Rauba poked Adimia's shoulder with force equivalent to a whisper, failing to disturb the boy's snore. She stood by his bed, wringing her hands, her large crimson eyes darting to the clock on the wall. 8:30.

  She wanted to shake him. She wanted to scream into his ears that they were going to be late for an incredibly important day. But the words were stuck in her throat, blocked by the wall of her shyness. She poked him one last time, failed to elicit a response, and quietly retreated from the room, leaving him to his fate.

  Downstairs, the cottage was a hurricane of panic.

  "Where's my sock!?" Reben was on his hands and knees, looking under the table.

  "Maybe you left it in the garden?" Bacha suggested, running past him with a piece of toast in her mouth, her pig-tails half done.

  Paley stood in the center of the chaos, seemingly calm, but his heart was hammering. He sat on a stool while Bacha, between bites of toast, slapped the cold white paste onto his hair and dripped the stinging liquid into his eyes and rubbed the Laze powder into his cheeks to lighten his expression. He blinked; when he opened his eyes the crimson was gone. He was the snow-haired boy again.

  "Everyone out! Now!" Teerom commanded with a slight chuckle, herding the younger ones toward the door.

  Madella stood on the porch, her hands clasped to her chest. She looked at them: her ragged, chaotic, beautiful children, now scrubbed clean (mostly) and dressed in the stiff grey and navy tunics of Redhill. Tears welled in her eyes. She grabbed them one by one as they flew past, planting fierce kisses on foreheads and cheeks.

  "Be good! Listen to the teachers! Don't fight!" She shouted as they tumbled into the grass outside.

  "We're going to miss the assembly!" Jurie cried, holding her skirt to run.

  "No, we won't." Paley slammed his hands onto the dirt.

  The earth groaned. Soil and stone erupted from the ground, knitting together, compacting, and shaping itself into a crude, flatbed cart with hexagonal wheels that looked more like rolling boulders.

  "Get on!" Paley ordered.

  They piled in. Paley didn't get in; he grabbed the rear bar of the Orphan Carrier and channelled Strength Magic. His muscles coiled, tensing hard as iron, and he shoved. The cart shot forward with a jolt that nearly threw Adimia — who had stumbled out of the house with his boots untied and shirt unbuttoned — off the back.

  It was nowhere near a smooth ride. The wheels were imperfect, thudding against the ground with bone-rattling violence, but they were fast. Paley ran behind it, his legs working overtime, pushing them down the path like a reverse draft horse. Dust plumed in their wake.

  As they skidded to a halt before the city gates, the guards jumped, spears lowered. They stared at the crumbling earth cart, then at the white-haired boy whose hands were still glowing with the faint amber residue of Earth Magic. Jurie recognized the guards; she tried to hide her face and lowered her skirt below her feet.

  Paley froze. Stupid. He had been so focused on speed he hadn't thought about the optics. He let the magic dissipate, straightening his uniform.

  "They're running late for school," Teerom explained with a charming, breathless grin, hoping to distract them.

  The guards looked at the cart, then at Paley. "Earth Mage, huh? That much dirt at your age is impressive."

  Paley noticed Teerom's protective shift in front of Jurie and the guard's occasional glances toward her. He saw the smear of grease; the faint aura of darkness. What was he looking at? 'My sister?'. He controlled his rage. "I'm just enthusiastic about Magic," Paley muttered, keeping his head down to hide his glare that came through even the Laze Powder. With a sinking feeling, he also realized that he had just locked himself in. He was now an Earth Mage in their eyes. Using wind or water later would raise questions he'd have difficulty answering.

  "Go on, then," the guard waved them through. "Don't cause any trouble."

  They abandoned the cart outside the school walls - it crumbled back into dirt the moment Paley let go of the bind - and sprinted.

  Teerom watched them as they burst through the heavy oak doors of Redhill School just as the final notes of the school anthem were fading.

  The assembly was vast, smelled of hundreds of children, and was currently dead silent. Every head turned. Seven orphans stood in the doorway, chests heaving, faces flushed, sweat dropping from their noses. Adimia's shirt was buttoned wrong. Reben had one sock. Bacha had jam on her collar.

  The students nearest to them shuffled away, wrinkling their noses at the smell of exertion and the extra-city-ness that clung to them.

  Paley felt the urge to summon water, to wash the sweat from his skin and cool the burning in his cheeks, but he clenched his fists at his sides. 'Not here. Not now.'

  Yet, as he walked down the aisle to find a space, the reaction to him was different. The whispers weren't of disgust, but of curiosity. HIs white hair caught the light from the high windows, creating a halo effect. His magenta eyes, wide and not harboring the usual cold evil vibe, seemed to draw people in. He was sweaty, yes, but to some, he looked like a fallen star.

  Headmaster Horeb stood at the podium, his beard looking more like a bird's nest than ever. He peered over his spectacles at the latecomers but offered a small, forgiving nod.

  "To those of you who are continuing your study, may the moons bless you in your paths. For those you who are taking your first steps, welcome," Horeb's voice boomed, warm and authoritative, thanks to runestones. "To the beginning of your future."

  The day fractured into schedules and corridors.

  For Paley, the first real stop was Magic Theory.

  The classroom was tiered, the blackboard covered in diagrams of mana flow that Paley found childish and painfully simplistic. Mistress Elara stood at the front, a woman who looked like she existed entirely on black tea and nail-biting.

  "Magic," she droned, "is not about power. It is about understanding the resistance of the natural world."

  She instructed the class to attempt to summon a "manifestation of intent." For most of the Year 7s, this meant squinting and straining to produce a single spark or lift a pebble. The room was filled with the sounds of constipated grunting.

  Paley sat with his hands folded. He could feel the mana in the room. He could feel the fire in the sconces, the water in the inkwells, the stone of the floor. It took more effort not to react to it than use it. He watched a boy in the front row turn purple trying to make a feather move with his Air Magic.

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  'How did Mother know?' The thought struck him suddenly. 'How'd she know exactly how to test me? Apparently people can't even feel their affinity until they're taught.

  "Reben?" Mistress Elara called out.

  Reben stood up. He looked at the wooden block on his desk. He didn't look like he was trying to lift it or burn it. He was staring at it with intensity.

  "I... I think I understand it," Reben whispered.

  "Understand what, child?"

  "The wood. The grain. It flows... that way. Maybe that's why Teerom always focuses on it." Reben raised a hand. He didn't push mana at the block but rather alongside it, keeping his fingers pressed firmly against it.

  The air shimmered next to the block. Slowly, agonizingly, a second shape formed. It was ghostly at first, translucent, but then it hardened. An imperfect duplicate of the wooden block appeared on the desk.

  The class gasped. Mistress Elara dropped her chalk.

  "Clone Magic," she adjusted her glasses. "Rare. Very very rare. And dangerous." She marched over to Reben, who looked ready to faint from the strain on his mana. "Listen to me, boy. You must never, ever attempt to replicate currency. Royal coins have imperceptible magical cores the size of salt grains signed by the Lords. Counterfeiting can be punishable with up to 10 years imprisonment."

  Reben nodded hard. Paley looked at his brother with a new respect.

  Next was Arithmetic, which Paley and Reben destroyed like seasoned accountants, earning a grunt of begrudging approval from the terrifying Master Hogwen.

  Break time was a relief. The orphans huddled near a fountain in the courtyard, creating a protective circle against the staring eyes of the other students.

  "Argh, I hate History," Adimia groaned, putting his head in his hands. "I thought we'd learn about fighting and like heroes that took on armies on their own. But it was just... supply lines and stupid stuff. We spent an hour talking about how many wagons of grain you need to feed a battalion. I think I woke up twice."

  "Woke up?" Jurie raised an eyebrow - that meant Adimia spent longer sleeping than awake in that class.

  "Knights need to eat," Reben said, taking a bite of his apple.

  "And arrows!" Adimia continued, ignoring him. "The teacher said knights sometimes fight with bows because mages blow up armies out in the open. That's cowardly! Where's the honour in shooting someone from far away?"

  Paley listened, but his mind was on his next class. Lunar Studies.

  The classroom for Lunar Studies was unlike the others. It was circular, with a ceiling painted to match the night sky. Sister Miral, a pinch-faced woman in grey robes, spoke of the moons with the revering tone of a lover.

  "Lunisa marks our days," she said, pointing to the small, fast moon on the chart. "Lunanna guides our months. But Lunastra..." She gestured to the window.

  It was daytime, but low on the horizon, the massive, pale shape of Lunastra was visible, a ghost-like giant dominating the sky. Autumn had begun.

  "Lunastra marks the Season. It is the Mother Moon. Though it looks largest, it is actually the furthest away. Baddyu Omodiglia measured it himself," Sister Miral said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It watched over us from the darkness beyond the sky. And when the three moons align... our Saint is born."

  Paley raised his hand. "Why?"

  Sister Miral blinked. "Why what?"

  "Why do we worship them?" Paley asked. The question was genuine, but it sounded serrated in the quiet room. "Lunastra leaves each season. Why devote yourself to something that... leaves?"

  The class went silent. Sister Miral's lips thinned. "The moons do not abandon us, child. They cycle. Absence makes the return sacred. It is a test of faith."

  Paley frowned, unsatisfied with the answer.

  At lunch, he bought it up again.

  "It's weird, right?" Paley poked at his stew. "Loving something that only shows up now and then. Even the Saint dies."

  "Shh!" Jurie hissed, looking around. "Paley, you can't say that stuff. That's heresy. We just... we do the rituals because we have to."

  "Maybe you should join the Sun Church," Bacha giggled. "The sun's always in the sky."

  "The sun sets," Paley murmured, looking up at the bright orb in the sky. "Everything sets eventually."

  The afternoon brought the electives classes. Paley and Reben parted ways — Reben went to Agriculture, Paley to Creative Expression.

  He had chosen it thinking it would help him control his Earth Magic better, to learn to sculpt proper wheels or perhaps give fruition to an idea regarding flight. He was wrong.

  "Pair up!" Madame Fae clapped her hands. "Dance is the language of the soul!"

  Paley found himself paired with a girl who was a head shorter than him and seemed to have mistaken the class for a wrestling match. She was smiling too much. She gripped his hands too tightly, stepping into his personal space with a boldness that made Paley's skin crawl. He wasn't sure why, he just knew he hated being touched by strangers. He gritted his teeth, his body stiff, counting the seconds of the hour until it was over.

  The second half was painting. Paley sat at an easel, relieved to be alone. He dipped his brush in blue paint, intending to paint the sea.

  "I know your secret."

  The whisper was hot against his ear. Paley jerked, his brush slashing a blue line across the canvas.

  A girl had pulled her stool right up to his. She had messy bangs and eyes that were almond-shaped like Bacha's. Dillie Li. He remembered her from Magic Theory; she had stared at him then, too.

  Paley's heart stopped. 'Does she know?' About the slavers? About the blood?

  "I..." Paley stammered, his hand twitching into shape to cast a defensive spell. "I don't know what you mean."

  Dillie leaned in, narrowing her eyes. "Don't play dumb. I saw you."

  Paley couldn't breathe. "Saw me?"

  The blood. Did she see the way he carved open a man's throat, squashed a man and crushed his head, all without feeling a grain of remorse?

  "In the alley. By my mom's bakery." She pointed a paint-stained finger at him. "You went in. Then you vanished and he came out. You're working with them, aren't you?"

  "He? Them?"

  "The thieves! You're the lookout!" She gasped, a look of triumphant deduction on her face. "You're the Thief's Partner even! You've been stealing our donuts!"

  Paley stared at her. The tension in his chest snapped, replaced by a wave of hysterical relief. She thought he was a pickpocket.

  "I... no," Paley lied, trying not to laugh. "I'm not a thief."

  "Likely story," Dillie sniffed. "I'm watching you, Whitey."

  "Dillie! Back to your easel!" Madame Fae scolded.

  Dillie scowled and slid back, but she kept shooting Paley nasty, suspicious glares for the rest of the hour. Paley sighed. Four hours a week of this trouble.

  The final bell rang. Paley packed his bag, eager to find the safety of his family. He walked to the school gates, scanning the crowd for the familiar faces of his siblings, mainly looking out for Rauba since her hair was red and easy to spot in a crowd.

  He saw them near the outer wall. But the vibe was wrong.

  A boy was standing in front of them. He was dressed in silk that probably cost more than the orphans' cottage and he was flanked by two cronies, one marked by his thick glasses and the other by his blonde hair.

  His name was Libon Jeice. A noble.

  Libon was laughing. He was pointing at Dillie Li, who was standing near the orphans, waiting for her own parents. Dillie was looking at her shoes, her shoulders shaking.

  "Look at her eyes," Libon sneered, pulling the corners of his own eyes back with his fingers. "Can you even see out of those slits? Maybe that's why your people are so good at sneaking around. You're born for squinting."

  His cronies, Elhom and Tugas, guffawed despite the insult making no sense.

  Dillie didn't speak. She just shrank in on herself.

  "Leave her alone!"

  Bacha stepped in. The ten-year-old girl stepped forward, placing herself between the noble and the crying girl. "That's mean! You take that back!"

  Libon looked down at Bacha. He sneered, a cruel, ugly expression on an otherwise handsome face. "Oh look. Another one. Did you crawl out of the same mud-hut? You Ching-Chongs are everywhere these days. It's like an infestation."

  The courtyard went silent. Adimia, quick to anger wanted to step forward but Jurie held him back, trying also to make her way to Bacha so they could all leave the scene. They could not take their chances with a noble.

  "What did you say?" Bacha whispered, tears of anger welling in her eyes.

  "I said," Libon leaned down, "You're a worm in the dirt. And you shouldn't be in my school."

  Elhom nudged Libon. "Uh... Libon."

  "What?" Libon snapped turning to his friend.

  Elhom wasn't looking at Bacha anymore. He was looking behind Libon.

  "Behind you," Tugas whispered.

  Libon turned around.

  He didn't see a boy. He saw a pair of eyes. Not purple. The disguise held, but the intensity behind them burned through the illusion; it was pure blood. Before him was a cold, absolute, soul-crushing stillness that felt like the moment before a guillotone dropped.

  Paley stood inches from him. He didn't have his fists raised nor was he glowing with magic. He was just standing there, staring at Libon with a face that inspired one single thought within the noble boy's mind, a treasonous intent punishable by death, but his instinct confirmed that there was only one thing radiating off of Paley:

  I will kill you.