I crouch in the dark alley, fingers fiddling with a small brass button I nicked last week—pretty thing with a tiny flower etched on it. It catches what little light filters down between the buildings, winking at me like it’s trying to be cheerful. Fat chance of that working. Emma and Calum should’ve been back hours ago, and my insides feel all twisty and wrong, like someone’s taken my guts and tied them in those fancy knots sailors do down at the docks. The market’s long closed up now, darkness stretching across the city like a big smothering blanket, and still no sign of them. Something’s gone sideways, I can feel it.
“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Hamish whispers, his voice all wobbly like he’s about to start blubbing again. Poor sprout’s only been with us a day, he’s pretty good, but he’s still got those big cow eyes that haven’t learned to hide what he’s thinking. He’s huddled against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest, looking like a scared rabbit ready to bolt at the first loud noise. He’s got good reason though—after what happened to the others… well, even I’m proper scared, though I’d sooner kiss a guard than admit it.
“Don’t be daft,” I tell him, trying to make my voice sound all grown-up and sure, like Emma does when she’s explaining complicated stuff. “Emma’s clever as anything. Probably just found something worth checking proper, is all.” I slide the button back into its special pocket sewn inside my sleeve and scoot closer to him, careful not to touch—he’s jumpy about that, same as me. “One time she spent nearly half the night figuring out how a fancy lock worked at the silversmith’s. Bet they’re just being thorough.” The words taste false in my mouth, like those painted candies merchants sometimes sell that look sweet but are just colored wax.
Hamish looks at me with those too-big eyes of his, and I can see he knows I’m spinning tales. He might be young, but street kids learn quick what truth sounds like. “You don’t believe that,” he says quietly, picking at a scab on his knee. “If they’d found the others, they’d have brought them straight back. And if they couldn’t…” He doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. We both know what happens to kids who get caught by the wrong sort in this city. I want to tell him it’ll be fine, that Emma’s too smart, too grown up to get nabbed, that Calum’s too fast to get caught—but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I just nod and stare at the mouth of the alley, willing them to appear, feeling smaller than I’ve felt since Rhona found me and showed me how to be brave.
Night has crept fully over the city now, turning our alley into nothing but shadows on shadows, the kind of dark where even the rats get cautious. Hamish finally wore himself out with worry, his little chest rising and falling against the wall where he’s curled up tight as a fist. I’ve draped my shirt over him—not much of a blanket, but better than nothing. Two days, Calum had said. Two days before we should consider them dead. The words keep rattling around my head like a bad copper, no matter how I try to spend them. It’s only been hours, not days, I remind myself. Emma’s probably fine—she’s always fine. She survived whatever brought her here with that strange accent and those funny words she sometimes uses when she thinks I’m not listening. She survived the streets, and the guards, and even those Imperial bastards that tried to kill us. She’s survived everything.
The weak morning light filtering through the cracks above our alley barely registers as I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Last night’s fitful sleep had been full of nightmares—Emma’s face disappearing into darkness, Calum’s voice calling out for help that never came. I’d finally fallen into proper sleep sometime after what I guess was midnight, my body betraying my determination to keep watch. Now, the empty alley confirms what my racing thoughts already know—they haven’t come back. My fingers find the small brass button in my sleeve pocket, rubbing its surface in nervous circles as I glance at Hamish’s sleeping form. Two days, they’d said. But the thought of sitting here for another moment, let alone another day, makes my skin crawl like it’s covered in fire ants.
My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead—or at least Hamish, who blinks up at me with those too-big eyes of his. “They’re not back,” he says, his voice small and certain, not even bothering to make it a question. I nod, already gathering our meager belongings, my mind made up before I even realized I was deciding anything. Emma would be furious if she knew what I was planning, but Emma isn’t here, is she? That’s the whole bloody problem. “We’re going to find them,” I announce, trying to sound much more confident than I feel. “But first, we need breakfast.” Hamish doesn’t argue, just struggles to his feet and waits, watching me with that silent, waiting look that makes my chest hurt in a way I can’t quite name.
The market square buzzes with cautious activity, like a beehive slowly recovering after being kicked. There are fewer soldiers around than yesterday—most of the ones I can spot look dead on their feet, eyes glazed with exhaustion as they lean against walls or slouch through half-hearted patrols. Perfect. A distracted guard is practically the same as no guard at all. I slip between the market stalls with practiced ease, Hamish trailing behind me like a shadow, never more than a few steps away. No time to be elaborate about it. My fingers dance across displays, snagging a slightly bruised apple here, a half-loaf of bread there, a small wedge of cheese when the merchant turns to haggle with a customer. Each theft is quick, clean, and practically invisible—just another street rat’s survival, beneath notice in a city trying to rebuild itself after whatever happened at the tannery.
We retreat to a quiet corner to eat our spoils, and I watch Hamish devour his portion with the desperate intensity of someone who doesn’t quite trust that the food won’t disappear. “So what’s the plan?” he asks between bites, crumbs catching in the corners of his mouth. I hesitate, my half-eaten apple suddenly heavy in my hand. The truth is, I don’t have much of a plan beyond ‘find Emma and Calum,’ but admitting that feels too much like admitting they might be truly lost. “We start at the bastion,” I say finally, the decision forming even as I speak it. “That’s where they take people they capture. If they got grabbed, that’s where they’ll be.” Hamish’s eyes widen with undisguised fear, but he nods solemnly, accepting my leadership without question.
The bastion looms ahead of us, all grim stone and sharp angles against the morning sky. I pull Hamish into a shadowy doorway as another patrol marches past, their boots striking the cobbles with that perfect lockstep rhythm that makes my skin crawl. We’ve been creeping closer through the docks for nearly an hour, darting between alleys and hiding spots, watching the steady stream of soldiers flowing in and out of the massive gates like angry bees from a kicked hive. There’s something different about them today though—they’re not stopping to grab kids off the street anymore, not setting up those nasty little interrogation circles that had my heart hammering yesterday. Small mercies, that. With Hamish stumbling along beside me, eyes still puffy from crying and about as stealthy as a three-legged dog with a bell collar, I’d have been proper caught for sure if they were still hunting street rats.
“Look there,” I whisper to Hamish, pointing toward a pair of regular city guards lounging against a wall across the way. The city boys look proper confused, arms crossed over their faded uniforms as they watch the League soldiers swagger past. One guard’s mouth hangs slightly open, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing in his own city. Can’t blame him, really—must be strange watching these fancy-uniformed outsiders taking over your patch. The other guard catches me looking and frowns, but he doesn’t move to chase us off. They’ve got bigger worries than a couple of dirty kids today, which works just fine for me. Still, the way those regular guards are standing about useless-like tells me something important: whatever’s happening, the real city folk aren’t part of it.
I tug Hamish deeper into the shadows as another squad marches past, their bright uniforms catching the morning light. “They’re all coming from somewhere else in the city,” I murmur, more to myself than to Hamish as I watch their movements. The soldiers look tired, some with smudges of soot on their faces or uniforms, others moving with the stiff gait of men who’ve been up all night. The massive oak doors of the bastion swing open again, disgorging a fresh squad while taking in the exhausted one. I squeeze Hamish’s trembling hand, my small brass button pressing reassuringly against my wrist inside its hidden pocket. “They’ve got to be in there,” I tell him with more confidence than I feel. “Now we just need to figure out how to get inside that bloody fortress without getting ourselves skewered.”
I press my palm against my chest, trying to get a feel for how much juice I still have sloshing around inside me. It’s weird how you just sort of know—like how you can tell when you’re full or hungry without actually seeing your stomach. Half full, I reckon, which doesn’t make a lick of sense considering all those little bursts I made two days ago. When Emma uses burst it eats up her juice like a starving dog with a bone, but mine just sort of… sips at it, dainty-like. Maybe that’s because I make all those tiny ones while Emma made the big ones that cleared whole sections of rubble at once. The thought makes me feel proper useful, like maybe I’m actually good at something besides picking pockets and hiding in shadows.
My chest goes all tight and achy when I remember those children we pulled from the wreckage—some crying for their mums, others too shocked to make a sound, their little faces all smudged with soot and wide eyes reflecting the blue flames. We saved some, yeah, but not all of them. Not nearly all. I can still hear that horrible cracking sound when walls gave way, still smell that burnt-hair stink that clung to everything. I rub my eyes hard with my sleeve, pretending it’s just irritation from the smoky air that’s making them water. Emma would say it’s okay to cry, but what good does crying do? Can’t bring back the dead ones. Can’t fix the ones that were too broken to save, the ones Emma had to… to help stop hurting. My fingers find the brass button in my pocket, and I roll it between my fingers until the sharp edges digging into my skin give me something else to think about.
I stare up at the bastion’s towering walls, mind working furiously. No windows within reach. Guards at every door. The only people going in are soldiers and the occasional cart of supplies, neither of which offers much opportunity for a pair of grubby street kids to slip through unnoticed.
“How’re we going to get in there?” Hamish asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Working on it,” I mutter, scanning the perimeter again. My eyes drift upward to where the wall meets the roof. There—a row of narrow slits near the top, probably for archers or ventilation. Too high to reach by normal means, but…
I glance down at my hands, remembering the strange lightness I felt when using my little bursts to clear debris. Emma always used hers for big, obvious things—moving rubble, breaking down walls. Mine were different though. Smaller. More precise.
The idea strikes me like a sudden ray of light in a dark room—what if I could use burst to push myself up? It seems ridiculous even as I think it, but then again, Emma always says the best ideas sound mad at first. I tug Hamish into a narrow gap between two buildings where the shadows are thick enough to swallow us whole, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Stay here a sec,” I whisper, placing him firmly against the wall before stepping back into the small clear space of the alley. Taking a deep breath, I drop into quick-sight the way Emma showed me, feeling my spark stir inside me like a friendly cat waking from a nap.
The first burst I form is tiny, barely bigger than a bread crumb, right under my right foot. When I feed it juice, the small bop sends a jolt through my entire body, lifting me a handspan off the ground before I land with a soft thud. A wild grin spreads across my face as I create another, slightly larger one under my left foot, then another under my right, each burst propelling me higher until I’m practically dancing on invisible stairs that I create with each step. The feeling is incredible—like flying but better because I’m controlling it, making it happen with nothing but my own will and the juice humming through my veins. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud as I rise higher and higher, my fingers nearly brushing the lowest rooftop.
Looking down, I expect to see Hamish watching with wide-eyed wonder or maybe even a touch of jealousy—but what I actually see freezes the breath in my lungs. His face has gone pale as death, his mouth hanging open in a perfect little ‘o’ of horror. His eyes, already too big for his narrow face, have grown enormous with fear, tracking my movements through the air like he’s watching some unholy creature rather than his friend. The shock of his reaction nearly makes me lose my concentration, my next burst forming lopsided and sending me careening sideways before I manage to correct.
I lower myself back down with a series of smaller, more controlled bursts, landing softly beside him with my stomach twisted into knots that have nothing to do with my aerial acrobatics. “I should’ve told you,” I whisper, shame coloring my cheeks hot despite the cool shadows. “About… what we can do.” Hamish presses himself further against the wall, his small chest rising and falling like a trapped rabbit’s. “What… what are you?” he chokes out, his voice barely a thread of sound in the quiet alley. The question hits me like a slap – not because I don’t have an answer, but because until this moment, I’d forgotten there was even anything strange about what we can do. Emma, Calum, Rhona – they’re all just people to me, my people, and their juice-sight is just part of who they are. But looking at Hamish’s terrified face, I suddenly realize how it must look to someone who’s only ever heard whispered rumors about channelers.
I crouch down to Hamish’s level, my hands open in front of me like I’m showing him I don’t have any tricks hidden. “Look, it’s not as scary as people make it sound,” I tell him, my voice going soft but serious the way Emma’s does when she’s explaining important stuff. “We’re not demons or monsters—we’re just regular people who found special fruits that let us see things others can’t. It’s like… it’s like finding a key to a door nobody else can open.” I tap my chest where I can feel my juice sloshing around inside. “The juice lets us slow time down in our heads and make these little pictures called runes that do different things when we feed them power. Emma calls it ‘quick-sight’ and ‘burst’ and stuff, not the fancy words the rich folk use.”
“The others I know who can do it are just normal people too,” I continue, fidgeting with the brass button, rolling it between my fingers as I search for the right words. “Emma’s teaching us how to use it to help people, not hurt them. Remember those big carts that move without horses? Those are driven by channelers too—they just sit there with their eyes closed, making the wheels turn with their minds. And I’m pretty sure I once saw a man doing the same thing with a whole ship down at the harbor, making it glide into dock smooth as you please without any sails catching wind.” The memory makes me smile despite everything—I’d spent three whole days watching him after that, trying to figure out how he did it.
Hamish still looks uncertain, his eyes darting between my face and the ground where I’d been bouncing myself into the air. I sigh, tucking the button back into its special pocket. “I know people say awful things about channelers—that we make deals with demons or steal souls or whatever rubbish. But that’s just talk from scared folks who don’t understand. Emma says people always fear what they don’t understand.” I reach out slowly, not quite touching him but letting my hand hover near his. “I’m still just Mairi. I still collect shiny things and hate porridge and can’t whistle proper. The juice doesn’t change who I am—it just gives me one more way to survive in this place. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do—survive. Same as you.”
Hamish’s eyes drift toward the mouth of the alley, his fingers working nervously at a loose thread on his sleeve. “But what about the stories?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “My mum used to tell me about the village up north where a channeler burned everything when someone short-changed him at market. And that one near the coast where they said some lady made everyone’s blood boil inside their bodies just 'cause they wouldn’t let her stay the night.” His eyes flick up to mine, searching for reassurance I’m not sure I can honestly give. “If they can do all that, how do you know your friends won’t… change? Once they get used to having that power?”
I study his worried face, not really sure how to tell him that it’s not as simple as just wanting to boil blood. That you need the proper runes, and that we have only a single one, not counting the ones Emma knows but hasn’t figured out yet. Truth is, I’ve heard all those stories too—whispered around campfires or traded between street kids to scare the little ones into behaving. Some nights, before I knew Emma could channel, I’d lie awake imagining channelers with glowing eyes setting whole neighborhoods alight with a wave of their hand. But then there’s Emma, who uses the little bit of power she has to clear debris when kids are trapped, and Calum, who’s never once hurt anyone who didn’t deserve hurting. “I don’t know for certain,” I admit finally, rolling my brass button between my fingers. “Maybe some channelers really are like those stories. But the ones I know? They’re just street kids like you and me. And one adult I suppose.” I think of Emma’s face when she pulled that little boy from the rubble, the way her hands trembled with relief when he took a breath. “That’s worth more than any story, I reckon.”
Hamish’s eyes dart nervously toward the mouth of the alley before leaning in, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “But aren’t you scared of the result of such stories? About how they burn unlicensed channelers at the stake? Or how the League turns 'em to dust just for existing without the right papers? My cousin’s friend saw it happen once—said the person just… disappeared, like they’d never been there at all.” His fingers twist anxiously in the hem of his ragged shirt, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something else that makes my stomach clench. “The reward for turning in an unlicensed channeler is five gold sovereigns, Mairi. Five! That’s enough to eat for a decade, maybe more. Enough to get off the streets forever.”
I study his face carefully, noting the way his pupils have dilated, the subtle shift in his posture—calculating rather than cowering now. My fingers instinctively find the small knife hidden against my leg, its familiar weight suddenly very comforting. “That’s if you live long enough to spend it,” I say softly, my voice light but my eyes hard as river stones. “Rats who sell out their own kind tend to have… unfortunate accidents. Rhona taught me that loyalty’s the only real currency worth having down here.” I let my gaze drift meaningfully toward the deeper shadows of the alley, where I know every hiding spot and escape route like the back of my hand. “Besides, those rewards always come with strings attached—once they know you’re the type to sell information, they own you. Forever. Is that really the kind of life you want, Hamish?” I try to imitate that scary look Rhona gets in her eyes when something makes her truly angry.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Hamish flinches back like I’ve just pulled a knife on him, his whole face crumpling with dismay. “No! I wouldn’t—I didn’t mean—” His words tumble over each other in their rush to get out. “I’d never sell you out, Mairi! You saved me…” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Well, you saved a bunch of us.” The initial panic in his eyes fades into something darker, more hollow, as his gaze drifts to the ground. His fingers trace absent patterns in the dirt, shoulders hunched inward like he’s trying to make himself even smaller than he already is. The silence between us grows heavy with all the things he’s not saying, until finally he breaks it with a soft, “None of the others made it, you know. Not Simon who always shared his food, or Dani who knew all the best hiding spots, not even mean old Toby who used to cuff my ears just because he could.” His attempt at casual mention doesn’t hide the slight tremor in his voice. “Didn’t much like most of them anyway,” he adds with forced indifference that fools neither of us.
His eyes dart nervously toward the mouth of the alley, then back to me. “It’s just… everyone’s disappearing, aren’t they?” The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. “First the kids from my old spot, then your friends, and then there’s soldiers everywhere grabbing anyone who looks like they might know something.” He pulls his knees tighter to his chest, making himself a smaller target in a world that suddenly seems full of dangers. “What if they get Emma too? Or that tall boy with the scary eyes? Or you?” The last word comes out smaller than the rest, betraying just how quickly he’s come to depend on my presence despite his earlier fear. “I don’t want to be alone again,” he confesses, and there’s something in the raw honesty of those words that makes me believe him, despite my natural suspicion. “Not when the whole city’s gone mad.”
I clutch my button tight, feeling the cool brass warm against my palm as the truth settles in my gut like a stone. Those blue flames, those tiny broken bodies—they’re all because of us. Because of me. The thought sinks its teeth into my chest, making it hard to breathe. If I hadn’t been so eager to fight back, if I hadn’t urged us to use fire… all those children Hamish talked about might still be alive. Simon who shared his food. Dani who knew the hiding spots. Even mean old Toby. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of Emma’s face when she realized what we’d done, how much worse our “clever plan” had turned out than we ever imagined. The city hasn’t gone mad—we broke it.
I look at Hamish’s frightened face and wonder what he’d do if he knew the truth—that he’s sitting here with one of the people responsible for killing his friends. That moment when he first flew at us in a rage was much closer to the truth than he knows. My throat closes up at the thought, shame burning hotter than any flame could. We weren’t heroes fighting back against the Empire; we were just scared kids who made everything worse. If we’d just run away instead of trying to be clever, those soldiers might have just taken our hideout and moved on. We could be halfway to another city by now, or maybe even heading back toward that village in the forest where Ronain lives. Where things seemed simpler.
A small, bitter smile tugs at my lips as I remember that first visit to Ronain’s village—how wide-eyed I’d been at the sight of actual houses with proper roofs, how funny I’d thought the villagers were with their slow, careful ways. I’d picked so many pockets that day, collecting shiny bits and bobs while they never even noticed I was there. Emma had scolded me later, making me return most of it, but she’d let me keep a small carved wooden bead that I still have hidden in my special pocket. That was before we visited the tree and I became a channeler, before I knew just how much damage we could do without even meaning to. Memories of that damnable tree exploding into splinters do not cease to haunt me, even if I have different ghosts clamoring for attention now.
I bite my lower lip, eyes fixed on a particularly interesting stone pattern in the alley wall as my thoughts tumble and sort themselves. No, I decide firmly, this isn’t the juice’s fault. We didn’t even use it that night—just good old-fashioned fire and whatever those Imperial idiots had been stupid enough to store in their warehouse. Something that glowed blue and tore through buildings like they were made of paper, something we had no way of knowing about. Fighting back wasn’t wrong; fighting back was what street rats did to survive. The mistake was not knowing what we were really up against, and that wasn’t on me or Emma or anyone else who was just trying to stay alive in this mess.
My fingers find the small brass button in my pocket, spinning it once between my fingers before tucking it away with newfound determination. Crying over broken buildings won’t bring back the dead kids, and it certainly won’t help Emma, wherever they’re keeping her. The bastion looms in my mind, a massive stone prison filled with soldiers and locked doors—but no fortress is completely sealed, not really. Every building has its cracks, its forgotten passages, its bored guards who look the other way for the right price. Hamish watches me with those wide, uncertain eyes as my expression hardens into something fierce and purposeful. I might be small, I might be young, but I know these streets better than any fancy soldier ever could. And if Emma is in that bastion, then I’m going to find a way in—no matter what it takes.
I make my way back along the winding path I followed here, and peer out the storeroom window at the impossibly thick fortress walls, my frustration growing with each passing moment. The bastion looms before me like a challenge, its smooth stone surface offering precious few handholds for someone without burst-magic. I bounce experimentally on my toes, feeling the juice slosh inside me, practically begging to be used. If I can’t go down through the inside… maybe I can find one on the outside? The thought sends a delicious thrill through me, like the moment before stealing something particularly valuable. Emma would probably tell me it’s too dangerous, but Emma’s the one stuck inside that massive stone prison, so she doesn’t get a vote right now.
My burst steps carry me lower and lower along the bastion’s outer wall, each tiny explosion propelling me back up a little bit less than I fall. Unfortunately for me, any sign of windows seems to disappear halfway down the fortresses twenty meter high walls. The wind whistles past my ears, tugging at my clothes and hair as I dance on my impossible stairway. I scan the fortress wall carefully, looking for any sign of weakness—a cracked window, an unbarred opening, anything that might grant access to the interior. But the architects weren’t fools; the lower portions present nothing but smooth, unyielding stone, the only openings beside that one hole I already entered being those small archer slits set high in the walls, each one shuttered tight against intruders. After nearly circling half the perimeter, I grudgingly admit that if I want inside, I’ll need to risk those barred windows.
I hover before one particularly promising shutter, its wooden slats showing small gaps where the sea air has warped them slightly. The twenty-meter drop below should make my stomach flutter with fear, but instead I feel only determination, a fierce focus that narrows my world to just this moment, this task. With one final burst to steady myself against the wall, I ease my small knife between the shutters, working the simple latch with practiced precision until it gives way with a satisfying click. I slip inside like smoke through a keyhole, landing in a silent crouch on polished wooden floors. My eyes widen as they adjust to the dimness, taking in velvet draperies, ornate furniture, and gleaming brass fixtures. Not a storeroom or guard post, then—I’ve stumbled into what can only be some important person’s private chambers. The rich fabrics alone would fetch enough coin to feed every street kid in the city for a month, and the small golden trinkets scattered across a writing desk make my fingers itch with acquisitive delight. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
I reach for a magnificently wrought silver ring on the desk, my fingers closing around it before my brain can even finish the thought. It’s just sitting there, practically begging to be taken, with tiny blue stones arranged in a pattern that reminds me of stars in the night sky. The weight of it feels satisfying in my palm as I slip it into my special button pocket, nestled safely beside my other treasures. Then I remember with a jolt why I’m really here—Emma, not trinkets. Though the thought of what Rhona would say if she knew I was pinching fancy jewelry instead of looking for Emma makes me wince. Still, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and this ring is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
The bedroom I find beyond the office is even fancier than the first room, with drapes of deep blue velvet hanging around a bed that looks big enough for five people to sleep in without touching. There’s a silver brush and mirror set on a table that would feed Hamish and me for months if I could get it to Old Tam down at the exchange. My head fills with wild fantasies of coming back here night after night, using my burst steps to dance across the sky and steal everything not nailed down. Why bother picking pockets in the market when I could empty rooms like this? Course, even one missing trinket would probably have them searching every corner of the city, and I’d have nowhere to sell such obvious noble-folk stuff without getting nabbed.
The bed calls to me like one of those sirens from Emma’s stories, its plump pillows and soft-looking blankets practically singing my name. I tell myself I’m just going to test it—just a quick sit to see if it’s as soft as it looks. But the moment my body hits the mattress, I’m sinking into the most wonderful cloud I’ve ever felt, and before I know what’s happening, I’ve flopped onto my back with my arms spread wide, a ridiculous grin splitting my face. It’s like floating on air but better, and I have to stuff my fist against my mouth to keep from giggling out loud with the sheer luxury of it. Emma would murder me if she could see me now, lolling about on some fancy person’s bed while she’s locked up somewhere in this massive place.
On second thought, I can’t help but think that Emma wouldn’t really be angry about me testing the bed—she’d be angry about missing out on it herself. She’s funny that way, not like other grown-ups who get mad over proper things like stealing or lying. Instead, she gets this look—half tired, half amused—like when I convinced those villagers in Ronain’s place that I was a forest spirit who’d curse their cows if they didn’t give me sweets. Even when I’m doing something truly outrageous, the worst she ever does is sigh and shake her head with that peculiar smile, like she’s remembering something from long ago.
Rhona would be proper furious though, lecturing about focus and discipline and how we can’t afford distractions when our lives hang by threads thinner than a pickpocket’s excuse. But Emma understands about grabbing little bits of wonder whenever you can find them—I’m sure that’s why she stopped to watch those musicians in the square that time, even with guards just streets away. She never says it straight out, but I think she believes that surviving isn’t worth much if you don’t remember to live a little too. I bite back a smile, wondering what she’d say if she could see me now, crouched in some fancy person’s bedroom after dancing across the sky to get here. Probably something dry and clever before asking if the mattress was as soft as it looked.
My amusement at testing the cloud-soft bed vanishes instantly as the outer door creaks open, the sound hitting my ears like a slap. I freeze mid-stretch, every muscle locking tight as I slide from the mattress in perfect silence, my bare feet finding the floor without a whisper. There’s a deep sigh followed by the unmistakable sound of someone dropping heavily into a chair—the desk chair in the outer office. I press myself against the wall beside the bedroom doorway, barely daring to breathe as a deep male voice cuts through the silence. “Shouldn’t be this bloody hard to find a bunch of goddamn kids,” he grumbles, frustration evident in every syllable. “Entire city’s gone to hell over a single night. Emperor’s balls, what a mess.” My ears prick up like a stray cat who’s just heard the rustle of a food wrapper, my earlier plans of escape momentarily forgotten as I strain to catch every word.
The scratching of his quill against parchment fills the silence as I listen to him muttering curses about “incompetent subordinates” and “impossible explanations.” I strain to catch every word as he drafts what sounds like his third attempt at a report. “How in the seven hells am I supposed to explain that we’ve found no trace of these children?” he growls, crumpling another sheet and tossing it aside. “Turned the entire cursed city inside out, questioned every witness twice over, and nothing. The Council will have my commission for this failure, especially after committing so many resources on my recommendation.”
He slams his fist against the desk, making the ink bottle jump dangerously. “If we’d only discovered that floating rune construct an hour earlier… but no, by the time my channelers identified the location, whoever created it—Imperial agents or those street urchins—had already fled.” His voice drops to a frustrated whisper as he continues writing. “Splitting our forces was the only logical choice given the circumstances. Half to track the rune’s creators, half to investigate the explosion site. Now I have nothing to show for either pursuit except more questions and a pile of civilian casualties.” I press myself flatter against the wall, hardly daring to breathe as I absorb this precious information. Emma and the others escaped. They’re still free.
“And what in the name of all that’s holy were the Imperials thinking?” The captain’s quill scrapes angrily across the parchment, his words coming faster now. “Storing battle-grade alchemical compounds in a civilian district? Sure they seem to be mobilizing, but if this was deliberate, it’s already an act of war. If it was negligence…” He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gods below, the collateral damage alone… at least fifty confirmed dead, many of them children.” The quill pauses, hovering above the parchment as his voice drops to a whisper so soft I nearly miss it. “And the survivors claim they saw a bunch of children pulling others from the rubble before we arrived, moving rubble that they couldn’t possibly shift. None of this makes any sense.”
The scratching of the quill falls silent as the man massages his temples, and I press myself flatter against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. “Fifty confirmed dead,” he’d said, the number hitting me like a physical blow. Fifty. Not just the fifteen children I knew about—the ones we’d managed to pull from the rubble, the ones we’d found dead, the ones Calum and Emma had to… My fingers find my button again, tracing its familiar shape as my mind struggles to process this new information. I thought I knew all their hiding spots, had spent days mapping every nook where they might sleep. But I’d never considered the adults who might have been there too. Weren’t they all supposed to have left? My chest feels hollow, like someone’s scooped out everything inside and left nothing but an aching void. Fifteen was already too many—a terrible price that’s haunted my dreams since that night. But fifty? What kind of monster does that make me?
I listen with growing horror as the captain continues dictating his report, describing the “unnatural clearing patterns” in the rubble, the strange precision that couldn’t possibly be explained by conventional means. His voice grows more frustrated as he speculates about League channelers conducting covert operations, while simultaneously expressing bewilderment at the witnesses claiming to have seen “mere children” performing impossible feats of rescue. Yet nowhere does he suggest that the same people who rescued survivors might also have caused the explosion in the first place. The distinction seems meaningless to me now—we still killed all those people, whether they connect us to both acts or not. I press my fist against my mouth to stifle a sob, the bitter taste of guilt filling my throat. Emma or Rhona would know what to do with this information, how to use it to keep us safe. But all I can think about are the names of dead children I’ll never know, because I wasn’t thorough enough, wasn’t careful enough, wasn’t good enough.
I grip the edge of a fancy table to steady myself as the vomit rises in my throat, swallowing hard against the waves of nausea. The smoke and screams from last night still haunt me, mixing with the captain’s casual mention of “fifty confirmed dead” until my insides twist like eels in a bucket. I’ve stolen plenty in my time—coins, food, trinkets—but I never meant to steal lives. Especially not children’s lives. My fingers find my brass button, its cool surface grounding me as I force myself to focus on the conversation rather than the bile threatening to spill out.
The captain’s voice floats through the doorway, growing louder as he paces back and forth. “And what kind of rune could move debris with such precision?” he demands of someone I can’t see. “It wasn’t any standard force manipulation—nobody could form so many runes at the same time. Too clean, too… surgical.” He makes a frustrated sound, papers rustling as he apparently consults his notes. “And why would Imperials waste fruits on street children? The cost alone is prohibitive, not to mention the years of training required.” His voice drops to a thoughtful murmur. “That storage rune we found floating in the hideout—completely disconnected from any functional array, just… sitting there eating juice. It makes no sense unless…” His words fade as he moves away from the bedroom, leaving me clutching my button and wondering just how much they know about what we did.
The captain’s footsteps retreat across the office as he gathers his scattered reports, the rustle of parchment punctuating his frustrated muttering. “This will have to suffice for now,” he grumbles, organizing the pages with military precision. “If we could just locate those damned imperial agents or those street rats who witnessed everything… so many questions could be answered at once.” His boots scuff against the polished floor as he moves toward the door, the metallic click of the latch followed by his receding footsteps down the corridor leaving blessed silence in his wake.
I empty my stomach all over the pristine floors before I can stop myself, the sour taste of bile fills my mouth as I heave again and again, my body convulsing with each painful spasm. The fancy room blurs through my tears, all that beautiful furniture and those glittering treasures suddenly meaningless compared to the weight of those numbers, those lives, those children who’ll never grow up because of me. Each name I can remember feels like a knife twisting in my chest—Dougal with his numbers, little Jena who could whistle through her missing front teeth, Tam who always saved crusts for the birds. All gone now, turned to ash and memory by our clever plan that wasn’t clever at all.
When I’m finally empty, I collapse against the wall, my legs too weak to hold me up anymore. The tears come then, not the dramatic wailing I’ve seen other children use to manipulate adults, but something deeper and more primal that rips through my chest like those blue flames tore through the warehouse. I press my fist against my mouth to stifle the sounds, years of survival instinct preventing me from making noise even when I’m falling apart. If Emma were here, she’d smooth my hair back from my face and tell me some story about her old world to distract me. She’d wipe my chin with her sleeve, not caring about the mess, and say something that would make this burden lighter without pretending it wasn’t there. But Emma is gone, I’m not even certain she’s locked up in here any more, and I’m alone with the knowledge of what we’ve done.
I curl into myself, making my body as small as possible in the corner beside the fancy wardrobe, wishing I could disappear completely. The weight of all those deaths presses down on me until I can barely breathe, each remembered face bringing fresh tears until my throat is raw and my eyes burn. It’s too much—the guilt, the fear. I’ve seen plenty of death in my eight years, have even caused some myself, but never like this. Never anyone that didn’t deserve it many times over. Never children who were just like me, who never had a choice about the lives they were born into. I wonder if this is how Emma feels all the time, carrying the weight of decisions that mean life or death for others. If it is, I don’t know how she bears it. Right now, I’m not sure I can.
I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, grimacing at the sour taste lingering on my tongue. The fancy floor beneath me is a proper mess now, puddles of sick soaking into the expensive rug with stains that’ll never come out no matter how hard some poor servant scrubs. For a moment, I feel a twinge of worry—they’ll know someone was here now, might even guess it was a child based on the size. But then I almost laugh at myself. These League officers are running around the city trying to find magical children who blew up half the tannery district and rescued survivors with impossible power. A bit of vomit on their captain’s bedroom floor is hardly going to be their biggest concern right now.
With newfound determination, I push myself up from the floor, ignoring the way my legs wobble beneath me. My mind feels clearer now, like throwing up has somehow purged some of the guilt along with my breakfast. Fifty dead or not, I still need to find Emma and the others. I make my way back to the window, carefully stepping around the puddle of sick and retrieving my silver ring from where I’d tucked it safely in my special pocket, wondering if I should put it back. In the end, I force myself to suppress the impulse that I don’t deserve it. The cool sea breeze hits my face as I perch on the windowsill, studying the drop below. My juice feels ready again, eager almost, like it’s been waiting for me to remember it’s there.
The burst steps come naturally, each one launching me higher and farther as I dance across the empty air toward the distant shoreline. I’m almost there, almost safe, when I misjudge something—maybe I feed too much juice into one particular burst, or maybe I’m just exhausted from everything that’s happened—but suddenly I’m careening sideways instead of forward, my careful trajectory completely abandoned. The world tilts dizzyingly as I pinwheel through the air, a startled yelp escaping my lips before I plunge headfirst into the cold embrace of the sea. The salt water stings my eyes and fills my nose, the shock of it momentarily disorienting me before my survival instincts kick in, sending me thrashing toward what I hope is the surface.
