As High Commander, Schemel’s job had two sides. On one hand, she got to blow mountains apart, scattering waves of enemies with unchecked cosmic power. On the other, there were the dull parts—like now—when she had to sit in a chair and read boring maps. She didn’t care which route a freight convoy took or whether the ledgers were up to date.

  “Renna,” a voice called. “Are you paying attention?”

  What in the world was going on?

  Savage had come with officers to brief her. Six men stood in the room, each in red uniform, hats tucked under their arms. Their faces were stiff, disdain buried in their throats. Savage pointed at a map spread across her table, tapping it a few times.

  “Yes, the map,” Schemel said, clearing her throat. “You were showing me our territory?”

  “Yes, Renna. We’ve stopped making progress—”

  “Can you mark Henrikian and Sexite territory with something more readable? All I see are brown and black scribbles. I’m sorry, but it makes it difficult to follow.”

  Her Seconders murmured among themselves until a pen clicked. One of them handed Savage two markers. He shaded one half of the Midder-Lands blue.

  “This belongs to Sexton. And this here—”

  “Hold on,” Schemel cut in. “Why are you using blue for the Sexites?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Red represents mindless bloodshed,” Schemel said. “We’re the good guys. We must be blue.”

  “Our soldiers wear red on the battlefield,” Savage replied. “I didn’t think it was a problem.

  “That’s different,” Schemel snapped. “We wore red because it’s harder to spot against red dirt. But we don’t represent ourselves with red—not on badges, not on maps, not anywhere. We’re not the villains.”

  An hour later, Savage returned with another map. This time Henrikian territory was coloured blue. But a disturbing stretch of red spread across the rest. Measuring, Schemel realised Sexton held half a finger more land than Henrikia. She knew little about war—but she understood magic. And the side with more magic would win. At this moment, that side was not Henrikia.

  Just yesterday, she had received a message from Ren Calimer, the Sexite High Commander. He had read out the names of all the new Gaverians he’d recruited.

  “Are we losing because of the new Sexite Gaverians?” Schemel asked.

  “No, Renna,” Savage replied. “Despite Calimer’s claims, we have no sightings of any new enemy Gaverians on the battlefield.”

  “Then why do they have more land?”

  “Because they’re better equipped for this war than us.”

  “No. For the love of God, don’t say that. The Assembly would tear me apart if they heard it.”

  Savage cleared his throat.

  “You told them?” Schemel hissed.

  “I report to the Assembly when they ask, Renna,” Savage said. “We have to be pragmatic. This war is no longer worth the investment we’ve made.”

  “That’s unacceptable.” She rose. “There is still much to fight for.”

  “Where are you going?” Savage asked as the Seconders stepped aside to let her pass.

  “To the Assembly, where else?” she said. “I guarantee they’re already discussing how to get rid of me. They can’t once I’m there. And you’re coming with me. We need to persuade them the Midder-Lands can still be ours.”

  This was another day on the island she had called home for the past ten years. It stood a good distance off the western coast of the Midder-Lands. The land had once been a forest inhabited by savages. When her army arrived, it took months to beat Henrikian discipline into them.

  Now, everywhere she looked, she saw progress—a society remade by the touch of Rheina. Roads and hospitals. Schools and churches. Mills, silos, and all manner of infrastructure. As a form of gratitude, the natives lent their hands to the army, building communication towers, armouries, and refineries for metalwork. They even mined astaphite ore from the lagoons.

  One of the most important structures was the Ring. It stood at the island’s heart. After much persuasion, the surrounding settlements had been cleared away. Those who refused to leave simply died of ascension poisoning. Every hour, the Ring fired up—delivering troopers from the Midder-Lands to Camp Regis, or vice versa. Trains passed through, carrying earthens and crates of astaphite. Though, this week, factory production had come to an abrupt and troubling halt.

  Schemel and her Firstman, Savage, circled her tent and took to the road. Cars waited at the corners, ready to whisk her wherever she pleased, but she preferred walking short distances. It kept her close to the soldiers and the commoners. And after long hours under tents, the sun on her face was welcome.

  The dossi (servants) sat in the grass, scrubbing uniforms in basins of soapy water. Soldiers off duty lounged on hilltops, eyes closed to the wind. Smoke coiled skyward from a rubbish heap burning in petrol.

  “Renna!” the wash-women called, waving. She gave them a broad smile and waved back.

  Choosing the longer route, she and Savage walked toward a school block. Children sat in their classrooms, priests dictating lessons.

  “Who does this man remind you of?” one priest asked.

  Glancing inside, Schemel caught sight of him standing at the blackboard, pointing to a poster of Ren Calimer. The children lifted their hands, and one said, “Satan,” to which the priest replied, “Yes, this man is the devil. Who can tell me why?”

  “He will steal, kill, and destroy what God has given us,” one child answered.

  The priest was about to reply when Schemel and Savage passed his window. Recognising her, the class rose to their feet.

  “Henrikia!” they saluted.

  They did not sit until she had gone by.

  “Do you have a speech prepared for the Assembly?” Savage asked once they were alone.

  “When have I ever needed a speech?” she said. “I’ll tell them what I think. Ending the war is against our nation’s interest.”

  Beside the Ring stood a workstation where a transport officer manned the dashboard, coordinating with others to determine each portal’s destination. Spotting Schemel, his team sprang into action. One officer rushed out, waving both arms.

  “Stay back!” he shouted.

  Savage caught her by the arm.

  The roaring Ring opened a portal to the Third Farm. One car after another rolled up a ramp and vanished through it, each bearing the symbol of a green sword encircled by a crown of leaves. Green Officers. Rare in Camp Regis. Their vehicles encircled Schemel and Savage, engines rumbling.

  A tall, dark-skinned man stepped out. His venomous green eyes and still face mirrored her own. Others followed, falling into line behind him. The man stomped, saluted, and the rest followed the gesture.

  “Commissioner Victor,” Savage said. “What brings you here?”

  “I have a matter concerning a Gaverian,” Victor replied. “I would not have come myself otherwise. Renna Sorel, you must come with me immediately. I won’t tell you what I’ve seen or you would call me a madman. It is better you witness it for yourself.”

  “Where exactly?” Schemel asked. “To the UCL?”

  “To Blackwood,” the commissioner said.

  “Does your matter surpass the Midder-Lands in importance?”

  Victor and his men exchanged startled glances. They had assumed she would climb straight into their vehicles and head south.

  “No,” Victor admitted.

  “Later,” Schemel said, turning away. None protested. She raised her hand toward the Ring operator.

  “Zone Six.”

  The man reached for the keys on the Ring dashboard.

  The Assembly Hall, along with the rest of Henrikia’s bureaucratic core, stood in Henrik City. Zone Six was a military base in the middle of nowhere. Her journey would now carry her through several regions before she reached the Hall.

  “I’d prefer a convoy to take us through Khebarthi. I want to get in touch with the people.”

  They stepped through the portal into Zone Six. A perpetual dust storm raged there. With one hand shielding her eyes, Schemel followed Ren Savage through the haze. Even in the storm, soldiers at their posts straightened and saluted her. One rushed forward to open the door of an SUV.

  “Where to, Renna?” an officer shouted from behind the car window.

  “To Henrik City,” she called back. “Six cars in front, six more behind. I want to be noisy. And get me a brown bag—extra thick, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Renna!”

  At his barked orders, engines roared to life inside the garages. Soldiers pumped fuel into tanks, scrambling to prepare the convoy.

  As she waited, Schemel straightened her shirt and dabbed her brow with a handkerchief. She leaned toward the front mirror for a proper look at her face and teeth. Dust speckled her amber hair, but she was still radiant.

  A pair of glasses lay on the dashboard. She’d always wondered how she’d look with shades. Her grandfather had once posed before the masses wearing a pair. She slipped on the orange-tinged lenses and turned to her Firstman.

  “How do I look?”

  Savage gnawed on his molars as he examined her. “Good, Renna,” he said.

  “Good?” How insulting.

  God took a thousand days to create humankind. And out of that thousand, he spent nine hundred and ninety-nine days on creating the first Sorel.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “I can only advise the High Commander.”

  “Is this about the commissioner?” she asked. “If Victor has any concerns, he can go to Talon.”

  “He said it was a matter concerning a Gaverian. Did that not strike you as odd?”

  “Well, a lot of matters concern Gaverians. I don’t have time to address them all. Besides, what good could come out of a place like Blackwood?”

  The convoy began its long drive through the fence and onto the narrow road. Nothing but barren landscape stretched on both sides. It would remain that way until they reached the lively side of Henrikia, beyond the Hessen River.

  In the distance, statues of the Six stood over the grey buildings—like giants frozen in a field of grass. The colossal figures of the Six stood rooted in its waters, their ivory gleaming in the sunlight. A handful of vehicles crawled across the bridge—tourists come to marvel and take pictures.

  “Hit the sirens,” Schemel ordered the driver.

  Civilian cars pulled to the shoulder at once.

  “Son Solvia!” The cry spread. People stopped on the bridge, phones raised to capture her passage.

  Her driver leaned on the horn. The cars they passed joined in, blaring their horns in tribute. Chants rose louder, wave upon wave: “Son Solvia! Son Solvia!”

  The sound vibrated through her spine. Yes, yes, oh, worship me. Every bone in her hands trembled with the knowledge that these were her people—and they would love her forever.

  Crossing into Hessen, the town nearest the river, they drove beneath another towering monument: the statue of Great Varmel Sorel, her great-grandfather. Dust dulled his marble face, but his eyes still pointed to the sun. This was the man who had fought the demonic Islandians alone, casting cosmic rays from the heavens to shatter Rheina’s enemies.

  They pressed on beneath his shadow.

  At the sound of the convoy, the common folk poured into the streets. They climbed onto the roofs of their square houses and beat buckets with sticks, chanting. In the market, women shoved their baskets aside and rushed to the roadside, children clutched between their legs. Boys kicked off their sandals and smacked them together, clouds of dust bursting beneath each slap.

  “Son Solvia! Son Solvia! Son Solvia!”

  The people of Hessen swarmed the road. Many pressed their dirty faces against her window, grinning with uncontainable joy. Green Officers patrolling the streets shoved them back, but still they surged forward.

  Ahead, horns blared. The traffic jam locked the convoy in place until the officers carved out space at a roundabout for them to pass.

  As they drew closer to Henrik City, the frenzy doubled. She had heard whispers that the people were weary of the war, that she was draining too many resources for the Midder-Lands. But from the roar of the crowd, it did not seem so. The love was real.

  The streets of Norsidy were narrower than Hessen’s. Women leaned from balconies, tossing down flowers from the gardens above their shops. Schemel scratched at the roof of her car until a slit opened. She reached into the compartment beside the driver and pulled out her brown bag. A fat stack of bills slid into her hands. Rising through the open slit, she peered out over the sea of faces.

  The ground itself seemed to rumble with their noise. In the frenzy, one man flung himself over his balcony, crashing into a tent below and toppling a row of clay pots.

  She flung the paper notes into the air. The masses tore into one another like starving wolves, clawing for scraps, stomping bodies beneath them. She scattered another handful. The parade carved its way through Khebarthi and Ghalandron, each district erupting in its own delight. After a time, the spectacle tired her, and she told the driver to kill the horn. From then on, they rolled in silence.

  After a long ride, they reached the border gates of Henrik City. Green Officers patrolled in armoured vehicles, rifles slung at their sides. Every car was stopped and checked for identification. But when they saw Schemel’s convoy, they saluted at once and waved it through.

  Another Ring stood ahead, this one leading into the very heart of the city. The convoy moved through its portal.

  Neat grey roads stretched in every direction, lined with green boulevards and crisp signposts. Skyscrapers clawed higher and higher at the sky. At a sidewalk café, a couple in business suits shared coffee, ignoring the thunder of military vehicles rolling past.

  The statue of Thorel Sorel rose before the Assembly Hall’s central entrance. Schemel remembered its first unveiling—and how she had demanded it be torn down and rebuilt. Her grandfather deserved a presence more commanding than the first attempt. The man who had single-handedly destroyed Arden with nothing but ascension in his veins would forever be Henrikia’s legend. In her father’s absence, it had been Thorel who taught her all she knew of magic.

  The Assembly Hall was a dome, covered in black and grey hexagonal blocks that glimmered in the sunlight. The vehicles stopped in front of the building, where the cars of other dignitaries were parked. Her driver opened the door. Together with Savage, they stepped out and made their way into the hall.

  Her boots made music, crunching over gravel. Two of her men walked on ahead and swung open the front door. Councilmen were screaming in each other’s faces as always, waving their fingers and refusing to listen to what their counterparts had to say. It all died down once she entered.

  The green garbs the councilmen wore hung loosely on their feeble bones. Most were old and should have no business discussing matters of national importance. Her sister forced her to apologise to the Assembly once, for saying that in public. Deep in her heart, she still believed it.

  Some sneered at her, others bowed stiffly as she passed. She ignored them all, striding past the throne that stood empty at the head of the hall—a throne for a king who no longer existed. Beyond it, she entered the guest chamber and took her seat at a table fitted with a microphone.

  The long journey pressed down on her shoulders. She was parched, her bladder tight, her uniform clinging to her skin with sweat. None of it mattered. She loosened the top button of her shirt, letting the air-conditioning draw out the heat. With her head lowered, she exhaled between her breasts, cooling herself in the briefest reprieve.

  A hundred councilmen watched in silence, too cautious—or too timid—to speak. Above them, on the high balcony, sat the six ministers of Henrikia. The Primus.

  “Yes?” Schemel asked, her voice slicing through the hall. “Why the sudden silence?”

  Not one councilman dared answer. A few, swollen with age and privilege, shifted uneasily but held their tongues.

  “Am I not one of you?” she pressed. “Do we keep secrets from ourselves as the Sexites keep theirs from us?”

  From the high balcony, Lord Demettle Deus—the Chancellor of Henrikia and the most powerful man on the continent—watched her with unreadable calm. His silver eyes flickered once, and then he smiled.

  At last, one councilman groaned to his feet. Leaning into his microphone, he said, “There is no easy way to put this. We risked much for the Midder-Lands, and it has not paid off. I stand with my colleagues in saying it is time the High Commander reconsider her decision to keep the war alive.”

  “He does not speak for all of us!” an angry voice barked from the back. “We trust the High Commander! We will take what is ours!”

  “The majority has spoken!” the first man snapped. “Our differences don’t matter once the vote is cast!”

  “This is Henrikia!” another roared. “We have never lost a war in our history!”

  “What is the point of more land when our farms can’t even feed us?” came a quieter rebuttal. “The earthens revolt, our coffers run dry—it is time to turn inward.”

  The chamber threatened to boil over until Schemel cut through it:

  “You’ve taken a vote. The majority’s voice represents the Assembly’s voice.” Her tone was calm, but the room bent to it. “So be it. I will consider your decision to end the war.”

  She let the silence stretch, her gaze sweeping the chamber.

  “But before I do, answer me one question: what must change for you to support my campaign?”

  The looks on their faces reminded her of the commissioner she’d met earlier today. She knew many of them gossiped about her to friends and family, portraying the immature Sorel who was putting her boot to the nation’s throat. Few had expected her to be calm and willing to listen. Some viewed it as a trap—and it was. Refusing to suggest how she could improve and win the war meant the Assembly was only good for complaining, not for problem-solving. And if they did offer suggestions, Schemel knew she would be expected to continue her campaign, only with altered tactics.

  “I am asking because your complaints surprise me,” she said. “The Assembly represents the people. The people I met in the streets were very supportive of my campaign.”

  “The common people lack vision.” The voice came from the upper floor. Lord Deus leaned on his stick and sauntered to the edge of the balcony. He was a stout man in his late eighties, grey-haired and clad in a white robe. “As long as they eat bread today and fill their bellies, they are happy. They do not realize we have stolen their bread for tomorrow and sold it to fight a war we cannot win.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “I would not be so pessimistic,” said Schemel. “The Midder-Lands is still ours for the taking.”

  “Maybe, but when?”

  “I appreciate your contribution, Chancellor, but I asked the councilmen a question, and I expect the councilmen to answer.”

  “We want you out of office,” said an old man in the third row to her left. “We want a new High Commander, one who knows what he is doing.”

  The councilmen hid their faces. The man on his feet looked around, bewildered by the absence of supportive cries. His red face turned pink, then pale, then stark white. Schemel leaned back in her chair, pressing a finger to her lips. For a long moment, the only sound in the Hall was the hum of the air conditioning. Feeling the pressure on his head, the old man murmured, “I’m sorry,” into his microphone and sank back into his seat.

  When no one offered a better suggestion, Mariel stood. As a member of the Primus, Mistress Mariel Sorel carried the title of Lady Balancer—or Balance Bringer. She was responsible for the well-being of the earthens.

  “I encourage the councilmen to remember that no one is bigger than this nation. Think of the factories that have ceased operation, the unemployment in each of your regions. How long before your people can no longer afford healthcare while the High Commander pours millions into I.A.A., which, mind you, has yielded no results?”

  “It is only a matter of time,” said Schemel. “Erisa Zeal is proof that non-ascenders can become ascenders. One ascender is worth more than a hundred soldiers to me, and anyone who thinks otherwise is wrong.”

  “Your people need you now. Enemies surround us, watching and waiting as we continue making fools of ourselves.”

  “If you mean the incident at the UCL, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. Our relationship with Soden is as strong as ever. They are not responsible for the deaths in Blackwood Forest. Sexton was. Another reason to keep fighting.”

  “Tell me you do not believe that.”

  “I do,” said Schemel. “There is nothing I enjoy more than shedding Sexite blood. Henrikia will reach the promised land, and I would lead her there. Never would I bring shame to my grandfather or his father’s name. Never.”

  “You are a buffoon,” Mariel sniped, then she yelled at the councilmen. “Say something, you cowards!”

  Schemel remained composed. Never in her life had she taken offense at her younger sister’s words. Mariel had always been like this. Their grandfather had told Schemel to ignore her: the sun is above all, even insults.

  Schemel leaned into the microphone. “Well?”

  Having had enough, one councilman stood to speak. He wore circular glasses and was unusually young for a councilman. A haggard look clung to his face, which she supposed made up for his youth.

  “The High Commander has made it clear she has no intention of ending the war. Convincing her otherwise is futile, so we must take the opportunity she has given us to guide her. Renna Sorel, a month ago, your Gaverian, Firios Deus, began a campaign to capture Tardis.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she replied, already having a fair idea of what the young man intended to say.

  “Ren Deus led a troop numbering nearly two hundred. Tardis was ours for twenty-one days, and on the day after, we all remembered what happened.”

  “The Haunting,” said Schemel. Mist had swallowed the entire city, and when it cleared, Firios found every soldier in his company dead. It wasn’t until much later that they discovered it had been the work of a Sexite Gaverian: Stojan Vorian, son of Stojan Vorian the Wicked.

  “Our scouts discovered astaphite ore on the northern coast. We set up mines, and you promised the miners they would be safe because Alakam was there to protect them.”

  “He was a proper Gaverian,” Schemel said, “and it was unfortunate that the enemy smashed his head against the mountains. If I had known Sexton was hiding another Ripper in those mountains, I would’ve warned him about her.”

  “Most recently, High Commander, as you mentioned earlier, Sexton attacked an earthen village, leaving our soldiers dead in Blackwood Forest. I believe that, too, was the work of an ascender.”

  “Yes…”

  “We can conclude that ascenders are in abundance in Sexton; therefore, the odds of winning the war are stacked against us. The High Commander herself made this assessment. Otherwise, we would not be scrambling to create ascenders through unconventional means.”

  “I like you, Councilman. What is your name?”

  “I am Ron Charming, Renna. Councilman for Silverman.”

  “Ren Ron Charming,” said Schemel. “Charming indeed. Please carry on.”

  “Thank you, Renna,” said Charming. He cleared his throat and continued. “The Assembly has the power to call the troops home but has chosen not to, for the sake of maintaining a good relationship with the High Commander. You may think you are in a position to negotiate an extension for your campaign, but you have no power over the armies you command. We do. And yes, we have decided to end the war. Out of respect for your name, and to recognize your devotion to the cause, I would like my fellow councilmen to vote once more—this time for the fate of the High Commander and the Midder-Lands under a special condition. That is: we give Renna Schemel Sorel seven hours from now to find a capable ascender willing to fight for the Midder-Lands. Failure to do so will mean the war must come to an end.”

  Charming was not so charming anymore. The councilmen cast their votes on whether to grant the High Commander seven more hours to present another ascender or to end the war immediately. The majority voted in favour of the latter. Just like that, she had seven hours to present another ascender to the Assembly—seven hours to keep the war alive.

  The car door to her SUV slammed, and Schemel pressed her head against the seat. Outside, Savage spoke with her men about one thing or another. Far ahead, behind the fence, journalists had gathered, cameras raised and ready. She knew the kind of questions they would ask. What she did not know were the answers she would give them.

  “Renna,” Savage snapped. Schemel let go of the grip she had on her hair. Sighing, he climbed into the car and shut the door.

  She did not speak—not for a long time. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. Did he agree with the Assembly? Did he think she wasn’t fit to lead? Many of her Seconders secretly wanted Jacqolin as High Commander, but Jacqolin was far away, and they were left with her.

  “You heard the Assembly,” she said. What had happened to her voice? “I need another ascender in seven hours. What are my options?”

  “The Gallant family, the Deus family, and Regilon,” said Savage. “Ren Gallant has given us both his sons, and we let Alakam die. There’s a slim chance he will allow his daughters to be recruited. Regilon is unresponsive—I’m sure that hasn’t changed. Sirios keeps his children on a tight leash. He isn’t interested in having his son or daughter become a Gaverian.”

  “Who else?”

  “Your daughter?” He added, “Before you dismiss her, remember—you have seven hours.”

  They were doomed. Her daughter did not know how to craft. Years upon years of tutelage, mediation, prayers, and baptism, alongside rituals both holy and demonic, had done nothing to help Ashamel awaken her powers. It didn’t help that the girl showed no eagerness to improve. At least whenever Thorel called Schemel a moron, she worked to be smarter and better for him. Not Ashamel. That would have to change in seven hours. Schemel would try her best to teach her something. After her daughter cast the smallest of spells, Schemel would slap a uniform on her and present her to the Assembly.

  Her driver branched off the main road as they made their way toward a Ring. Mannequins stood behind shop windows. Her eyes fell on a black dress with a slit down the leg. It had been so long since she’d been to a proper party or had a good time with friends. What friends? Your sister’s friends. She wasn’t talking about Mariel, either. Mariel had no friends. Schemel used to tag along with Terell, their youngest sibling, to parties she hadn’t been invited to—and she would forget about her grandfather, her duty, and magic for once. Terell moved away to Yuna and left Schemel alone in this mess.

  After stopping behind the Ring, the driver extended one hand to signal the transport officers. The officers pushed keys on their dashboards, and the Ring gave a soft hum.

  A portal opened to a bright, warm place, where grasses were luscious and birds twittered. Rolling hills stretched into the distance, dotted with estates. Peace. This was the Home of Heroes, a small island off the western coast reserved for the ascender families of Henrikia. She had not been home in a while, and the scent drifting from the portal already stirred so many memories. The last time she had seen her daughter face-to-face had been about a year ago—yet here she was, returning so early.

  The car climbed a small ramp and passed through the Ring, dropping onto a narrow brick road. A glassy river ran alongside the street, crossed by small stone bridges. A lawn stretched along the riverside, green and dotted with yellow flowers. On the other side, a long black fence was covered in vines. Up on the hill, she spotted a few houses, all empty except for the ones housing actual ascenders.

  They made a soft turn onto another street, circling a crystal fountain before arriving at one of the Sorel estates. The driver pulled over at the gate and pressed the doorbell. Over a microphone, he alerted the dossi that the Renna of the house had returned.

  With the sun hidden behind the estate, she could take in the entire building without shielding her eyes. Grandfather Thorel had carved their home into the mountain, and it soared as high as it could. The dossi rushed onto the balconies, a few peeking from behind drapes. The doors of the main entrance flung open. The dossi hurried out with remarkable speed. They were dressed in black-and-white gowns with hair caps, carrying their skirts to increase their pace. Before Schemel even stepped from the car, they had arranged themselves in rows, each with a hand on their belly. She had never taken the time to learn the proper names or ranks of her servants—all earthens looked the same to her.

  “Renna, we were not expecting you,” said one dossi, stepping closer than the others. She was the Renna Dossi of the house, determined by her age and the way her hair was wrapped in a tight ring. “Welcome home.”

  Schemel flashed a smile and glanced around the compound. Her lawns were wider than she remembered. The house was freshly painted, and the door gleamed as if waxed. Whoever kept this place intact deserved praise. She and Savage exchanged looks, and then she asked, “Is Ashamel home?”

  The dossi froze, squeezing their faces as though they’d never heard the name. Then one gasped in realization, and the rest followed. “Yes, Renna,” the Renna dossi said. “Ashamel is in her bedroom. Shall I fetch her for you?”

  “Has she not heard that I am home?” Schemel muttered more to herself than to the dossi. She led the way inside, the swarm of servants following quickly.

  “We have a hot bath ready for you. Perhaps you would like to freshen up while we send for Ashey.”

  “Ashey?” Schemel stopped and frowned. The dossi who had spoken bit her tongue. “Who is ‘Ashey’?”

  “I’m sorry, Renna,” the dossi said. “The young Renna likes us to call her by her pet name.”

  “Pet name?” Schemel asked. “Her name is Ashamel. If she wants to shorten it, it is A’shay, not Ashey.” English speakers ruined everything. The dossi continued to flood her with requests, ignoring the one she wanted most—to know where her daughter was.

  Schemel sniffed the air inside the house, tracing the odd scent of sweat coming from upstairs. Straining her ears, she heard two heartbeats racing close together. She climbed the stairs, Savage following, while the servants remained below. In three quick steps, she crossed the hallway, venturing deeper into the building. She reached a double door and flung it open.

  Ashamel was on her knees, yanking the zipper on a boy’s trousers up. The boy stood over her, shirt raised, streams of sweat running down his face. “Come on, come on, come on,” he chanted, still tugging the zipper, unaware that Ashamel’s mother had stepped into the room.

  “Ashey,” whispered the boy, and Ashey froze, ears pricked, misty green eyes meeting her mother’s. It unsettled Schemel how much the girl resembled her—hair, nose, eyes, stature. Everything. Stolen. Except for common sense. She wore her school shirt, white with golden buttons, her skirt lying on the bed. The boy bent to pick up his textbook from the floor, gathering his pens and shoving everything into his school bag.

  “Shoes, shoes, shoes,” he mumbled. “Where are my shoes?” He droned on until he found them and stuffed the pair into his bag as well. He then picked up his schoolbag and moved toward the exit. A lump in his throat sank to his belly. Ashey stood by the bed, front teeth biting her lower lip, her face flushed.

  Schemel gave the boy a small smile, giving him a moment to calm down. He had seen her uniform—he knew who she was.

  “Do you want to leave?” Schemel asked.

  “Yes, please,” said the boy. “Um, sorry. Yes, Renna. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

  “Calm down.”

  “Yes, Renna.”

  Schemel turned to Ashey. “What’s his name?”

  “Pence,” said Ashey.

  “Pence what?”

  “Pence Goodman,” she said. “He’s in my class. I—I asked him to help me with my homework. But then it was getting hot, and he said he didn’t mind if I took off my—”

  “Stop talking,” Schemel said. Ashey closed her mouth. “Goodman.”

  “Renna.”

  “Are you ready to be my son-in-law?”

  Goodman froze, dumbfounded. His knees gave out first, and he pressed his hands to the ground. Tears plopped onto the deck as he sobbed. If he begged to go home, she didn’t hear him.

  “Mommy?” Ashey said.

  “Savage, call his parents. I want to talk to them.” She turned to Ashey. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

  “You just got home,” Ashey mumbled. “Why don’t you take some time to relax instead of bossing everyone around like you own the place?”

  “I own this place,” Schemel snapped. “Get dressed. Now.”

  Ashey got dressed and headed out the door. She stopped at the exit and squirmed. “I forgot my phone.” Schemel flicked her forehead, and Ashey walked on.

  The dossi had gathered downstairs in the main hall, watching the two Sorels. Schemel made a sharp left at a juncture and continued until she reached a set of stone stairs. Orange rays of sunset kissed her eyes as she stepped outside onto a circular platform, high above every balcony in the house. Her grandfather had constructed the disc, bringing Schemel here to practice the arts each morning under the rising sun. It had no parapet or balustrade; a fall from the edge would mean death.

  “Mommy, what are we doing here?” Ashey asked. Schemel yanked her daughter to her side. They weren’t near the edge, but Ashey was ready to curl into a ball and roll back indoors.

  “I’m assuming you have no prior knowledge of magic, and I’m going to teach you everything you need to know in six hours. Starting now.”

  “Okay?”

  “Open your palm and craft light. It doesn’t have to be bright. You don’t even have to hold it for long.” Schemel demonstrated. Rivulets of ascension streamed up her arm, tingling her skin. The essence of magic welled up beneath her palm, then burst forth as illuminating strands of golden light. “This is the easiest spell I can teach you.”

  “Um, okay,” murmured Ashey, opening her palm for a moment. “I can’t do it.”

  “You didn’t even try,” Schemel said. “Do you feel ascension in your blood at all?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Alright, listen. Do you know what we are?”

  “Ascenders.”

  “Yes. And you know what we do.”

  “We have superpowers.”

  “I’m here to teach you how to use those powers.”

  “Sure… why didn’t you say that from the start?”

  Schemel put a finger on Ashey’s lip. “Open your palm and imagine a butterfly. If you must, close your eyes—but never lose sight of it. Let it flap its wings, let it flutter over the fields and the flowers—OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

  “I’m trying, okay? It’s just that I—”

  “WHAT!”

  “We’ve tried so many times already. I’m not cut out for magic.”

  “I don’t understand.” Schemel clasped her forehead. “I was barely half your age when Thorel said there was nothing new to teach me.”

  Ashey stammered, knowing she’d triggered a nerve. She approached her mother, trying to take Schemel’s hand. “Come with me to school tomorrow. I’m thinking of joining the drama club, but the instructor says I’d have to start as an extra. I don’t want to be an extra, so maybe you could go with me and tell him I can’t be.”

  “You’re terrible at acting,” said Schemel. “I saw you perform in kindergarten. You were the worst performer on stage. Your teacher knows what he’s doing.”

  Ashey giggled, expecting her mother to reveal it was a joke. Schemel did nothing of the sort, and the light in Ashey’s eyes dimmed.

  “Renna,” a dossi called from across the disc. The strong wind carried away the servant’s voice, making it impossible to hear the rest of the message.

  Heading back indoors, Schemel said, “Take a bath and put on something decent. We have guests.”

  “Wait—don’t tell me you called Pence’s parents here.”

  The Goodmans had not yet arrived. Instead, her hall was already packed with commissioners. Heated murmurs grew louder, most of them glued to their phones, watching something. Her discussion with Victor came to mind as Schemel descended the stairs.

  Ashey whispered behind Schemel, asking what was going on—a question Schemel had no answer for. Victor approached the foot of the stairs, phone in hand, and handed it over. His eyes said, Watch, growing harder by the minute.

  There was a lot of noise and a crowd of dirty earthens in some village. Nothing seemed remarkable in the video.

  “Watch to the end, Renna,” Victor said.

  A bright light burned through her eyes.

  “What was that?” she asked. The villagers cursed as the lights dimmed, revealing a boy sitting on the stairs leading to a chapel entrance. Soldiers pressed their guns to his head, yet he seemed unbothered. Schemel’s lips parted as she brought the screen closer.

  “This is impossible,” she whispered. The earthen’s eyes glowed with ascension—a clear sign from God that she needed to keep fighting for the Midder-Lands. And what a way to prove His power: mocking the Assembly while handing Schemel the one thing she had no hope of finding.

  At half past seven, Schemel and her new associates gathered in her private study. Commissioners and Seconders surrounded her desk, hands clasped behind their backs, waiting for orders. She wasn’t ready to give any—not until she clarified a few things first.

  “Who knows about this?” she asked the men in green.

  Commissioner Victor spoke for the rest. “As far as we know, only the Green and Red Corps are aware.”

  “Good,” she said. “And Leonard? Has anyone told the doctor?” Her seemingly innocent question stirred the men, as if they’d been debating it for some time.

  “We have not,” Victor said, holding his breath, unsure if that was the correct answer.

  Schemel reached for the telephone, fumbling with the digits. Cursing, she rubbed her sweaty palms on her trousers.

  “Renna,” said Victor, offering to place the call. Schemel waved him away, standing abruptly, knees knocking into her desk, eyes fixed on nothing, the men waiting for her to act.

  “Get to Camp Regis and wait for further instructions,” she said to Victor. “I’ll ask someone to meet you there.”

  “You’re not coming with us?”

  “No,” said Schemel, already out the door.

  Hundreds of army vehicles skidded along the roadside, carrying the Green Officers and their commissioners. By tomorrow, everyone would have heard the news.

  One of Schemel’s personal drivers got her car ready. “Ashamel,” Schemel called as loudly as she could. “Where is she? Someone bring her here.”

  It took an unbearably long time for Ashamel to arrive.

  “Mom, don’t call me that,” Ashamel mumbled. “Stick with ‘Ashey,’ okay? ‘Ashamel’ is embarrassing.”

  “What’s so embarrassing about your name?” Schemel asked. “You have no identity. Get used to the life an ascender must live. The sooner you understand you’re worth something, the easier crafting will become.” She led the way down the stairs.

  “Where are we going?” Ashamel asked, dragging her feet.

  “Learn to take orders,” Schemel said. “Bicker about every little thing, and one day you’ll end up with a bullet through your head.”

  “I’m never going to fight in the war, Mommy.”

  “I’ll be the one holding the gun. And it won’t be on the battlefield.”

  The driver opened the backseat door for them. Peering out the window, Ashamel asked, “Aren’t we supposed to meet the Goodmans?”

  “They’ll wait for us,” Schemel said. “Whenever you meet someone inferior to you, it is your right to make them wait. Being early shows desperation, and a Sorel is never desperate.” Unless there’s a seven-hour deadline tightening around your neck.

  “Renna, where are we headed?” the driver asked.

  “Just drive. I’ll give directions along the way.”

  She didn’t want to mention the person she was visiting—the driver might panic, and he’d have every right to. No one casually visited Regilon Regal.

  There were capable fighters, and then there was him. Talented ascenders, and then the man the Sorels envied. He had isolated himself for nearly thirty years. When the Assembly asked Regilon to join the Midder-Land war, he refused, and the Assembly never bothered him again.

  Even from this distance, so far from Regilon’s home, Schemel tasted the essence of his ascension on her tongue. It burrowed into her nostrils like steam. The driver moved at a steady pace, occasionally glancing over his shoulder for instructions.

  Ashamel was on her phone, lips folded, face lit by the screen. When these devices first appeared, she had been part of a vocal minority against their use. Mobile phones were foreign objects slowly becoming integral to Henrikian society—concerning, especially since they were manufactured by Yuna, an empire plotting for world dominance.

  Her current situation required that she put her prejudices aside. She reached for Ashamel’s phone, and upon contact, the device locked itself. Schemel intended to ask which magical principles caused it to lock when a stranger touched it—but Ashamel wouldn’t know. The girl watched her mother, waiting to have the phone returned. Schemel turned the device over as if she were seeing one for the first time.

  “Who bought this for you?”

  “Grandma did,” said Ashamel. “Last year, on my birthday.”

  “Since when did we start celebrating birthdays?” Schemel asked. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck?”

  “Oh my God, how superstitious are you? Birthdays are totally fine. Lots of my friends celebrate theirs.”

  “Your choice,” Schemel said. “I need to call someone, though I don’t have their number.”

  Ashamel puffed her cheeks and slowly shrugged. “Too bad, I guess,” she said. “You could ask when you meet them.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “You could call a friend and ask them instead.”

  “Do you know any of my friends?”

  Ashamel paused. “I don’t.”

  “You are certain to face many situations where your resources are limited—all except for the resource of ascension, which is almost always abundant. Apply your knowledge of ascension to your problem-solving skills and call Erisa for me. Hurry.”

  “Mom, I don’t know how. You just said you didn’t have her number.”

  “What type of ascension is useful for contact between two distinct points in space?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ripper-ascension. Now that you do know, what is the first thing you should do? We are not rippers, so how do we access ripper magic?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We. Draw. Hexes.” Schemel flicked her finger, smacking Ashamel on the head again and again. Ashamel shielded her head, squeezing her face in. She wouldn’t dare throw a tantrum with nowhere to run. She had always been a brat when she was young, constantly embarrassing Schemel.

  “I’m waiting for that hex, A’shay.”

  “How am I supposed to draw anything?” Ashamel asked, her green eyes welling with tears. “I don’t have a pen.”

  “An intelligent person improvises,” Schemel said. “In a life-or-death situation, would you tell the enemy not to attack because you ran out of ammunition?” She smacked the top of Ashamel’s head again, then pulled her away from the car window and exhaled water vapour on the glass. “Now draw the triangle on that.”

  Ashamel stared at the glass, then back at Schemel. She was about to speak, but held her tongue when Schemel glowered.

  “Even a child knows this,” Schemel said, using a finger to draw the ripper symbol: a triangle with three dots at its centre. She pressed the back of Ashamel’s phone to the symbol while keeping Erisa in her mind’s eye. Ashamel unlocked her phone to find that the spell had added Erisa to the contacts.

  “Idiot,” Schemel muttered, taking the phone from Ashamel.

  “Renna Sorel,” Erisa said over the line.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “At base, Renna. Green boys showed up. They claim you’re responsible for their arrival.”

  “Yes, talk to Commissioner Victor,” Schemel said. “After he explains everything, get ready to travel. You’re off to the UCL.”

  “Yes, Renna. Right away, Renna.”

  “I’ll contact you again.”

  “Renna,” called the driver. “I do not mean to be rude, but do you know where we are going? We’re almost at the shoreline, and I wasn’t sure whether I should head back.”

  “No, keep driving. We’re almost there.”

  “May I at least know where I am taking you?”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to know,” Ashamel mumbled.

  “Don’t worry,” Schemel replied. “Please don’t feel responsible for my safety.”

  The driver tensed further but did not ask another question. Blue streetlights flickered along the lonely road. With the last neighbourhood far behind them, the only thing outside the windows was the vast darkness of the fields. The road bent toward the grey sea. Not long after, a jagged mountain appeared, its sides etched with chunks of glowing red astaphite. The driver slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road, removing his hands from the steering wheel.

  “It’s okay,” Schemel said. “You’ve come far enough.” She opened the door and stepped out. “I won’t take long, and if I do, you’re free to take Ashamel back home.”

  “Yes, Renna,” said the driver without protest. Ashamel, still upset with Schemel, pretended to be absorbed in her phone.

  The road to Regilon’s estate cut through a small forest that clung to the mountain. For an ascender, getting lost was impossible when another was nearby. Their magic tugged at one another, pushing through skin, interacting, causing explosions and rifts in matter and space. Ascension was wild, untamed freedom. Non-ascenders could not contain it for long; it always tore at their organs, seeking escape. Remembering the video she had seen, Schemel wondered if it was real.

  She reached the forest. Red-glowing vines slashed through stems, branches, and even the roots, burrowing into the soil. In the silence, she could hear the woods crackling, as though hellfire burned within the trunks. Years of exposure to astaphite had mutated the trees; those unable to adapt had withered and rotted. Schemel ran a finger along a trunk, feeling its vibration. Guided step by step, she approached the estate, her gaze stretching higher to take in its apex.

  The gates to Regilon’s home were old, and the compound showed no signs of life. Every window was barred, and the walls had faded under the relentless sea winds. She flicked her fingers, casting two golden spheres to light her way through the empty halls. The spheres buzzed violently, rotating around one another at varying speeds. She climbed a flight of stairs, past the portrait of a hollow ghost and his son, their eyes seeming to follow her. The closer she got to her destination, the slower she moved, wary of how her old friend might react. But she had come this far. She cut into what she believed to be his room and approached the balcony silently.

  Regilon had his back to her, kneeling on a mat before a young tree with a grey stem, its leaves glowing a sombre red. She marvelled at how well he had maintained himself. Solvarian hair—hair women killed for—fell free from his head, long, black, and heavy. Two braids framed his face, and ruby earrings glinted at his ears.

  His room was immaculate. Not a speck of dust rested on any furniture, in contrast to the rest of the house, which had been turned into a tomb. Schemel stepped closer to peer over his shoulder. Against the plant’s pot rested a small portrait of his wife.

  Outside, waves smashed against the rocks, the wind whistled, and the bedroom door slammed shut. Regilon remained as still as he had since her arrival.

  “A few days ago, we found three of our soldiers dead in Blackwood Forest, all covered in Black Vein. Frennie’s curse kills quickly, but not in hours. An ascender killed those men.”

  “Genevie,” Regilon said softly.

  “We will never know for certain until we investigate,” Schemel replied. “The war has kept me preoccupied, and I’m a bit short-staffed. That’s what brought me here.”

  “You would never have come here if Genevie were the only reason.”

  “There is a boy in Blackwood I’m after. He isn’t just an earthen—he’s an ascender.” Regilon’s ear twitched. She could only imagine how much his expression had shifted at the news. “Find out what you can about Genevie. I only want the boy.”

  The old Gaverian drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “All on the assumption that I would give up retirement.”

  “I don’t think you ever retired,” she said. “I simply never brought you something worth your interest.”

  “You never tried.”

  “Would I have succeeded on any other day?”

  He pondered. “No.”