to touch it.

He did so anyway. Pain twisted through his face like it had never left.

Broken, apparently. He had already decided that. Now he tried to—very carefully—nudge it back into position. It went most of the way and then refused to budge further. He could have forced it, but only if he wanted to be found screaming in his room.

Kael decided he did not. His nose would heal crooked, then. That was acceptable—if anyone laughed at it, he could always break their nose, too.

For the hundredth time he wondered why he and Nyra were the only assassins here—at the castle of Elsedra. Why there were only two. Who had been the previous ones. Because of course there had been others—the strangers had been managed for centuries.

In any case, it mattered only in that Kael had strong feelings about the woman who had broken his nose, and though he fully intended to return the favor vehemently later, some backup besides his sister would have been helpful.

His face was clean enough now. Kael glanced back at the window and his bed. The sun was beginning to shine, but Kael didn’t care very much to see it. The day had no business finally beginning now after it was effectively over.

Mara the hunter. That was…annoying. Dead now. Why had she been helping the strangers?

That had been the expected result. She had been in the way. She had also been out later than anyone was supposed to be. Of course she was dead. Of course her blood was still all over him.

But she hadn’t looked like she thought it was wrong. She’d looked…scared. Well, that was natural. But not just scared. Something deeper.

Well. Kael glared at the stool Nyra had been sitting in earlier—and then at the floor, wet from where his clothes had been dripping the entire time. Disgusting. Filthy. But he wasn’t a woman, so there was no need to bother taking care of the mess.

Not that he expected his sister to. She would yell at him to do it.

But he would wait until she yelled.

Slowly he shuffled over to the bed, then stared even harder at it. He didn’t remember having tucked the blanket in—Nyra must have, then. But she had left the room first.

Scowling, Kael debated his options. He could obey his body, whose injunction was that he take to bed immediately. Or he could go find the Queen and report to her.

Except what would he report, anyway? That he’d killed a villager and his nose had been broken by a demented stranger? The same woman who had thrown the stick at him yesterday—

The stick.

It had ended up underneath his bed, apparently. With the woman’s hat. Kael pulled both objects out and studied them, more carefully now than he had last night. The hat was still bent inwards as he had folded it, the letters annoyingly clear on the outside. The stick…was amazingly smooth, he noticed. Still heavy, like—

Like his dagger’s blade, he realized. Steel, perhaps, then. But why make a stick out of it?

It was angled strangely as well. Kael’s eyes narrowed as they discovered the letters carved into part of it: AF00US.

That wasn’t a word, either. Kael bit his lip.

So perhaps the woman was called FBI…or…Afowse.

That was, perhaps, the strangest name he had come across in his life. Afowse she was, then.

Except she should not have a name. She should not even be here.

Kael considered sitting down and calling it all a failure, but it was not worth the energy. Not today. He could depress when Afowse was…dead. And…gone.

If Nyra did not knock him down first.

Kael gave in halfway and sat down on the bed. Only sat. He was perfectly reasonable, of course, and was not going to lie down.

… Not yet.

*Notice to my beloved readers: Off the Page will no longer serialize after Chapter 12. However, it’s scheduled for KDP + IngramSpark launch in August 2027!

The second was that Mara was gone.

Extract the asset was the protocol. Agent knew that much. In this case, she wasn’t quite sure what was the asset—nor what extraction meant.

She just knew she had a mission at last.

The fire was stuttering now, but Agent paid no more attention to it than necessary to scan the room—to confirm it was empty. Quickly she established the parameters.

No. Mara was gone.

That was a problem.

Agent’s fingers wrapped fully around one of Mara’s bows before her muscle memory told her it did not, in fact, exist for this kind of weapon.

She picked up a knife instead. Slightly dull—but it would do. For what, that was a question she was not yet inclined to answer.

The cloak Mara had given her was still around her neck. Her previously soaked shirt and jacket and pants now nearly dry. Still, the lack of immediate cold as she stepped outside the door almost startled her. Except she was past startling.

That was not a problem—for her, anyway.

She did not try to follow footprints. There were none, and even if there had been, Agent did not see any point in taking the time to study sole markings. No. She had to find Mara—now.

Something burned hot in her cheeks. She pressed one hand against them briefly.

Interesting.

Stupid. That was the verdict.

There had been no struggle—so Mara had left. Walked out. And Agent hadn’t clocked it coming.

So one of them was stupid. Which one, Agent would decide later.

By the time she turned a corner and saw Mara there, Agent still had not decided. Her hand came up anyway—fingers gripping the knife hilt so tightly her knuckles were whiter than her face felt.

“Agen—” Mara began, both her arms coming up and crossing in front of herself.

Agent struck—and Mara caught her arm mid-blow as she sidestepped and twisted down.

Then Agent’s right boot came up and hooked both of Mara’s, jerking them backwards. Mara’s hold dropped away as she began to crash back—and Agent dropped the blade, stepping forward and wrapping both arms around her just hard enough to keep her from falling.

“Agent.” Mara pulled one hand up—between them—as Agent leaned her weight back to keep both of them upright.

There was a girl behind Mara. Agent noticed that now.

Irrelevant.

“You lied,” she hissed.

Mara’s eyes shot wide.

“Agent—what the—”

Agent shoved her away. Not hard enough to fall again. Not far enough to run. She stared, her mouth slightly open, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool night air.

Behind Mara, the girl sat down and opened her book again. Neither woman paid attention.

Mara’s mouth opened, too, like she didn’t know what to say. It was Agent who spoke first.

“You left.”

Mara’s face twitched. “I went for a walk.”

Agent shook her head. “You left.”

Mara tilted her head slightly, one hand coming up to brush herself off. “…I left, then.”

Agent’s cheeks flushed again. That was the word—flushed. Her eyes narrowed.

“You did not tell me,” she went on, the words nearly determining themselves. Something was wrong with her fingers—they were shaking now.

Mara exhaled. “You were asleep.”

Then Agent’s eyes fell on the notebook in the girl’s hands.

College-ruled. Black cover. Spiral bound. HB graphite pencil. With a red eraser.

One word on the page.

Stupid.

Agent was pretty sure something snapped inside her head, but she couldn’t hear anything.

She jerked the notebook away. The pencil clattered on the bricks.

Mara’s hand landed on her arm—tight, heavy.

“Give it back to her,” the woman gritted.

Agent’s eyes flicked from Mara to the girl—she was just…staring at Agent. No, not at Agent—at the notebook, even as she bent to pick up the pencil.

Mara did not move her hand. Finally Agent looked at her.

“This is wrong,” she breathed, the words dry.

The other woman didn’t flinch. “You’re not okay,” she said quietly. “Give it back to her. Now.”

Agent twisted her arm away, spinning on her heel just fast enough that Mara couldn’t quite keep up with her. Then she flipped through the pages.

Stupid.

This is scary. I am scared.

I am cold.

Where is Ben.

The girl was standing in front of her now, free hand held out expectantly, her eyes focused somewhere on Agent’s shirt. On the letters FBI.

Then the girl smiled, even before Agent thought to hand her the notebook.

“Police,” she said.

Agent scowled.

“Not police,” she spluttered before she could catch herself. “Agent.”

Mara’s hand was on the notebook now, too—gently she pulled it from Agent’s grasp and passed it to the girl. Agent tracked the movement as something in her spine going rigid.

“It’s hers,” Mara said. But there was something off about the way she said it. Something in the way her breath wasn’t quite there.

Agent shifted one boot against the path. “It’s wrong,” she said again.

Their eyes met.

“Yes,” Mara stilled.

Ben came awake slowly. But he came awake.

The woman was sitting by the fire, turned away from him, but now she angled her head so that he came into her view, though he had barely opened his eyes. “Good morning,” she smiled.

Mom, Ben almost thought. That…that wasn’t it, though.

He sat up, shifting the blanket away. He was warm—but not too warm.

Elin was making more bread, he realized. His eyes widened as he stood, his hair rumpled and his clothes hanging on him like he’d gotten smaller overnight.

His mouth split into a yawn, and he clapped his hand across his face before he knew why. His vision flickered for a moment before it settled into something more aware.

The blanket. The building. Bread—butter.

Elin.

She seemed to feel his thoughts. Her smile softened as she set the dough down on a stone slab near the fire.

“Did you sleep?”

He nodded automatically, stepping slightly closer. To her, or to the door—he wasn’t sure.

“Hannah,” he said for no reason.

It was her turn to nod. “We’ll find her later.”

He blinked. “Do you know where she is?” he asked—almost dumbly, he thought.

Elin’s smile faded. “No. But she’ll find us.”

“She will?” he questioned.

The woman did not answer him. Instead, she poured some water from a bowl onto her hands, rubbing them together. The dough came off easily—too easily.

“There’s more bread from last night if you want breakfast,” Elin said eventually, jerking her elbow in the direction of the table as she wiped her hands on her cloak. The movement was natural enough that Ben’s shoulders loosened a notch.

He stepped towards the table, but then something rushed past the house. His eyes flew to the boarded window.

“Wind,” Elin answered his unspoken question. “It’s going to storm.”

He looked at her again, then walked over to the window anyway. His hands hesitated for a moment before gripping the shutter just hard enough that a slit appeared where he could look.

Outside was brighter than it had been before he’d slept, but not bright enough for a pure sunrise. Ben’s eyes widened slightly before they settled on the sky—or what he could see of it, blocked out by another building close by. Cloudy. Cold.

He shivered, turning back towards Elin. She pressed her lips together.

“Magic,” she said, like that explained anything.

His eyebrows shot up as his fingers grasped the edge of the table. “Wh—”

She half-shrugged, her eyes going vaguely distant as if she didn’t have to see the sky to feel it.

“It’s coming fast.”

The boy was not with them. Kael knew that almost immediately—from the way each set of footsteps was too light, too professional, or too settled. The boy would be none of those.

The woman stranger Kael had attempted to eliminate yesterday, would.

Now he pressed himself harder against the side of the building, waiting, as the footsteps approached. Above him, the early morning sky was darkening, exiling the newfound sunlight. Kael ignored it, though the wind that gusted across his face was so sharp it practically demanded attention.

The steps hesitated. Then picked up again. He leaned closer to the corner—he could hardly hear them at this point.

Quickly he closed his eyes, listening harder. There was an adult woman first—trained. Then someone smaller, and then another woman, also trained. He couldn’t place the smaller one—not yet. Didn’t need to, anyway.

His dagger was free now, his fingers wrapped securely around the hilt. His other hand was empty. He did not intend to have to use it.

Then the steps ended, just behind the corner. Someone knew he was here.

Kael did not give them time to complete the thought.

His dagger came up, clean, strong, as he pulled himself around the corner and straight into the first of the strangers. The blade landed deep—but the stranger didn’t scream.

Not a stranger, he realized as rain splattered his face along with something darker—crimson. He knew this face—Mara the hunter.

The face twisted. Then a boot came high, thudding not into him but into the wall of the building next to them.

Both slammed onto the street, Kael trying to twist his way onto the top as they went down. He didn’t quite succeed—one of Mara’s hands was pinned under him, but the other went straight to his wrist. The one that held the knife—still in her.

For a moment he thought she was trying to pull it out and use it to stab him.

He was wrong. Her fingers slipped against him—everything wet and warm now—and then locked around the hilt in a way that wasn’t going anywhere.

Someone shouted something. Not Mara. The other one.

Mara’s face was close—too close. Kael muttered something as he forced his second hand between them, towards the knife. Curling his spine, he tried to roll her off him first. The motion spluttered and died.

His hands closed on the hilt, both of them—hard, unyielding.

Mara clung to it. Her eyes met his.

Then Kael flipped to the side and jerked the blade free.

She went with him, the arm that had been pinned now coming up across the back of his shoulders. The grip held for a moment, even when Kael finished the movement on top.

She was still looking at him.

Then the weight on his back slipped down as he pushed the blade down again. She twisted—but there was nowhere else to go. He followed the motion, his left hand flying out to block her arm as she reached for him another time. Another last time.

Something heavy landed on Kael. His hand went down, her arm in it. Both hit the path, but Kael’s attention was elsewhere.

Thunder rumbled from the sky above. His clothes were soaked. And filthy.

The body underneath him went still.

The body above did not.

“Mara!” the other woman screamed. Her arms came around Kael, rolling him off, away. He let her—

The knife didn’t come away with him.

One of his hands went out, searching. Agent grabbed the arm and twisted it. One knee pinned his hip. The other ground into the bricks as Agent jerked his arm back and slammed it against his chest—trapping it with the other one. He had not realized it was there.

He could see her face. Her mouth was open—gasping. Now her hands moved with his, crossing, twisting them. Immobilizing.

Kael stared for an instant.

Then he kicked—and hit nothing. The woman inhaled sharply, bringing her face closer to his.

Too close.

Kael grunted as he rolled his entire body back over Mara, throwing Agent off balance. Her hands slipped, and Kael tore his arm away, his hand landing directly where he wanted it to—the hilt of his dagger.

Rain was pouring now. Pushing him down against Mara almost as hard as Agent was.

He freed the blade. No interference this time.

Her fingers snapped onto his wrist again as he flipped back into her. He turned his hand inwards. The steel slashed across her knuckles but went no deeper.

Agent’s other arm came down across his neck. His breath was gone instantly. He tried to pull away, but she brought her weight into it.

The blade slipped away from his fingers. Or maybe he let go.

Agent was breathing in his face again, rain streaking down her face.

He stared at her. His eyes like Mara’s had been.

Then she shoved him over, away from the hunter. Onto his face.

She was trained. He had known that before. He knew it harder now.

His nose snapped as she thrust him down. Arm slamming onto his neck again. Both her knees hitting the bricks beside him—not him.

Kael did not intend to cry out. He did anyway. His vision blurred. Something warm hit his lips before trickling onto the ground.

“Yeah, no,” she hissed, somewhere very close to his ear.

He tried to turn his head. Pain split through his face.

For an instant, he saw the shape of a girl outlined in lightning, some feet away, standing past Mara. Just…standing. There.

Then thunder cracked the sky.

Kael was already moving. He dragged his knees up beneath him against the water-run path. His core lifted with them, into and against Agent.

She reacted a second later—but too late. Her arm across his neck slipped forward, down—away.

He sat up, brushing one sleeve across his face as he moved. To clean enough that he could see.

Agent fell back—

and Kael struggled to his feet and ran.

That did not make her duty any easier.

The Queen’s adoptive daughter—Anna—had gone to sleep sometime before Nyra’s search, though Nyra couldn’t help but wonder why she’d seen the girl earlier the very late evening. But no matter. Anna could do what she liked—she was not Nyra’s responsibility.

Nyra wrote a quick note for her brother before she changed back into what she considered her most efficient clothing: tighter hose and tunic, lighter but still warm hooded cloak, silver belt that was intricate enough to be beautiful but strong enough to carry death. That finished, she slipped out of the castle through the back door. The one that led most directly to the village where she had found the boy in the first place—and where Kael had encountered the older stranger woman.

It wasn’t quite as cold out tonight as she had expected it to be. Her gaze settled for a moment on the moon—bright, almost too bright. Her eyes narrowed. Light was important—but it was not something she cared much about, not tonight. It didn’t give her footprints, anyway. That would have been hard to do on the brick path.

It did give her shadows, once she got to the village. And there, she knew exactly how to use them.

There were perhaps a hundred buildings in the area, if she didn’t include the various makeshift structures that some people used for livestock and others used for shelter. It wasn’t a large village—none ever were. The people of Elsedra gravitated towards small populational clusters rather than any extensive gathering. That was why the castle was so empty…and why Nyra knew everyone in the surrounding villages by name. Elsedra wasn’t a tiny country, but it was inhabited like one. There were maps Nyra had seen of other villages, other fortresses…but she had never needed to travel beyond the castle’s immediate reach. Beyond the core of Elsedra.

Because the strangers never arrived anywhere else.

Nyra began to make her way through the village, gradually approaching the public fountain at its center. The houses were quiet, as they should be—it had to be only a few hours before dawn, now. At the same time, Nyra’s face tightened as she narrowed the options; she had not had to enter the villagers’ homes in a couple of years, and she didn’t want to have to now.

That was when she saw the girl and something inside her settled too deep for expression.

It disturbed her before she could fully recognize it. Not pure calm. Not simple anticipation.

Something…locked.

Nyra’s left boot grazed the bricks slightly as she stood still, perfectly still, her eyes still on the girl. The assassin’s hand was at her side, but it did not move to her belt.

The girl wore a shirt that was not quite a shirt. A jacket, Nyra had learned it was called years ago. Then a skirt that was much too short, over leggings that were…pink. That wasn’t at all uncommon with strangers.

She did not question that this girl was a stranger.

That was not the problem.

Nyra was not sure what the problem was.

Her mouth opened to say something, but no sound came out. The girl glanced up anyway—briefly, eyes somewhat distant, like she didn’t really see Nyra standing there. Like her attention was still captivated by the book she held.

It wasn’t a normal book, Nyra realized. Not native to Elsedra. There were lines on the pages she could see, but no words. Then, lying on the bricks beside the girl, was a small stick that was too thin and straight to be natural.

“Ben,” the girl said simply as her gaze finally focused.

Nyra’s breath caught somewhere. She did not try to free it.

“You…” she began. The word died before anything could follow it.

She shifted her weight, forcing her hand to go to the hilt of the knife at her waist. The movement dragged almost so hard she couldn’t finish the motion.

Nyra inhaled, pulling air into her lungs. She tried to retrieve her blade, but it wouldn’t come.

That was the problem.

Her eyes narrowed as she tried again—and this time, the girl stood up, her fingers closing around the stick and dropping it between the pages of the book.

Her attention on the ground, she took a step closer to Nyra—and Nyra stepped back.

Not because she chose to.

Because it was right.

The girl’s eyes closed as she stood still. Something in her posture hesitated, and for a moment, Nyra thought she would fall.

She didn’t. Simply stood there, as if she was waiting for something or someone. Not even glancing at Nyra a second time.

Nyra stepped forward. Mentally, anyway. Her foot moved…backward, again.

Then she pulled her hand across her face, brushing her eyes. They flickered shut for a moment. When they opened, she had turned around.

There was one thought in her mind. Whoever this girl was, she wasn’t the boy or even the woman Kael had run into.

Maybe she wasn’t a stranger after all. At any rate, Nyra was leaving, she decided. She wasn’t staying to figure this out. Not here, not now, maybe not ever.

This wasn’t retreat, she told herself. Not failure. It was…exhaustion. That had to be it.

When she glanced around again, the girl was gone. Nyra pressed her lips together tightly and began to walk, slowly at first and then faster.

The girl had never been there. That much was…uncertain.

This was not okay. Whatever it was, it was not okay. Nyra felt nauseous. Disgustingly so. It was just…wrong. Broken. Repulsive.

Something was messing with her. That girl couldn’t have been a stranger. No. Nyra had been eliminating strangers for the past six years. This was not one of them.

What was she, then?

Nyra did not try to answer that question. She blocked it out. Rejected it. She…

She was supposed to find the boy and the woman. She knew that.

Nyra began to trace her steps back to the castle anyway.

The moon was brighter now, Mara noted to herself as she slipped outside, leaving Agent sleeping peacefully. Mara didn’t intend to be gone long. Just long enough to assess the night and what it might be hiding. And Agent would not be helpful for that.

She hadn’t planned to stay awake this long, but her dream had apparently decided that for her. Memory, rather. Of the first stranger she had met.

She hadn’t known what to think of him then, and she didn’t know what she thought of him now. Even though she usually tried to tell herself it didn’t matter anymore. That he was gone, and that was the end of it. But there had been something in the way that he looked at her that had never let her forget it. Something…pleading. Lost. Asking.

Agent didn’t look at Mara like that. Mara felt that it was because of whoever Agent had been…before. But even that raised questions—if Agent and the man had been different before, that meant there was a “before.”

She just didn’t know what the before was, and neither did Agent, and neither had the man.

Mara let herself wander deeper into the village. She didn’t realize she was nearing the fountain until she saw it—and the girl walking away from it.

Instantly, Mara stood still.

The girl did not look at her. Just kept walking until she had nearly passed Mara. Then Mara put out a hand and caught her arm.

The girl’s head tilted up. She was young, Mara knew immediately. Much younger than Agent.

And still definitely a stranger.

“Ben,” the girl said.

Mara’s eyes widened.

“…Hey,” she whispered, as if somehow that was more correct than normal speech.

The girl blinked once. Her arm shifted, and Mara noticed the book for the first time.

Then the girl shivered, and Mara pulled her closer before she could decide that was alright.

“You’re—”

Her voice broke off again, rougher this time. The girl didn’t jerk away.

That was when Mara decided the girl was coming with her.

She knew immediately that it was a bad decision.

Hesitating for only a moment, Mara stepped in the direction she’d come from, her hand still on the girl’s arm. The girl stepped with her, almost without seeming to notice her own movement.

“…You’re too cold,” Mara muttered. “Let’s get you warm.”

But they hadn’t gone far before the girl stopped, her eyes locking onto something Mara couldn’t see. If there was anything there at all.

Mara stared at the girl as she sat down on the ground, pulling herself from Mara’s hand. Then the girl struggled with the book, shoving it onto her lap and opening it to a page. She frowned at it—and turned more pages, backwards, to where some kind of stick was.

Mara kept staring.

Then the girl actually looked at her—and wrote with the stick. Mara bent, just barely able to read the words in the moonlight.

Where is Ben.

“Where is Ben,” Mara breathed, her eyes narrowing.

The girl’s gaze met hers for the first time. Then she nodded, and Mara caught her breath.

She was—present.

“Who’s Ben?” Mara asked, even as the options ran through her mind.

The girl was a stranger. Strangers never remembered their names, even if Agent had pretended to. Besides, Ben wasn’t a girl’s name. He had to be…someone else…from here.

The thought struck her somewhere deep, and she took a step backwards instinctively. She didn’t know why that upset her. It just…did.

The girl was still watching her. “Ben,” she said again.

“You’re looking for him,” Mara whispered, more stating than questioning.

Another nod. The girl straightened and stepped closer to Mara, giving the woman a subconscious sensation of retreat not allowed. Something shuddered in her spine, even as she held her ground.

Mara didn’t know any Bens in this village. Nor at the castle. She bit her lip.

Then the subtler implication came over her. The girl was a stranger—she’d noted that five times already. But—

The girl was alive.

Like Agent.

Mara swallowed hard and took the girl’s hand.

“We can look for him when the sun comes up,” she promised, the words hollow in her mouth.

The girl walked with her. Tucked the book back under her arm. But this time Mara’s steps were slow.

The girl’s hand felt wrong in hers. Cold—but contained. Her steps were measured, as if she knew where she was going. Even her breathing was wrong—too unaware, too…atmospheric.

That was the word. The wrong word.

Mara drew her own breath in quickly, her fingers twitching around the girl’s. For a moment, she almost let go. Almost walked away alone.

Something held her back.

The girl’s face tensed briefly. Her eyes flicked around them. One step came down slightly harder than the others had.

Then she closed her eyes. And stood still again.

Mara had already stopped and dropped her hold. Both hands came up, flying to her waist before she remembered she had dressed for a walk, not for combat.

The footsteps were still there. Fast—uncontrolled.

Mara stepped in front of the girl and squared her posture. The moon slipped behind a cloud. Something flickered on Mara’s face—not a smile, but adrenaline.

No weapons.

Either messy, then—or cleaner than it could have been.

They would find out.

Kael had not intended to wake up this early. But neither had he expected to see his older sister sitting by his bed.

It wasn’t even morning. That was the second thing he noticed. There was no sunlight coming through the window aperture. Nothing to give him any reason to get out of bed.

It struck him vaguely that the thought did not belong in an assassin’s mindset. Well, neither did the fact that his sister had entered his room and not been accidentally damaged. Clearly he was not himself this morning.

“Hm,” she said.

That did not make anything better.

“…I am awake,” he observed, unaware if that was what she had implicitly asked.

It was not, apparently. She only stared at him—harder.

“…Are you?” he questioned.

She considered that. “I am,” she said finally.

He sat up, shoving his blanket off the bed in a way that should have enraged her. It did not.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was quieter now than it had been—not that it had been loud to begin with. “Did something happen?”

She shifted on the stool. “Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed. “Have you slept at all?”

Nyra shook her head. “I have been…busy.” Her arms were crossed, but now she pulled them tighter around herself. “The boy has disappeared. I went to the village to look for him.”

“Dedication,” Kael muttered. “And?”

“I did not find him,” Nyra finished.

He straightened at that, one of his hands gripping the lining of his bed.

“You…didn’t find him,” Kael repeated.

She nodded again, and he stood up, putting one hand out carefully to touch her shoulder. She didn’t move—her eyes stayed on his face.

Tired. Too tired. Too…heavy.

“You should go to sleep,” Kael frowned.

Nyra blinked.

“There is something wrong with the strangers,” she murmured some moments later—and didn’t elaborate.

His frown deepened. “What?”

His sister shook her head.

Kael let go and stepped towards another chair where he’d left his cloak. “I’ll look for him,” he told her as he clipped it about his neck. “You…”

His eyes landed on her again, and something about his mouth loosened.

“You get some sleep,” he finished—firmly.

She sat there for some seconds longer. Then, finally, she stood. The only sound as she left the room was the brushing of her cloak against her boots. Boots she had worn too long tonight, Kael thought.

He clipped his own belt around his waist, then stepped over to the window to assess the time. The faintest traces of light trickled across the east horizon. There was an hour or so remaining until dawn, then.

He hadn’t slept long. But he’d slept long enough.

Kael pulled on his boots and slipped out of his room, taking the opposite direction Nyra had.

The early bird catches the worm, he thought to himself. Well, it was an interesting twist to think of the strangers as worms. But if he was an early bird, Nyra was an owl.

Perhaps that was the problem.

She hated it. It was like a voice that whispered You are not alone. And refused to let her sleep it away.

She could never sleep on nights like this. That was why the strangers were never supposed to survive longer than a few hours. None of them spoke Elsedran. None of them ever tried to use it, either.

That didn’t change the fact that she felt their existence nearly as deeply as she had felt the disappearance of the book.

It wasn’t about her, she reminded herself. It was about Elsedra. Her country. Her…people. Even if they weren’t really her people.

She set the glass down carefully, staring at her reflection against the black tea for a moment. Her hair still red as it always was. Near her brow, traces of the slight gray ripple from three months ago, when a stranger had stolen a horse and evaded both Midnight and Typhoon for three days.

She was not getting old. She was getting experienced. There was a difference, Vireya had decided long ago.

Tonight, however, she was not so sure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt it this strongly. The weakness in the magic that filled her veins.

Magic shared. Redistributed. That was wrong.

Elsedran magic was hers. No one else’s—not even her sister’s, anymore. It didn’t belong to any other world. To any strangers.

The hated knowledge rose up in her again, like it always did. Even if you had it all you could do nothing. It was a lie. She knew it was a lie.

With the book, she could have done everything.

Without it…

Vireya’s hand pulled away from the glass, her sleeve soft against the fine-grained table. Slowly she rose, the layers of her ivy green dress cascading into place in firm contrast with her hair.

It was late. There was no need to change. Not until the day’s theft had been resolved.

Her steps were quiet as she made her way across the room, to the open window cut in stone. The sill was cold to the touch, though that was partly because her hands were so warm.

Her fingers traced the carvings for a moment. Worn by long centuries of hands and silk. Intricate patterns of people and towers, envisioned over a thousand years ago by some craftsman whose tools and bones were now dust.

Perhaps her father had known him long before Vireya and her sister were born. Perhaps he had even been important. He must have, to be working here in the castle. Hours and days of grueling work, to be sure. Now it simply…existed. Like the world didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

Folly…or legacy. Vireya didn’t know which.

The thought was a dead one. She didn’t dwell on it. Another sifted into place: The boy. She shouldn’t need him to identify “Hannah.” Whoever Hannah might be.

But Vireya was growing more and more certain by the hour that something was different about either Ben…or Hannah…or the woman Kael had told her about.

Three. There weren’t usually three strangers within the same time frame. One of them had to know what had changed in Elsedra.

Because tonight’s emptiness was not the emptiness of theft. It was the void of displacement.

Vireya’s hand rested more fully on the window sill, her fingers twitching lightly against the cold air from outside. The moon was bright tonight, she noted. Brighter than she remembered its being earlier.

It could be her eyes. It could also be magic. Neither were acceptable—but the latter was worse.

Vireya turned abruptly, striding towards the doorway of her room. The candles in the hallway had gone out, but she did not need them. She knew where Typhoon would be—where the woman always was. Nyra was never asleep until late, especially not when the assassin knew the Queen would like to have her on standby.

The boy might be asleep by now, but that was irrelevant.

Vireya swept down the hall, towards the stone staircase that spiraled through the height of the castle’s center. Descending to the second level, she left the stairway, pausing briefly at the first door on the right before advancing to the second.

Nyra met her at the door. “Your Majesty,” the assassin bowed.

Vireya allowed something like a smile to flash across her face. “Typhoon.”

“May I assist you?” Nyra murmured, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as she studied the Queen’s face.

“The boy,” Vireya said in place of an answer.

Nyra waited.

“I want you to ask him about the Sedra,” the Queen went on. “Specifically…find out if the word means anything to him.”

Nyra nodded simply. “Is that all?”

Vireya nodded—slowly, thoughtfully. “After that—I no longer have any use for him.”

Something shifted in the corners of Nyra’s mouth as she nodded a second time. One hand slipped up to her belt—checking, confirming. She said nothing more. Only bowed her own dismissal—deeper than before.

Vireya watched her go. Then the Queen leaned back on her heel for a moment before spinning herself around and heading back towards the stairs. The motion completed itself gracefully—almost dance-like.

Her room was quieter when she returned to it. Or perhaps the stillness was only in her mind. It made no difference.

The boy’s face crossed her vision for a moment. Eyes—wide. Trembling lips. Fear. There was always fear. That would end when Nyra had finished.

Mortals always feared. Always trembled. Begged.

But fear was foreign to her, Vireya. There was no need for fear in a woman whose lifespan should stretch throughout millennia.

And yet, sometimes she wondered what it was. Inefficient, anyway. Debasing. Yet the boy’s face had not disgusted her.

Then again, she was not watching him die.

Someone moved behind her—in the doorway. Boots reached the entrance of her room and stopped.

Fabric rustled. Not a bow—something lower.

Vireya stood still, her back to the assassin.

“Nyra,” she said, and that was all.

Silk scraped silk again. “Majesty.” A deep breath, then: “The boy is gone.”

“Gone,” Vireya breathed, her voice closer to a murmur now.

She turned, her silken cloak twirling behind her. “What do you mean.”

Nyra’s eyes met hers. Cold blue met fire.

“The room had been unlocked. He is no longer inside.” She paused. “No one has seen anything. Either he is still here—hiding—or he’s gone.”

Vireya considered for a moment. Then she decided.

“Find him.”

Elin wrapped her cloak around him, over the one that had been Anna’s. “You weren’t built for this kind of cold,” she observed as one of her hands brushed his cheek. “Not in these clothes, anyway.”

Ben glanced up at her for a moment longer before the corners of his mouth flickered. Almost smiling back.

He froze. She gestured briefly.

“Will you come home with me?”

She really was letting him choose, he realized. Even if he had nowhere else to go. Even if he still had to find…Hannah. But something in him felt that Elin knew about Hannah.

That she would help him.

He straightened, taking a deeper breath than he had in a long time. “I’ll come,” he told her.

She smiled again and put out her hand. He took it, and together they began to walk.

Her hand was still warm, but this time he found it more comforting than startling. His steps were slow at first, but soon he was able to keep pace with her. Unless she had slowed for him—he wasn’t quite sure.

“How old are you?” Elin asked him some minutes later.

“Twelve,” he answered—then caught his breath as a returning question escaped him. “You?”

She didn’t respond right away. Ben tilted his head upwards, glancing back at her face. She was still smiling.

“Very old,” she said finally.

“You don’t look like it,” Ben whispered.

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

They didn’t go far before she stopped—in front of a small house that looked more like a shed. Ben blinked hard.

“You live here?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Her eyes landed on him, a bit more direct than before. “It’s warm,” she said simply.

He bit his tongue and followed her inside.

Despite having looked small and slightly run-down, the interior was cozy, he noticed almost right away. There was actual flooring. Walls that didn’t leak temperature. A small hearth, with more of an outside opening for smoke to move through than a chimney. In one corner, there was some kind of rough table—with a loaf of bread on it and a wooden plate of what might have been butter. In another, there was a collection of blankets that looked like something between a bed and a cocoon.

Ben decided he felt more like a cocoon.

His eyes were wider now, and he caught his breath as he looked at her and their eyes locked again. Her smile was wider now. She was always smiling, apparently.

“Are you hungry?”

Ben had to think about that one for a moment. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

Stepping away from the door, Elin reached for the bread. She broke off a corner, then dabbed it into the butter before handing it to him. It was warm where she had touched it, and Ben’s mouth opened in wonder before hunger took over and he bit into the bread.

He abruptly decided that either this was not bread, or what Nyra had given him was not bread. They weren’t even the same thing. This was…sweet, like subtle honey. Light in a way that was easy to bite through.

He had finished it almost before he fully registered the taste. Elin laughed—not unkindly. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Ben tried not to stare too hard at what was left of the loaf.

She followed his gaze, but shook her head. “We need something for breakfast,” she told him. “I’m sure you’re tired, too.”

Ben considered that.

“Yes,” he said.

She put out her hand, angling it towards the blankets in the corner. “Take what you need. I won’t be sleeping.”

His eyes locked on her face. That didn’t make sense.

“You’re not going to sleep?”

She shook her head again—almost more emphatically this time. “No. If anyone comes for you, I’d prefer to be ready and waiting.”

“If anyone…” Ben echoed, his voice trailing off. He swallowed.

Elin nodded. “But I’m not going anywhere. You can sleep.”

Slowly, he crossed the room to the corner. He stared at the blankets for a couple of seconds before he lifted the corner of one and lowered himself onto the layer beneath it.

His eyes flitted across the room again, to Elin. She crouched by the hearth, leaning forward slightly as she grasped some kindling from a wooden box and placed it onto the bricks. Carefully she arranged it—as if the positioning mattered.

Ben felt his eyes slipping shut. He blinked a few times, each eyelids’ opening slower than the last closing. Finding himself listening for something like a match or stone against stone, he shifted slightly, shoving the blanket just far enough away so that he wouldn’t fall asleep immediately.

The sound didn’t come. His eyes flickered open again as the softest hint of a whisper drifted into his ears instead.

Not words. Something else.

Then crackling.

Ben’s eyes opened wider as Elin straightened and stepped back from the fire that grew almost instantly. There was nothing in her hands as she took up a new position, this time opposite the door.

The flame spluttered more strongly. Ben pulled the blanket closer in spite of it.

She’d started it…

How?

There had to be a logical answer; he knew that. He just didn’t find it before the thoughts stopped spiraling and he settled into sleep.

“It’s cold,” she whispered, as if she hadn’t noticed his shivering earlier. Or maybe because she had.

Ben tugged the cloth closely about him. His fingers fumbled with the latch for a few seconds before her hands came up and fastened it for him. Snug—but not tight.

“Does that door go outside?” he murmured, his eyelids heavy. He brushed his arm across them briefly, annoyed. He… He wasn’t tired. Not yet. Couldn’t be.

“Yes.” Her gaze landed directly on his face—again, he realized. Still she hesitated. “Where will you go?”

His eyes widened. “I…”

“You don’t know, do you.” Her voice was soft in a way that seemed to creep through him before he knew it was there. There was something of an accent now, too, that he didn’t remember noticing earlier.

He took a step back then, his breath shallowing slightly as his fingers twisted around the edge of the cloak. “No,” he admitted finally, still watching her.

She nodded. “If you follow the path outside this door, it’ll take you to the village.”

“I’m looking for my sister,” Ben told her before he decided to.

Her head tilted briefly—he held his breath.

“Your sister?” Anna asked, a couple of seconds later. Her lips twitched briefly.

“Her name is Hannah,” Ben went on. “I…” His gaze dropped to the floor. “The Queen… Does she…”

Something grew colder in Anna’s eyes, though Ben only sensed that from the way her posture solidified.

“You’re a stranger,” Anna noted aloud.

Ben’s eyes went back to her face, his heart thudding into his ribs now. “A stranger,” he repeated.

Anna’s mouth twisted again. Not a smile—something else. “Your sister’s a stranger, too?”

He wasn’t sure yet what stranger meant here, but he nodded anyway.

“Will she come here?” Anna asked.

Ben’s eyes widened. His left foot dragged against the floor, and he glanced down at it as the volume of his voice dropped back down to something almost inaudible.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Don’t let her,” Anna told him. His attention jumped back to her face and stayed there.

She bit her lip as she pulled the door open. “Go find her.”

Ben looked at her for a moment longer. Then he stepped outside, nearly falling forward onto his face when he missed the single step down to the brick path. Catching himself on the stub of iron railing, he twisted back to look once more at the girl.

Her face had vanished into the darkness of the hallway. The door swung closed—slowly, quietly. Her hand on the side he couldn’t see.

Cold air hit his face then, sharp and imposing. He steadied himself, his fingers tightening around the railing again before slipping away as he stepped onto the path—correctly, this time.

The moon eyed him from the sky. Ben glanced up at it briefly, almost as if it could tell him where to go.

“If you follow the path outside this door, it’ll take you to the village.” That was what Anna had told him.

Did he trust her, though?

There was nothing else to trust but the stars that sprinkled down light in patterns he couldn’t remember.

Ben chose Anna.

His sneakers hit the bricks hard at first as he shook his legs back into full use, but eventually the sound settled into something more like a patter. He could see buildings somewhere—more like roofs. There was a hill between him and the village. Maybe two.

Looking back for a moment, Ben shuddered at the way the castle walls blocked out the light-speckled sky.

Not until several minutes later, at the third glance, did the shape of the building strike him. It didn’t look like…a…

Fairy tale castle, his mind whispered into the blank of the sentence.

No. It didn’t look like a fairy tale castle. The tops of the walls were…rounded. Sloped, anyway—into a single point.

Book, Ben thought before he blinked. Like the pages of an open book.

Huh. No, that was wrong. Ben jerked his head forward and marched on as if he were afraid something would follow him from the castle.

That thought stilled something in his chest. Follow? Of course someone would follow. Nyra. Or the Queen. Or someone else horrible.

For an instant, Ben felt sick. Then he found himself sitting down abruptly on the bricks. One of his legs trembled. He gripped it—hard.

His breath came fast. Why? Too cold, maybe. He tugged the cloak harder. It was soft and thin, he noticed again. Or had he noticed that before?

It was warm, anyway. Strange.

The castle still stood there, tall, looming, over his shoulder. He twisted his head around, his eyes scanning the silhouette.

Nothing came out of it. It didn’t change shape.

Ben dared breathe again. Carefully, he stood up. His leg was still slightly unsteady, and he stared at it for a moment before he put his full weight on it. One step. Then another. The village didn’t look any closer than it had.

“Hannah,” Ben whispered, her name slipping ahead of him into the air with his breath. Both semi-crystallized, but Ben stepped into the fog before his eyes caught it.

The village. It would be warmer in the village. If anyone would let him inside.

He shoved that thought away. It didn’t belong. He didn’t need to go inside. He just needed to find Hannah.

He thought he’d never get there, but even so he could hardly feel his fingers by the time he pressed himself against the wall of the first building of the village. Now he tucked his hands between his legs, pushing his knees together. He was glad he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Though he wasn’t fully aware of what the alternative had been.

The building was something like a shed, he decided. Maybe someone was inside. Maybe not—there was no chimney, no smoke. Ben was reluctant to find out. He leaned against the wall there for a few minutes, hands tucked and eyes closed, until the wind threatened to shove him away. Then he stepped around the corner and tested his fingers before the cold could follow him.

They moved…barely. He almost stuck them in his mouth before he scowled at them. That would just get them wet.

Something like a tear traced its way halfway down his cheek before stopping.

Ben was already moving again. He didn’t try to get into the shed. He made his way back to the path—it turned into something like a street, here. Brick, worn down by…hooves, he thought.

A brief visual flashed through his mind. Paper. Color. Drawing. Horses.

Children’s book, the thought called itself.

Ben blinked at the road. It wasn’t a book.

Why did he keep thinking about books?

“Hannah,” he whispered, his lips tightening. He touched them lightly. Cold. He could hardly feel them, either. Maybe they were blue now.

He couldn’t see. Even the laces on his sneakers were hard to make out now. He was lucky the moon was out. Ben glanced up at it, as if he hadn’t noticed it before. It was…there. Big. Round. The same pale, near-beige color. No spots.

Were there supposed to be spots?

His feet moved again. And again. He didn’t know where he was going.

So this was the village Anna had told him about. This was… This was where Nyra had found him, wasn’t it. Somewhere around here, anyway. Maybe he could find the water fountain if he tried. But Ben saw no reason to.

He was passing something that looked like a house, now. The road-facing window had some light chinking through the shutters. Smoke fogged the dark sky above the chimney.

Ben flinched as he remembered something again. A couch. Well, a long, soft chair. A large rectangle with moving pictures on it.

Colors. Shirts. Helmets. A field. Home.

Was that what home looked like?

Ben stepped up to the window. He held his hands up to the sliver of light as if it could warm them. For a moment, the wind stopped swirling around him. Ben dragged in a deep breath that somehow still left ice crystals in his lungs. Or maybe it just felt like that.

He thought he was dimly aware of a presence that passed behind him—and stopped.

Ben did not turn. There was no one there, after all. And even if there was… They couldn’t see him here, could they? He held his breath anyway. Didn’t move.

The finger closest to the light curled in spite of himself. No warmth. Nothing. Just…

Well, he could see it, anyway.

Something shifted on the road behind him. A pebble. Maybe a stick. Another cat, Ben surmised. Or a dog. Or a rat. Anything but the shape his mind formed anyway—tall, cloaked, silent.

He let his next breath slip in—quiet, shallow, hesitant. The person stopped a few feet away. Behind him.

Still, he didn’t look. Didn’t move. His shoulders tightened as his eyes flickered shut.

“Hey,” the woman said. Her voice was soft and light—but calm in a way that didn’t fit.

His hand closed into a fist before he could stop it. Ben turned slowly.

She was tall. A long blue cloak hung around her shoulders and came to a stop near the ankles of her boots. Unless it was a cape. He couldn’t see her hands or arms.

She was looking at him, but somehow her gaze didn’t freeze him. Her eyes were blue, her long hair a light blond color just a few shades away from the tone of her face.

He managed another breath. Somehow this one went deeper.

“Ben.”

The word broke the air between them, landing wrong on the patch of frozen dirt. Ben’s eyes locked onto her as his head tilted up.

“Ben,” he repeated, his mouth slow to form the syllable.

A tiny smile creased her face. “Am I right?”

His lips trembled again, but he didn’t nod. He didn’t need to.

She took a half-step forward—careful, intentional. The sole of her boot paused halfway down as she watched the tension in his shoulders. Then the rest of her body followed the movement.

Slim. Young.

… Regal, his mind decided.

“My name’s Elin,” she told him.

He echoed her again. This time the word sounded better. Even if it…didn’t sound like a name. To him, anyway. He swallowed, his eyelids dipping slightly.

One hand appeared in the folds of her cloak. Came near him—stopping a few inches away from his arm.

“Ben,” Elin said again, her voice somehow even quieter this time. “Are you lost?”

Was he? The answer didn’t come right away. It choked somewhere in his throat.

He nodded. Nodding made sense.

Her fingers landed on his arm then. Warm—so warm they almost burned him. He caught his breath.

“You’re cold,” she breathed. “Do you want to come with me?”

His gaze left her arm and went back to her face. “Who are you?” he whispered.

The same smile flicked across her face again. “A friend,” she answered. “Yours.”

His eyes widened in spite of the cold air that still pressed in on them. Almost colder now, in comparison to Elin’s hand.

“My friend?”

It was her turn to nod.

“Where is Ben,” she said, something distant creeping into her voice—as if she were repeating something. “That is why I am here.”

He blinked. “What?”

She had worried that it’d still be cold here, but somehow it…wasn’t. Not anymore, anyway. Her clothes were mostly dry now—thanks to the fire.

Once again she had to ask herself why Mara had helped her. From what Agent had seen at the tavern, it didn’t look like people usually helped…people like Agent.

Now Agent closed her eyes stubbornly. Sleep would be good. Sleep would be intelligent.

It was already late. Dark and freezing outside, anyway.

Should get at least seven hours, she thought before wondering angrily where that came from. Just like everything else.

Mara seemed to be asleep already, though the rate of her breathing was on the edge between unconsciousness and subtle awareness, and Agent couldn’t tell which. For some reason, that bothered her, too.

Mara. Who was Mara?

Who was Agent?

The floor was rough against her back. Agent shifted, her shoulder scraping against something briefly. Catching her breath, Agent glanced over at Mara again, but there was no movement.

So maybe Mara really was asleep, then. So… That meant she trusted Agent. The stranger… The “alien.”

Mara had nothing to gain from helping Agent. And everything to lose. Unless she had lied about…the entire situation.

Agent found herself shifting again. Now her eyes had a clean line of sight to the other woman. Breathing slower, deeper, now. Definitely asleep.

If the people here were even the same as… As what?

Agent closed her eyes, tugging at the corners of her memory as if she could spill something loose. Answers. Questions for those answers.

Her car keys.

The image slipped across her mind for just an instant before evaporating. Agent was already feeling her pockets again.

Then her fingers emerged, entwined by some kind of ring with metal pieces attached loosely to it. A piece of…

Agent squeezed her eyes shut again, thinking. Plastic. That was what it was.

There were a few places that seemed…partially detached. She pushed on one section, and something on the thing lit up for an instant.

Agent’s eyes shot wide open, but nothing else happened.

… Not a flashlight, then.

Flashlight. She clung to that word. What was a flashlight?

Something fell in the fireplace. Agent’s gaze seized on the misbehaving log as it slowly thudded its way to the bottom of the hearth.

The flames crackled higher for a minute, but when the noise dropped back down, Agent’s mind was loud behind it. She hardly noticed as she pulled the cloak closer around her and closed her eyes again.

Her own breathing was louder now—more thorough than it had been before. As her hand came up over her face, she felt some of the dirt that had been there earlier and crusted in the rain. Now she absentmindedly rubbed some of it off before her hand fell still onto the floor beside her.

Her heart was beating more slowly. Dimly the thought came over Agent that she hadn’t given it permission. Maybe it hadn’t asked.

The kids, she thought briefly. Her fingers curled inward, as if holding something small and thin.

… Pictures?

Agent’s eyelids tried to flicker, but there was no vision. Not…yet.

Later. Later she’d look at her hand. At the pictures.

If they were there at all.

She was far away now from where she had been. She didn’t know where either place was, though. And it didn’t matter.

Her steps were slow as her head turned from one side of the street to the other. Houses—some wooden, some brick, some made of something else.

She saw them. But they didn’t really seem to stick in her mind.

That didn’t matter, either, she thought. Only the notebook did. She just didn’t know why.

Now she pressed it more tightly against her chest. Her mouth curved up slightly as she glanced down at her pink jacket. Pink like her backpack.

She couldn’t find her backpack, though.

It was cold. Her arms were numb now, even in spite of the jacket. Stiffly she lowered herself to the ground, leaning her back against someone’s front step.

Wind rustled past her, whispering through the grass before it blew her breath away. The notebook landed awkwardly on her lap as she raised her hands to her face, pressing them against her cheeks as if they could warm her. They didn’t.

She gasped for air, bending forward as if her heart needed protecting. Her face landed somewhere against her sweatpants as she pulled her knees up, the notebook falling off to the side.

The wind died down. She could breathe again, but her face and hands were still freezing.

She didn’t uncurl for a long time. When she did, she picked up the notebook and the pencil that had rolled out from between the pages. Then, carefully, she stood.

Her hands were shaking around the notebook. She blinked at them, then at the house nearest to her. There was a faint glow from behind one of the shutters. Fire, she thought. Warmth.

She walked away anyway, in the direction of the night breeze, letting it push her steps longer than she made them. One hand came away from the notebook to pull her hood more closely around her face. The wind rose again—a little. Her entire spine shivered. Too cold. She walked more quickly, her sneakers shuffling against the stony ground. She couldn’t understand why it wasn’t paved. Or a sidewalk. This was annoying.

A dog yowled somewhere. She didn’t look around. One foot forward. Then the other. Then the first one again.

There was something in front of her. She glanced up. A fountain, encircled by a circle of brick pathway. The water didn’t look frozen—not quite yet.

The girl walked up to it. Brick—that was better. She stared into the water for a few seconds. Her own face shimmered on the surface.

Then she sat down next to the fountain, her back to its lower circle. The structure was between her and the wind as she opened the notebook.

Three words were written on the first page: Where is Ben.

She passed one hand over her face again. Ben, she questioned. Who was that? Her fingers trembled as they grasped the pencil—tightly.

There was very little in her mind. She wrote some of it anyway: I am cold. The words stared back at her like they were supposed to mean something.

Her shoulders shook her into a tighter shape than she already was. The pencil fell, slashing a faint line across the page. Gradually the shaking dissipated.

She opened her eyes again. That was when she realized she had closed them.

The wind collapsed. Somewhere above her, a star twinkled. She eyed it for a moment, until the fountain behind her splashed more loudly.

She lowered her hand, her fingers closing around the pencil again. They nearly clenched, as if they were afraid to let go. Her jaw clenched with them.

Then she swallowed and shifted, the movement loosening something deep inside of her. Her shoulders fell a bit, and her breath came deeper.

This is scary, she wrote this time. I am scared.

The pencil rolled to the center of the book when she let go. This time she left it there and put up one hand to touch her hair. Short, reaching just past her shoulders. Light blond, she realized. She hadn’t noticed that before.

She was thirsty. Hungry, too.

Some more of the tension in her spine dropped away as she twisted around, staring intently at the fountain again. Then she dipped one finger into the water. It wasn’t so cold as would have made sense.

Now she twisted further, leaving the notebook on the ground as she bent over the fountain’s wall and took a long gulp of water. It tasted sweet. Clean. She kept drinking.

Finally she turned away. Some water dripped from her face onto her jacket.

Her eyes widened. That was bad. Water would freeze.

It didn’t, though.

“Oh,” she whispered to the darkness. The word drifted away somewhere, and she didn’t call it back. The notebook was still lying on the bricks. She picked it up again. She could see its cover now. That surprised her.

The moon had come out. Large, round, shadowed. That made her relax even more.

“I want to go home,” she murmured. Those words disappeared, too.

She didn’t try to speak again.

It wasn’t so cold now. She looked intently at the bricks nearest to the fountain before she lay down slowly, her back curled and braced against the small wall. The notebook was still against her chest, the pencil trapped inside its pages. The bricks were cool beneath her cheek—cool, but not cold.

She liked that. She could feel her heart beating, even through the notebook. That was nice, too. It was slow now. It had been slow all day.

Her eyes flickered shut, then opened again. A little bit of the wind was back. It danced across her face, playing with her hair almost as if it was curious. Her mouth curved into something like a smile.

“Hi,” she breathed to the wind.

A few leaves rasped into motion somewhere nearby. The wind had found another playmate. The girl was too tired to play tonight, she decided. Maybe other nights had been different. She didn’t remember.

Her eyelids fell again. One hand loosened its grip on the notebook as her breathing evened into something nearly imperceptible and the smile on her face echoed the breeze.

“Are you lost?”

He didn’t seem to see her at first. Not until she waved her hand in his face. Then he grabbed it. Hard, rough. Mara’s mouth opened in a scream, but no sound came out.

“You’re from here,” the man hissed, his eyes searching hers as if there were something to find there.

She pulled away, leaning her weight back. He didn’t let go. Mara’s breath came fast and hard as he pulled her closer.

“Stranger,” she whispered, her voice faltering.

“Stranger?” he questioned. His words sounded different.

She shouldn’t have come this close. Mother was going to yell at her later. Tears stung Mara’s eyes as her arm brushed the man’s free one. His sleeve was rougher than her father’s apron. Dirty, too. He smelled like a barn.

Now something changed in his face. He loosened his hold—only a bit, but she could still feel it. Some of her breath came back.

“You live here,” he said.

Of course she did. Why was he saying that again? So the strangers… The strangers really weren’t from here, after all. Mara had been sure her brothers were lying when they told her that.

Where were they from, then?

She shifted some of her weight forward. Just enough that her arm didn’t hurt where he held it. Her face was close to his now, where he sat on the ground, legs crossed, shoes muddy. They weren’t normal shoes. They were black—and looked like they had been shiny at one point. Black shoes. Mara’s eyes opened wider as she caught her breath again.

He didn’t look scared now. Had he looked scared at all? She couldn’t remember. No one was ever scared of Mara.

She managed a smile. “What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer her. Not right away, anyway.

“What’s yours?” he asked finally.

She blinked. “Mara. My name’s Mara.”

He nodded—after a moment. “Mara,” he repeated.

Maybe he hadn’t heard the name before.

“Do you have a name?” Mara breathed.

Then he shook his head. Almost hesitantly. “I…don’t.”

Her eyes widened again. He had to have a name. Everyone had a name. Even her baby sister.

“Did you lose it?” Mara went on. She stood easily now, within reach but with a small distance between them. He had nearly let go of her, like he could tell she wasn’t going to run. Mara decided she didn’t need to.

“Yeah.” He drew his free hand across his face. Sweaty—unlike hers. “I think I lost it.”

Mara considered that for a moment. “Maybe we can find it,” she offered.

Then he laughed, and she started. “You’re something else, litt—Mara.” He said her name quickly, almost as if he was afraid of it. “I…I can’t…”

His hand tightened again. “I can’t remember,” he said, his voice strangely raspy. “I can’t remember anything.”

She pressed her small lips together. “Why not?”

“It’s—it’s…gone.” He lifted his face as if checking the sky behind her head. “I…”

Something in his shoulders shook. Mara’s jaw loosened as she stared.

“It can’t be gone,” she told him stubbornly. Of course it couldn’t be. There had to be a name for him somewhere. Then she went still, very still, as her brothers’ words came back to her.

“The strangers don’t come from anywhere,” they’d told her. “They’re just…here. They didn’t grow up here. They don’t go anywhere, either. They just disappear.”

But this man couldn’t disappear. He was…he was here. Holding onto her.

Maybe that was why he was holding onto her.

Mara’s spine tightened, her balance shifting again as some of her weight found its way to her feet instead of relying on his arm. It was shaking now, too. Like his shoulders.

Then the shaking stopped. Mara’s gaze found his eyes again. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking beyond her.

The air froze in her lungs as another hand grasped her other shoulder. Not hard—but hard enough.

“Step back, girl,” a new voice murmured. Soft—just by her ear. The man’s hand came loose and fell away as the new one pulled her backwards. Efficient. Clean.

The person spun her around. She caught a glimpse of black material before it swirled around her and they tucked her close. Then it was all she saw.

The man screamed. The sound found its way through the folds of the cloak and stilled Mara in a way her mother’s words never could.

Her breath died somewhere in her throat. Something tingled in her cheeks. The arm around her moved as the person angled themselves back, away. There was a rustle of fabric as their free hand adjusted something, near Mara, at the person’s waist. Then the second arm joined the first to lift the girl, her face still buried in the cloak.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” the woman breathed, her voice so soft that Mara barely heard it through the cloth.

Mara’s heart thumped hard as she was raised and curled easily. Not hurt—held. Almost like an infant. She still couldn’t see. Her breath was warmer than it had been.

The woman didn’t start moving right away. Mara felt her hand tighten in its new position on her back. “Haven’t you been taught not to talk to strangers?”

Mara didn’t answer.

“Nevermind, I’ll take you home,” the woman muttered.

It crept over Mara like an invisible shadow that she knew who the woman was. Her brothers had talked about her. The one who worked for the Queen.

Nyra. Typhoon. Not an assassin. Something else.

An executioner.

Mara’s heartbeat wobbled as she shut her eyes tightly. Nyra began to walk, Mara still cradled against her.

Her mother was going to yell at her. She was certain of it—but yelling would almost be better than this.

No one else was stupid enough to talk to the strangers. Not even her brothers. Only Mara.

And yet there was still a question in Mara’s mind when Nyra left the little girl at home and spoke quietly to her mother. A question like a chink in a boarded-over window.

Where had the man come from?

Mara sat up. Her forehead was warm—almost too warm. Wet. Sweaty.

Agent was sleeping across the room, still where Mara remembered her.

A stranger. Another stranger. Still breathing.

Nyra hadn’t found them yet.

Red hair. 22, at the time of COGNITO. Freckles. 5’3”. 100lbs when she’s not just spent 3 days unconscious. A warm smile. Green-hazel eyes. A tiny head—

housing the mind that wrote The Expended, but, more importantly, lived three lives before the plot even starts. A childhood that had no “child” in it, a religious life which was not hers to live, and a quiet, civilian existence buried in an Omaha apartment.

That is the same woman who wrote The Expended, published it at 17, and then gave up writing entirely when—as is frequent in independent publishing—the book failed to sell. Failed to exist anywhere apart from her and a man named Nathan Ammen.

Perhaps he left a review. Perhaps he did not. But at any rate, he had the manuscript sent to another man named Mao Lin.

None of that changes who Gabrielle Zapata really was. She had seven siblings and brought up too many of them. A family she no longer calls her own. She had a Love once—a flame that softened into something she could live with as she walked through city sidewalks. A roommate, whose name is never mentioned. A go-bag—why? Because her home was never here.

She was not defenseless or naive. She smiled at strangers—and watched them. She carried a 9mm until a Chinese operative sedated her in a Nebraskan cornfield and took it from her. Weak? Yes—physically. Gabrielle was never strong—grew up with something like Lyme's but never diagnosed. Smart? Debatable. She did not know coding or neuroscience or brain surgery—but she knew how to walk Northwest and how to psychologically destabilize conditioned child soldiers through speech. But she walked like she had never belonged—because she hadn’t.

By the time COGNITO begins, that was no longer a problem. She had accepted not belonging. Accepted the path of least persistence. Accepted the fact that her life would never be…different, like the ones she had written, like the ones she had daydreamed about in high school. That was when the world proved her wrong.

The world believed the book was the point. The world was wrong. The book was not the point. The point was the author. The point was Gabrielle Zapata.

Mao Lin understood this. He believed The Expended was incomplete. Perhaps he even believed it was a draft. In any case, he knew he needed Gabrielle Zapata to work with him—and he was willing to let her come into alignment on her own, over time.

The CIA did not understand this. They saw a broken adult in a shredded Chinese military jacket. They saw a prisoner who would not answer questions about the dystopian novel found on her. And then, over a week later, they saw a woman who nearly died to release information to their own international allies.

Nathan Ammen saw something else.

He saw a woman who clung to her beliefs and to her moral structure even when handed a set of standard issue clothing and told her callsign was Flying Red. He saw a strategist who laughed over Rosary scheduling with a friend at lunch. He saw a girl who stood at the front of a briefing room and trembled and told him and every other superior that they were wrong.

But it was only when that same girl went rogue and successfully destabilized the entire structure of the invaders’ regime that Nathan decided he needed her on his side.

Not to work for him. Not to guide him. To admit he was the real actor, after all.

He might have succeeded if he had seen the truth.

But no one ever saw the truth but the one man who could not understand it. Could not label it. Could not twist it into something else.

Ciéran McKenney did not believe in her God—at first. He did not expect her to be able to fight or even to walk—at first. He did not expect her to answer his compliment with a revelation that shifted the entire war.

But he saw a girl ground into the pavement, bleeding, gasping, and chose to help her then. He saw a girl restrained in a chair, crying because she could not answer, and chose to allow her to remain silent. He saw a girl locked in a nightmare, gripping his arm tightly enough to hurt, and chose to let her hang on.

The others saw the product. The mind. The future.

He saw the eyes and the face that smiled and wept. Smiling because God still lived. Weeping because she still felt alone.

And now he is no longer there to tell us— Who is Gabrielle Zapata, really?

History may tell when COGNITO launches in September, but until then, we will let the smile suffice.

Hey friends—hope you enjoyed the read! If you're excited about meeting Gabrielle Zapata and her world, both The Expended and COGNITO: Zapata’s Memoirs are available for Pre-Order on Gabrielle Marie Kozak’s Amazon. Hope to meet you launch day!

The air around him wasn’t cold, but he was slowly becoming aware of a shivering that sank deep into his spine and wouldn’t let go. He pulled his legs closer to him, his face between his knees, his arms bare in a way that he hated.

There was something in his throat again, but he ignored it. Footsteps passed him again, and he didn’t look up.

He had seen too many faces today. Too many new ones. But none were his sister’s.

“Hannah,” he whispered into the pants that looked like no one else’s.

The footsteps stopped in front of him. “Hey.” The voice jarred its way into his thoughts. “Come.”

His head raised. His cheeks were wet, though he didn’t think he’d been crying.

The woman stood there. The same one who’d brought him here. Her face wasn’t cruel—but the knife was still at her belt.

The floor of the castle hallway was ice-cold against his hands as he pushed himself up, then stood. His right hand hovered for a moment, almost as if he expected her to take it.

She didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked away quickly, obviously implying that he follow. So he did.

His sneakers sounded loud on the tiles. One shoelace slapped the floor, but the woman didn’t turn.

He tucked his hands into his pants pockets. That didn’t stop the drafty air from brushing past his arms, though.

The hallway widened until they stood in the doorway of a large room that looked like it would swallow them whole.

Ben stopped, his breath catching somewhere in his throat. She half-glanced at him.

“Come,” she said again.

His steps came very close together as he followed. Candlelight flickered across his face, dimmer here than in the hallway. His eyes traveled the room, tentative, wide.

There was a fireplace to one side. Flames licked almost into the chimney. Then there was the carpet, thick under their shoes. At the far end of the room were placed three chairs, one slightly higher than the rest.

It reminded him of something. He couldn’t figure out what, though he had been trying to for hours now.

Something moved as they approached. His eyes latched onto the woman who turned to face them. She was tall—over six feet—with long red hair that cascaded down her back. Her face was young and unwrinkled—but her eyes were hard as she looked at him. Her dress flowed about her almost like water—but dark green with silver linings that shimmered. Silk was the word that crept into Ben’s mind.

Her eyes flickered on him like a storm cloud.

Ben realized suddenly that the woman with the knife had bowed deeply. He moved one foot uneasily. Then bit his lip and swallowed.

The tall woman’s eyes were still on him, as the other straightened.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, and Ben’s mouth went dry.

The Queen looked away from him, at the other woman. “He’s still here, Nyra?”

Nyra. So that was her name.

“Kael hasn’t found the other two yet,” Nyra said smoothly.

“It’s almost evening,” the Queen stated, almost as if that was supposed to mean something. There was a knot in Ben’s chest that told him it did.

Nyra nodded. “Would you like it finished, your Majesty?”

There was a long silence. Then a “Hm,” close to Ben’s face.

Too close.

His eyes had been shut. Now they flew open as he realized the Queen had bent down to his level.

The air froze in his lungs—the room had been warm. But now it was suddenly cold again.

He stared at the silver design of the belt she wore. An intricate E. Something else behind it. A book, maybe. Or a flame.

Ben’s slow breathing broke as her right hand came close to his face. He lifted his head before she could. Stared at her—directly into her eyes. He did not know what he saw there.

For an instant, neither moved. Then the Queen’s hand landed on his shoulder, and Ben’s entire body tensed.

“Where’s the girl?” the Queen asked softly. Ben realized dimly that she wasn’t even addressing Nyra anymore.

His lips pressed together as he made up his mind, but then her hand on his shoulder tightened. Ben’s mouth opened before he could stop it.

“…Hannah!”

She blinked once. “Hannah?” she repeated.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, either. Suddenly the Queen let go. He stumbled a step backwards. Nyra’s hand clamped onto his other shoulder, keeping him upright. He gasped for breath.

The Queen turned away, her back to them. “Keep him,” she said, her tone final. “He can identify Hannah for us later.”

Nyra bowed again, though the Queen wasn’t looking at her. Her hand temporarily came away from Ben. Then she spoke. “Of course.”

Ben didn’t realize they were leaving the room until they already had. They walked down the hallway…and then another…and another. Nyra didn’t touch him again, but Ben’s shoulders were tight anyway as he tried to keep up with her long pace. His legs ached. His stomach hurt more.

Suddenly she turned into a side room. He nearly tripped past the doorway, but he caught himself in time to turn with her.

Nyra glanced back at him. “You look hungry,” she noted aloud, almost to herself.

Ben couldn’t swallow. So they… They weren’t about to kill him.

Hannah, he thought.

Nyra reached up to a shelf and grabbed something that looked like a long biscuit. Ben’s fingers shook as she handed it to him.

“Eat,” Nyra said. “Here.”

He held it anyway, his eyes locked on her face like he was worried she’d change her mind. Instead, she stepped out of the door they’d come through and shut it behind her. The hallway candlelight vanished.

Ben’s shoulders began to shake. He sat down, carefully feeling the wall behind him. This room was colder than even the hallway had been. He wanted his jacket. Though he couldn’t remember what it had looked like.

One tear soaked into the bread. He took a bite, the texture thick in his mouth.

“Hannah,” he whispered once he’d finished chewing. His voice was louder now, but the darkness still closed around him like something he was afraid to name.

Nothing answered.

The castle was quiet tonight, Kael noticed. That was nice—he was tired.

His boots were louder than usual on the floors today. The sound stopped short when he glanced up to see his sister, however. Then the corners of his mouth lifted slightly as their eyes met.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft—it always was. “You’re back?”

He nodded. “I found one of the other two, but she…”

His voice trailed into silence as her eyebrows rose stiffly.

“Trained?”

Kael bit his lip. “Yes.”

Nyra frowned as Kael stood still, waiting. He was barely younger than her, but she was his superior when it came to routine elimination.

“It’s been a while,” Nyra said finally. “Since one got away.”

“I’ll find her tomorrow,” Kael returned easily.

Her eyes narrowed, like she was studying the way his posture half-inclined towards the wall. “You’re tired.”

He nodded to that, too. “Aren’t you?”

She laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Kael.”

He was still smiling as he stepped past her, and for a good while afterward. It took him some time to get to his room, but once he did, he simply lit a candle and sat on his bed.

That was when he realized he was still carrying the woman’s stick and hat. He pulled them out of his pockets almost gingerly. He needed to turn them in to the Queen, he remembered.

He’d do it tomorrow. Tonight, he was going to bed.

Kael carefully positioned the items on the floor and removed his cloak, hanging it on a hook by the door. With a very long yawn, he stood for a moment, thinking.

No. He wasn’t hungry enough to bother with food. Not right now.

Kael stared dully at the sky outside before blowing out the candle and getting into bed.

It didn’t take Ben long to finish the bread. Minutes passed—long ones. The last crumbs fell to the floor. That was messy, he knew. He left them there anyway. If they were going to kill him, he could at least leave crumbs on the floor.

It was somehow even darker now. That scared him. He could hardly see his hands in front of his face. That was something only in books, he thought dimly. He couldn’t remember which books.

His sister’s face was in his mind again. He whispered her name to the darkness as if it hadn’t heard him the first time. “Hannah.” This time he added his own. “Ben… Benjamin.” The words fell and were gone.

Ben pulled his knees close to him again and wrapped his arms around them. His arms were freezing. Now he tried to tuck his arms around his body, between his legs and his chest. It worked for a little bit, but then his shoes would slip and he would start to fall forward.

Ben caught himself for the third time. This time he straightened. Cold air hit his arms and face again. Ben exhaled sharply.

Then he stood up.

His hands felt the wall as he stepped towards where he remembered the door had been. It took him a few seconds to find it, but he did. He fumbled around, feeling for some kind of knob.

There it was. He twisted it, not expecting it to open—but it did.

Ben’s eyes widened, blinking as the candlelight from the hallway hit his face.

The door seemed to wobble. He glanced at it and realized his hand on the knob was shaking.

Slowly he pushed the door farther open. His hearing sharpened until it overtook the rest of his mind and he listened urgently for footsteps.

There were none.

Ben stepped out of the room, carefully guiding the door shut behind him. He stood still for a few moments after it had closed. His heart was beating very hard, he noticed. He didn’t like that. He hadn’t thought he was tired, either, but now that he was in the light, he found himself continuing to blink.

Tired made sense, he realized. Even if he couldn’t remember how long he had been awake. But he wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet.

He didn’t know which direction he had come from with Nyra. He just knew he didn’t want to run into her again. Or into the Queen. Or even into the servant who’d brushed past him hours ago when Nyra brought him in.

His head angled upwards as his eyes traveled along the curved ceiling of the hall. It was wide. Too wide. Nowhere to hide.

His shoelace was still untied. Ben knelt on one knee to tie it again. It took him a bit—his fingers were still shaking, though they were warmer now—but finally he finished.

No one had come. Not yet. He stood up, shaking himself slightly.

Something banged, far away. A pot, maybe. Or a pan. Then the candle nearest to him spluttered. Ben glanced up at it, his eyes wide for a moment.

The floor seemed very slightly sloped. Ben turned left—where the pathway led lower. Where, he didn’t know. He just wanted to get out. The air got colder again as he walked for what seemed like forever.

Then he heard footsteps. Ben spun around, his heart rate doubling as he looked—

The door beside him moved slightly when he pushed on it. Ben stepped quickly into the room. It was pitch black, and he kept his hand on the edge of the door so that it wouldn’t shut behind him.

The footsteps got louder. Ben held his breath. Then they passed—and stopped, some feet away from the door.

Ben did not move. But he felt his hand grow sweaty on the door.

“Hello?” the person called. Ben realized with a jolt that the voice came from a girl probably about his height.

Hannah, he thought immediately.

No. Not Hannah. Hannah wasn’t here. The thought choked up his throat.

“Here, kitty!” The girl’s voice rang out, louder this time.

Ben felt the air rush back into his lungs. A cat. She just wanted a—

Something brushed past his ankles in a streak, and Ben screamed. The door slammed shut as his hand pulled away and the cat yowled on the other side.

Ben was very happy to leave it shut. He leaned against the wall, panting. His blood was frozen in his veins.

The girl was not happy to leave the door shut. Candlelight sprinkled in as she opened the wooden panel wide and stepped directly into the room.

“Hey, who’s in my room?”

Ben stopped breathing again. His eyes clamped shut. Then one opened cautiously.

She was still there. Staring at him.

“Who are you?”

Ben’s mouth opened. “Uh—”

The cat wound its way around the girl’s shoes, rubbing its head against her ankles. Ben realized she was wearing a long, full dress—simple, unlike the Queen’s had been. Nothing like Hannah.

“Are you lost?” the girl demanded.

Ben did the only thing he could think of. Nodded.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you in my room then?”

He tried to shrug. His shoulders didn’t really move. “Sorry,” he whispered—and stepped past her, through the door.

She grabbed his arm. “Hey.”

He looked back at her, his eyes even wider now. Something was stuck in them, and he blinked.

Not tears. Better not be tears.

Her face tightened. “If you’re lost, don’t you want help?”

He swallowed. Hard. “Yes.” The word was almost too quiet for even him to hear.

She smiled then. “Where are you trying to go? The kitchen? Hey, are you—” She broke off as he froze again.

“I want to go outside,” Ben mumbled.

Her eyebrows shot up. “It’s dark.”

He nodded silently.

Her hand fell away from his arm as she stepped away from the door and into the hallway, letting it close behind them—the cat on the other side.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

He shook his head this time, and she sighed.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Ben wasn’t sure if she actually knew where she was taking him. She apparently thought she did, though.

They walked to the end of the hallway. Then began on another one, this one slanting downward sharply. There were no candles here. Ben listened to her shoes against the floor and hoped desperately there was nothing to trip on.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, and Ben jumped.

“It’s…it’s Ben,” he stuttered.

He thought he could hear her sigh, briefly. “Ben,” she murmured.

He didn’t ask for her name. He didn’t want any more names. Only Hannah.

Suddenly she stopped walking, and so did he. They’d heard footsteps ahead. Ben pressed himself against the wall before he realized he was moving. In the darkness he heard the girl catch her breath.

“Anna? Is that you?” A woman’s voice. Nyra’s, Ben realized. He stopped breathing. Maybe she wouldn’t hear him. Except—

“Hey, Typhoon,” the girl returned easily—almost too easily.

“What are you doing down here?” Nyra demanded.

Ben wanted to run. His legs wouldn’t move, though. Besides, then she’d just chase him again.

“I’m walking,” Anna stated. “Were you looking for me?”

There was something between a snort and a laugh. “I’m going to bed, that’s what,” Nyra told her. “You’re up a bit late, you know.”

“Mm.” Anna dragged one foot along the floor—and Ben’s first careful breath died somewhere in his throat. “I’m not tired.”

Silence again. Ben would have liked to stop his heart’s beating if that was possible, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t.

“Well. Goodnight, then,” Nyra said.

“Goodnight,” Anna replied.

Someone brushed by Ben, going through a doorway that he hadn’t noticed. The edge of a cloak caught on his shoulder for just an instant before pulling itself free and vanishing.

The door closed.

Ben wondered briefly why his legs weren’t working anymore before they dropped out from under him and he fell forward into the hallway. It wasn’t loud, but his knees hit the tile hard.

He bit back the complaint that tried to escape him. Not with Nyra here.

Something touched his shoulder, and he jerked back.

Anna.

He put out one hand. It found fingers. She gripped his wrist and helped him stand, all without a word. Ben took a long breath, wondering why it seemed to stop in his chest. Another. This one went deeper.

“Ben?” Anna whispered.

Whispered. She knew.

He barely coughed. “Thanks,” Ben muttered.

Maybe she smiled. If she did, he couldn’t see it.

“Come on,” she breathed. “We’re almost outside.”

I’m alive. I’m actually alive.

That means someone tried to kill me.

Agent stopped running. Her breath came hard and fast. Her short hair clung to her head, drenched in sweat although it was getting colder every minute. Leaning against a fence post, she let her eyes slam shut as she tried to listen for running boots over the sound of her heartbeat.

The post gave way beneath her and thudded onto the ground with Agent on top. She half-screamed. Her hands shot out and slid a few inches through damp soil before she stopped falling. She lay on her side where her body had curled, her heart somehow pounding twice as quickly as it had been a moment before.

One hand made its way to her chest. She held it there, pressing, trying to silence the incessant metronome. Gradually it slowed. Her eyes flickered open again.

No one had come.

There was no sound besides the wind whistling through something nearby. She didn’t know what. She didn’t want to know what.

Suddenly the gravity felt nice. She let her head fall fully onto her left cheek. The dirt was cold, almost too cold. Something deep inside of her whispered that her face would be a mess when she got up.

Didn’t matter. All of her was already a mess.

“Huh,” she muttered.

The sky was darker now. If she tilted her head slightly, she could see a few stars. She scanned them.

No North Star.

North Star. Why would that be here, anyway? What even was it?

Her eyes fell shut again. A gust of cold wind swept over her. Something about the fallen post creaked. Or maybe it just settled further into the ground. The wind ruffled the hair it could reach, almost as if it was trying to wake her up.

Agent did not open her eyes.

The dirt…the man…the shed…

Agent.

She didn’t belong here. The thought crept into her mind, almost scared to announce itself.

Her clothes. Too different. The accent. Not hers.

The man…had tried to kill her.

Suddenly Agent’s spine tightened as she swung herself up, sitting, away from the dirt, away from the half-mud that was still slathered on her hands and printed on her face. She grasped at one of her sleeves, and her eyes fixed on the seam.

It looked nothing like the farmer’s had. Or the assassin’s.

Her breath had calmed, but now it was shallow again, as if her lungs rejected the air—or the air rejected her. Agent swallowed once, twice. She blinked a couple of times at the sleeve. It didn’t change.

It was still getting colder. Her dirty fingers fumbled with the zipper before she realized what they were doing. There was a quiet sound as her jacket came together, closed her in. Warm, she realized. That’s what it was meant for.

Her hands were still dirty. She wiped them on her pants. The movement paused for a moment when she stared at the ridges her boots had made in the dirt.

Agent didn’t like this. She didn’t know why not. But she didn’t like this at all.

Her breath stuttered for a couple of seconds. Then she gripped the side of the fallen post and shoved herself onto her knees. Then standing. It was getting hard to see, but she could make out the backs of houses. Her lips pressed together when she realized she didn’t know which direction she had come from. Either that was a very good thing, or that was a very, very bad thing.

Well, she would find out.

Her feet hesitated through the first few steps, but then her pace evened out as she made her way to something that looked like a path.

Street, her mind corrected her. She scowled the thought away.

No one was out still. Of course not. It was night. She shouldn’t be out, either. That realization made her pause.

She…she didn’t belong here. The words came back, insistent, rude. There was nowhere she belonged. That was certain like it had no right to be.

She glanced at one of the houses she was passing. Faint against the night sky was the haze of smoke from the chimney. If that mess of bricks counted as a chimney.

It looked like home, she thought. But—what was home? The word felt urgently important. Agent closed her eyes tightly, her mind throwing up a blur of colors and shapes.

Home… No. Nothing.

A sob rose in her throat before she knew what it was. Her arms tightened around herself as if trying to block out the cold and the darkness. She swallowed the fear down. If it was fear. Standing there, she stood alone while the wind tried to shake her.

Something hit her cheek. Colder than the wind. Agent opened her eyes to find that it was beginning to rain. Not good. Her breath caught again as she stepped forward, her boots sliding deeper into the rocky dirt than they had before.

Her eyes lit on a longer building ahead. Larger. Light glowed from cracks in the shutters that faced her. Tavern. She knew that word. It felt friendly.

Her steps quickened as she approached—then stopped as her hand rested on the gnarled wood of the door. She could hear voices now, loud even through the walls. Someone was singing.

It struck Agent that she hated the man’s voice.

There was practically no overhang from the thatched roof. Rain was beginning to trickle down her head and shoulders.

Agent bit her lip. Suddenly she unzipped her jacket and pulled it off. Then she tied it around her waist and zipped it again. Her white uniform shirt began collecting water almost immediately, but Agent pulled the door open and stepped inside with something like a snap in her step.

The flickering of the candles danced into her vision as if it was expected there. Agent didn’t know what she had expected—just not that.

She blinked once. Then she slowly, quietly, closed the door behind her.

The room was as large as she had thought it should be. The walls were made of wood, the panels occasionally interrupted by some painting or, like above the massive fireplace, a pair of antlers. The tables—there were several of them—looked just as rough as the floor. All in all, there were about twenty, thirty people in the room. That included the three who seemed to be incapable of deciding whether they wanted to be in the room or behind the counter.

Waiters, Agent decided. Or something like that. Bartenders, anyway. If this was a bar.

Agent took a deep breath. The smell of beef and carrots hit her so hard she was almost nauseous. She hadn’t realized she was this hungry.

One head turned towards the door, towards her. A man’s. Middle-aged. Beard, thick eyebrows, wrinkled brow.

Agent did not inhale her next breath as the man’s eyes traveled from Agent’s face to the floor under her muddy boots. Then he laughed and turned his gaze away as he muttered something to the other people at the table. Someone else’s laughter joined his.

“‘Ey, miss!” someone shouted. One of the young ladies behind the counter. “Sit down and I’ll be with ya in a moment!”

Agent located the nearest empty table and seated herself with her back—and the chair’s—to the wall.

She gripped the edge of the table for a couple of seconds. Hard. But smoother than it had looked—rubbed bare by countless hands. The touch almost comforted her for an instant—and then the singer burst into song again. She hadn’t realized he’d stopped. The thought wasn’t a comforting one.

Agent jerked her hand away from the table and set it in her lap with the other.

Her shirt stuck to her skin. She moved her shoulders slightly, wincing as she glanced down at herself and one lonely raindrop streaked down her face like it didn’t know she was inside. She let her eyes close.

The lyrics of the song were hard to understand, she thought. Then she realized it was in a different language.

She felt a shadow fall over her. Glancing up, Agent blinked at a chubby, pink-faced young woman in a frilled shirt and what seemed like a multitude of skirts.

“What can I get ya, miss?” the girl bubbled. “Do ya want a drink—”

“Water,” Agent broke in. She swallowed. That voice didn’t sound like hers. “Please.”

The girl hesitated for half a second. Then she bobbed her head. “For sure! And…food?”

Agent’s eyes widened. “Please,” she said again, the word louder this time.

Something like a smile came over the girl’s face. “Do ya like—”

“Anything.” Agent tested the corners of her mouth to see if they would go up. They did.

Now the girl beamed. “All right, miss!” Then she was gone.

Agent’s smile collapsed as she tilted her head at the candle mounted behind her and glared at it. It struck her that she didn’t like sitting so close to a light. Too late to move, anyway.

Then it hit her that she had no money. Her hand fumbled in her pocket almost numbly. It came out with a thin, light pink wallet. Four cards slipped out. She stared at them. Credit. Debit. ID. Coffee gift card.

Her gaze focused on the ID. The woman there looked just like herself, but the name was Veronica Kane.

Agent’s lips tightened. Veronica, eh. The other cards had the same name, too. Interesting—but definitely not money.

A shadow fell across her face. Agent glanced up, and a pair of dark eyes met hers. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the stranger pulled out the chair opposite Agent’s and sat down.

The wood creaked slightly. The woman’s cloak caught on the edge of the seat for an instant before she jerked it back around her.

Agent shivered without intending to. Her clothes were cold now.

The woman moved. Her fingers fumbled with the latch at the neck of her cloak, and then she undid it.

“Here.” The stranger’s voice was quiet—strangely low for a woman that young. “Put it on.”

Agent took it slowly from where the woman laid it on the table. She didn’t try to put it on. Instead, she pulled it around her soaked shoulders and wrapped it around herself like a cocoon.

The stranger blinked once. “What’s your name,” she went on.

Agent’s mouth twitched. “Agent,” she said finally.

The woman put out a hand. Skin slightly darker than Agent’s. Rougher, too. “Mara,” she murmured.

Agent took the hand and held it limply. The contact broke as Mara’s fingers pulled away some seconds later.

“You’re not from here,” Mara went on.

Agent shook her head without meaning to.

Mara’s voice dropped to an almost inaudible level. “Those clothes will get you killed.”

Agent’s face twitched. Then she nodded again.

Mara half-smiled. “So you know.”

“…Know?” Agent’s eyes widened.

Mara bit her lip. “You’re from the other world, aren’t you.” Her mouth pressed into something like a frown. “That’s why you’re dressed like that.”

Agent was pretty sure her heart stopped. If it had been beating at all. That was questionable, too.

“The other world?”

Mara nodded, brisk now. She shifted in the seat, leaning closer over the table. One elbow rested there as her hand slipped up to her face, touching the side of her cheek.

“You don’t remember it?” she questioned softly—as if she already knew the answer.

Agent shook her head, and another smile ghosted Mara’s face. Wry now, Agent thought.

“No one does,” Mara went on. “I’d hoped you would.”

Agent looked away. Her gaze scoured the wooden wall and the candle for a moment before darting around the rest of the tavern. No one was paying any attention to them. She let her shoulders loosen—slightly. She wasn’t so cold anymore.

“Are you getting something to eat?” Mara went on.

Agent’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she said.

Mara eyed her face for a moment longer. “So am I,” she admitted. “Let’s talk.”

Then the soup came. It was so hot it burned Agent’s tongue, but she didn’t care.

Mara watched, her own bowl forgotten as her eyes widened and Agent’s bowl drained.

Finally Agent set it down. The dish hit the table a little hard. Someone half-glanced at their table, but neither Mara nor Agent seemed to care.

“Hungry, eh,” Mara drawled, her accent slightly more acceptable in Agent’s ears now.

That was when Agent discovered she felt somewhat more like herself. Whoever that was. She inclined her head briefly. Mara took a sip of her own soup, then set her bowl down carefully.

“So,” she began, “when did you get here?”

It struck Agent that Mara didn’t talk like the farmer had. “Uh…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Hours ago. This afternoon.”

“Was it at the shed?” Mara was watching her face now. Agent blinked.

“Yes. A shed.”

Mara smiled. “And you’re not dead yet.”

Something in Agent’s chest tightened. “No.”

Then the real question came. Agent’s first. “Am I supposed to be?”

Mara tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well, yes,” she muttered. “The Queen wants all strangers dead upon arrival.” Her mouth twisted. “You’ve already broken the pattern.”

“The pattern.” Agent swallowed. “So…there are others like me?”

Mara nodded, and Agent leaned back in her seat.

Her heart was unusually quiet in her chest. Maybe because she’d just eaten.

This was a pattern. Patterns weren’t good.

That thought came from somewhere. She traced it.

Patterns make something predictable.

“Who does it?” Agent’s eyes were narrower now than they had been as Mara took another sip.

“Oh.” Mara half-shrugged. “Midnight. Typhoon. Those people. They’re the main two.”

“How do they do it?” Agent cut in.

That was when all traces of a smile vanished from Mara’s face. “Knife,” she said eventually. “That’s usually how it goes. Knifed. Silently. Then disposal. All related objects are destroyed.”

Knifed, huh, Agent thought. Her hat, she remembered. And the gun. It hadn’t fired, anyway. She was glad she knew it was supposed to.

“When…” The words came out ragged. “When do they do it?”

Mara exhaled for a moment longer than she needed to. “Usually immediately,” she murmured, eyes downcast as if the soup was suddenly very interesting. “The Queen—”

“How do they know when someone gets here?” Agent interrupted.

Mara’s gaze flashed up. “The Queen knows,” she said.

“Who is the Queen?” Agent demanded. A little too loudly.

Someone looked up again. This time for longer. Mara’s eyes closed into slits, and she stood up abruptly as the tavern door slammed behind someone else.

“Now would be a good time to leave.” Her voice came out in a whisper as she leaned close to Agent. “With the cloak on.”

Agent caught her breath as she stood up automatically. Her hands flew to the hood of the cloak as she draped it over her head. Then Mara’s fingers were at Agent’s neck, fastening the cloak around her.

“Good,” she muttered, very close to Agent now. “Also, if anyone asks: You’re drunk.”

Agent was not drunk, she decided. She said nothing anyway.

Some of the air evaporated in her lungs as Mara disappeared suddenly. Agent’s eyes followed the other woman over to the counter. Mara spoke quickly with one of the servers. Her hand shot out, money in it. Then she was heading towards the door, gesturing to Agent to follow. Agent stepped forward to join her.

Something caught the edge of her cloak. At first Agent thought it had snagged, but the material didn’t come loose when she jerked at it.

Then someone laughed—quietly. Agent spun around, her hand following her gaze as it flew to the man who gripped the lining of the cloak she wore. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist as their eyes locked. His widened—slightly.

“Huh,” Agent muttered.

The man’s mouth opened halfway. She twisted his wrist—barely. His fingers loosened and her cloak fell away. Agent didn’t let go.

The man jerked his arm towards himself, as if he was trying to pull her off balance. One of Agent’s boots slipped forward to counteract the movement as she dipped in and locked elbows with him.

One more movement. Then his chair lurched backwards as he crashed to the floor. His yell tangled with the thud, but Agent was already moving—away.

“Hey!” the man shouted after her. Mara stood by the door, her eyebrows high and her mouth hanging open.

Agent stepped past her, shoving the door open with an almost scraping movement like she wanted to rid her skin of its contact with the man’s wrist.

Then Agent glanced back at Mara as more yelling erupted.

Mara muttered something and stepped after Agent. The door slammed shut behind them.

Their eyes met—then they broke into a run. Past five houses…six. Mara slowed then, and Agent dropped back in line with her.

“Okay. Okay.” Mara shook her head. “Next time…”

Agent coughed. “There won’t be a next time,” she stated stiffly.

Mara eyed her sideways. “Well then.”

Agent straightened now. Deep breath, she reminded herself as if following a system she’d set in place long ago.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Hm.” Mara bit her lip. “We could go to my place.” She glanced sideways at Agent again. “I don’t feel like getting killed tonight, though.”

“Valid,” Agent muttered.

Suddenly Mara laughed. “However, I get the impression you might be hard to kill.”

Agent blinked at her as Mara’s steps picked up speed.

“Come on,” the woman said briefly. “It’s a good walk from here.”

They walked in silence for some minutes. The houses grew farther apart. Some of them were less nicely put together than the ones by the tavern had been. Agent found herself studying the materials. Some brick, some wood, some stone…some a combination of all three.

Didn’t look comfortable, she decided, staring hard at one building that looked like a crossover between an outhouse and a stable.

“Agent,” Mara said, and Agent jumped. “Do I call you that?”

Agent’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

Mara nodded. “Okay.”

Suddenly Agent stopped as her eyes landed somewhere in the distance on what looked like a group of walls and turrets. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward slightly—as if that would help her eyes.

Mara didn’t have to look to see what she’d noticed.

“The castle,” she sighed. “That’s where the Queen lives.”

~~~

By the time Mara opened the door of a house and let Agent follow her inside, Agent’s fingers were numb, dry, and nearly blue.

Mara didn’t seem to notice. But she set about lighting the fire anyway.

Agent blinked at the quickly growing light for a moment, then glanced around slowly, taking in the contents of the main room. There were a couple of doors—to a bedroom, she decided, and maybe a closet. Then there were a few chairs in this room, a table, the fireplace, and an entire corner of hunting equipment.

Agent’s eyes widened, but Mara followed her gaze and laughed.

“I’m a hunter,” she explained needlessly. “I…sell meat to the villagers. It’s a good trade.”

Agent nodded very slowly. There were bows. Arrows. Some knives.

She was willing to bet Mara was good at it.

She was also surprised she was betting at all.

Sighing, Agent lowered herself down and sat against a wall, close to the fireplace. Mara eyed her, then sat down as well—in a chair.

“So,” she said.

Agent stared into the flames. She was sitting almost too close, but the heat that snapped through her bones was better than the cold she had just come from.

Mara blinked a few times. “You’re still alive,” she noted aloud finally.

Agent glanced at her then. “Yeah.” That sounded almost strange to her, too.

Mara half-yawned, frowning. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

Agent’s brow furrowed. “You don’t?”

Mara shook her head. “The Queen’s two…Typhoon, Nightmare…are going to track us down at some point.” Mara scowled at the floor. “It won’t be pretty.”

Agent grimaced. “Are you…sure they’ll find us?” She didn’t know why she was asking. The encounter of that day replayed in her mind.

Footstep. Twist. Knife. Gun.

Then run.

The look in his eyes. She knew what it meant.

Mara shifted in the chair, leaning closer to the fire. Perhaps she had been freezing, too.

“Unless we run,” she said finally.

A thought occurred to Agent. Her spine straightened. “Will they kill you, too?” she asked, looking away.

Mara made a sound. Something close to laughter. “Probably,” she muttered.

Silence again. Agent twisted her fingers together.

“I’m sorry,” she said eventually. There was nothing else to say.

Mara snorted. “Don’t be sorry.” She stopped for a moment, bending down to unlash her boots. “This was my choice.”

That was when Agent looked up again. “Why did you choose to help me?” she asked quietly.

The ghost of a smile flitted across Mara’s face. “You talk,” she said. Agent caught her breath, but Mara kept going. “You communicate. You think. That means, wherever you’re from, you’re like us.”

Alien, Agent’s mind decided. The word sent a chill down her spine.

So she was alien here.

Agent closed her eyes as she tried to think.

“Is that why your Queen wants us dead?” she questioned some seconds later.

Mara shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “No one does, really.”

Agent’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean?”

Mara shook her head. “People like you have come for years. Appeared. Usually quiet. Always confused.” Mara’s voice grew softer as she went on. “They’ve been killed for years. By the Queen’s people.”

“How many years?” Agent asked.

Mara laughed. “The village says hundreds.”

Agent started. “What?”

Mara straightened, tilting her head slightly as she looked back at Agent.

“The Queen has been on the throne for three hundred years,” she said finally.

“Who is she?” Agent demanded.

She pushed herself farther from the fire now. The heat was too much. But her eyes stayed locked on Mara’s face.

“Her name is Vireya Elsedra.” The words came out in something like lyrics. “She is the last of an immortal race. That’s why she’s the Queen.”

“Immortal…” Agent shook her head. Immortal didn’t exist. That was just…science, she decided. What was science, though? Something caught in her throat as she wondered if science existed here.

“What…” She asked the question before she could decide if it was a good idea or not. “What makes them immortal?”

Mara sighed. “Magic.”

Agent’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Mara let her eyes fall shut. “Old magic. Elsedran is the language used for it. But no one speaks it anymore. No one lives it anymore. The Queen is the last remnant of what this world used to be.”

She stood up suddenly. “We should sleep.”

I was wrong. Draft culture also includes word count—as a final step in the process, not as a “first draft” detail.

There’s a reason for that. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware until today.

When I wrote the Trooper Series, I ignored word count. In fact, my HTML document didn’t have an easy word count popup. When I wrote The Expended, I counted pages. When I wrote COGNITO, I watched the number crawl to a stop at 52,535—and stressed because that barely meets industry standards for a novel.

But when I wrote priceless (and Fiat), I set targets.

Priceless was supposed to be 62,000 words. Fiat, 21,000.

Fiat was easier to bring up to the goal. There’s a lot you can write from the POV of a heavily traumatized teen in a contemporary setting.

Priceless…

I hit 8,000 words and realized I had covered half the plot material.

I had been going to pitch priceless to trad. 62,000 words was already on the short side.

16,000 words would not do. That was a problem.

So I took a few days to restructure the entire novel. I had to do this not only once, but twice. By the end, I had done the math: to reach 62,000 words, I needed 124 plot beats, averaging 500 words each. Next I had to outline the 124 plot beats. And then I had to write them.

Even still, I fell short. Priceless was completed at 60,000 words.

Impressive, theoretically.

Especially considering that I hated writing the book.

I managed to write 60,000 words. 90 chapters, because they were so short.

I have not read through the document since, not even before actually pitching. I don’t want to.

My sister was the first one to read it. She said it was boring.

Blunt, yes, but accurate.

I gave the book two villains. I overthrew a government. I inserted a raccoon. I gave Naomi a child’s desk with some crayons. And hot chocolate. I killed a villain with hot chocolate.

I also forced them to live on the page.

That’s the ideal of any book, right?

Not when the characters are dissociating and would like to simply be left in the back alley to bleed out.

I ran into this with COGNITO first. Gabrielle dissociated. The prose evaporated. She was hard to write. She said nothing about what was going on in her mind.

So I moved on. I skipped three weeks and brought her back in a council of war.

Three weeks. That’s a long absence when your side is consolidated in a forest facility and the country is under enemy control.

What would I have written from those three weeks? Probably nothing but elation and exasperation. Moments of failure and moments of success. Some small scenes with Ciéran that would have broken hearts on re-read.

Nothing that would have changed the story.

While writing Priceless, I hit the same friction the instant Matthew Carter realized what he had done. Towards the end of what was originally Chapter One.

I did not skip. I did not escalate the plot with an escape to Ramburg. I did not let Matthew or Naomi settle. They spent three days on the run, during which the government collapsed itself.

They spent three days surviving. Three days they would have blocked out of mind and memory if I had given them the option.

Unfortunately for the book, I did not.

It is one of my strongest stances as a writer that I follow character psychology. I failed to do so in priceless. I denied dissociation. I denied crouching behind a dumpster and letting the dark thoughts swirl—because I needed action. I needed movement.

I needed more words.

So starting today, I’m going to change that.

I’m not going to chase word counts. I’m not going to demand plot clarity. I’m not going to tell my characters they have to keep running.

I’m going to write lives, like I always say I do.

Priceless will still launch in 2027. But it is not, by far, the best I have to offer my readers.

I call myself a no-draft writer. Psychology-first. Publish-ready first pass. That’s a high standard.

And I didn’t meet it with priceless. Because I wrote it for a market—

not for the man who hates himself for choosing good.

It didn’t fail because the market is bad or because spine thickness is hypocrisy.

It failed because those metrics were never meant for me in the first place.

And now I choose to succeed—again.

Evelynn had still been asleep. She always was when her mother left. Curled up in her playpen like it had some claim on her life that Carissa didn’t.

Carissa went to work at six every morning. Later, her husband dropped Evelynn off at daycare.

But Carissa got to bring her home.

The parking lot was emptier today than it usually was. Carissa was early. It didn’t take her long to park her sedan, but still she waited for a few seconds. Her hands slipped up to her head, pulling out the hair tie that had loosed throughout the long day of hospital work. Skillfully her fingers twisted it back into something between a bun and another ponytail.

The seatbelt buckle fought her grip for a couple of seconds before it jerked itself loose.

Carissa’s high heels clacked onto the rough parking lot pavement with a grinding sound that reminded her of something she couldn’t quite place anymore. Sighing subconsciously, she stepped up onto the sidewalk and started to walk around the parking lot.

She could walk through it. It’d be safe.

She walked around it anyway.

Her eyes scanned the playground through the gate as she pressed her face closer to the bars than she probably should have. Evelynn…

There she was. Playing in the dirt at the far end. As always.

Another sigh escaped Carissa as she swung the gate open–and paused for half an instant.

There was a new teacher today. Sitting on the rock, one leg angled outward in a way that made Carissa’s eyebrows inch up. Injury, then.

Suddenly the young woman glanced at Carissa, and their eyes met. The woman’s face lit up in a smile that swept any recollection of the hospital straight out of Carissa’s mind.

“I’m here for…” The word almost escaped her. “Evelynn.”

The woman’s head turned, searching for a moment until her eyes landed on the golden-haired toddler sitting quite happily in a mixture of sand and mulch.

“Evelynn!” she called.

No response from the curly-crowned child.

The limp barely noticeable in her gait, the young woman slipped down from the rock and walked–almost deliberately–towards the child. Carissa stopped halfway across the program to watch as her daughter stood up, brushed off the dirt, then turned to see her mother standing there.

It was hard for Carissa to be sure through the lens of her glasses, but Evelynn seemed to pause before the woman pointed her in the direction of the waiting mother.

Then Evelynn came running, arms half-outstretched, face beaming in a reaction that was just a beat too slow.

Carissa didn’t smile as she looked at her daughter’s feet.

Shoes. Missing. Again.

“Ev…”

Her voice trailed off, her head shaking as if it wanted to recall the afternoon’s migraine.

The teacher had turned back towards the rock. Carissa locked eyes with her.

“Her shoes are missing.”

“Oh,” the woman breathed.

She spun around instantly, returning to the corner of the playground where Evelynn had been sitting. In the meantime, the two-year-old grinned up at her mother like the filthy socks on her feet were irrelevant.

Carissa smiled vaguely, her eyes distant as she watched the woman step carefully along the border of the dirt enclosure. Six feet. Twelve. Twenty.

Still limping, Carissa noted before her face twisted into a reminder that she was off duty.

The woman glanced back at the mother.

“I don’t see them,” she said.

Something in Carissa’s shoulders relaxed before she gave it permission.

A boundary.

Good.

The woman looked tired.

Carissa took Evelynn’s hand and pulled her towards the other side of the program. Her shoulders continued to loosen as they walked and Evelynn babbled something about Clara and the bunny rabbit.

It took them seven entire minutes to find the shoes. Carissa struggled to slip them onto her daughter’s feet.

Something snagged her attention, and she tilted her head back enough to catch the teacher’s watching them. From the rock, again.

New, perhaps.

But observant.

And yet…

Separate. Slightly closed off.

Like her mind was busy far away from the playground where the sound of children’s voices slowly dissipated into retreating motors.

Carissa’s eyes narrowed briefly.

Then she took Evelynn’s hand and straightened.

Somehow her back didn’t complain as much this time.

“Come on, let’s go home,” she whispered to her daughter, something of the old tone creeping into her voice. The old tone she’d used when Evelynn was an infant and daycare was a vague proposal of Carissa’s future.

The toddler’s fingers tightened around her mother’s as they walked towards the gate. Carissa waved almost cheerily at one of the other teachers.

Behind them, the young woman’s mouth tilted into a quiet smile as her eyes brightened behind the blue glasses she wore.

She shifted her posture slightly.

Then she stood.

Time for her to go home, too.

Finis.

Image from Unsplash.com.

The wall was hard against her back. Wood, she thought without opening her eyes. Rough. Her jacket caught against it when she shifted.

She sighed. Oh, she was breathing, then. Now she inhaled—deeply. There was the smell of rott…

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I have decided I’m going to share my WIP with you. This was a spontaneous decision, as some of my best tend to be.

We will hope that this is another case of “the best” and not the result of the soda I am randomly drinking.

(I never drink soda. I hate carbonation. I am drinking this simply because I do not want to eat anything.)

My WIP is an a…

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Veronica smiled faintly as she parked her car. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t clean, but she liked it any…

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The sun was dawning when Genjo Masahiro rode into Danlora, after presenting his papers to the men at the gate.

Halfway. He was halfway to Norema and the border.

But Mai could not continue the journey with him.

Genjo was not offended. The mare had tried her best. He would not make her struggle another day and night.

So now Genjo walked her down the main stre…

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Taro was unusually quiet at supper that evening, but no one pressed him for interaction.

No one besides Sakue, that was. But she gave up after a few failed attempts.

Taro had no sooner finished eating than he excused himself and left the house, pulling his mask up over his face.

Arai. He had to find Arai.

The streets were darkening by now. Taro’s steps were…

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“I…”

Taro’s mouth went dry as he gestured towards the sheath, now several steps below.

“I wanted to ask your permission to take this sheath from the armory, valoren.”

“I see.” Unexpectedly, Yazawa nodded. “I see no reason to deny it.”

“Thank you.” Taro didn’t understand why his knees felt slightly wobbly as he turned to go.

The older warrior smiled. “Do you …

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“The enemy has located the heir.” Eguchi Yoriie’s voice was quiet as always. He stood very still, facing the other resistance leaders who sat around the table. “Except…not the heir. They have selected a decoy.”

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Finished writing COGNITO last December. Still analyzing it today.

Here’s where the two intersect—and where they differ.

NB: This essay contains spoilers for Arrival and COGNITO.

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Arai took much longer to finish his breakfast that morning than he usually did. In fact, he took so long that he had barely left the fortress when someone came marching past him.

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