“Subject is an elf of five years, crime of stealing from Devon’s Bakery. Punishment: Banishment.” -Writ of Condemnation, sealed by Magistrate Daniel Villefort, the year 1218.

  Gwynfor was being followed.

  She had thought herself safe at first, as she ducked out the door and ran into the rain. She kept looking back–the wind picking up–and saw the Siren’s door closed. But, as she crossed to the other side of the docks, dodging past a wagon drawn by a very annoyed, sweaty, and miserable looking man, she saw the door open, and the scary man exit from the building.

  He did not even bother with pretense; He stalked across the street, echoing her own footsteps like a trained bloodhound. He leaned on an old cane, but still moved with a swiftness that belied his look. Her heart pounded. Stupid Willow. She hoped the man hadn’t done anything to him. She stopped, glancing around. They were in the open, and while the docks were not the safest part of town, they were too public for the man to do much to her, hopefully. But, she would rather avoid letting him reach her in the first place. She had never seen him before, and that meant he was an outsider here, likely unfamiliar with the streets. Probably. She hoped. He made no haste in following her, as he waited for a couple of horses and wagons and carts to pass.

  Gwynfor ran.

  She leapt through the rain and the puddles, and off the docks. Her coat and her scarf whipped in the wind, and she saw people look in surprise as she darted past. She hoped no guards assumed she was running from them. She turned a sharp corner and left the main thoroughfare into the dreary alleys around dockside. What a great day it was. She began to twist and turn and take unexpected routes. She kept looking over her shoulder, each time expecting to see her pursuer. She didn’t though, and eventually she slowed down, breathing fast. Her lungs burned. She despised running, the way it made her whole body sweat, especially when she wore the cursed scarf. It felt like it clung around her head, slowly strangling her.

  The wind picked up, tugging at her scarf and nearly blew it free. She growled, fighting with the thing as it flapped around her, battered by rain. What a day it had already been. She got the scarf under control and tried to tie it tighter. She struggled with it a bit as the fabric, dampened by rain now, squelched and cried water onto her. She gave up, letting it fall back, looser on her shoulder. Her mind began to wander as the wind kept bothering her.

  Had the man even been following her, or had she imagined danger in coincidence? It was not impossible. But that way he looked at her, the careful delay in him leaving the bar. Even if it was coincidence, she would rather engage in a bit of impromptu exercise than the opposite potential. She glanced over her shoulder again: still not there.

  She walked on, slowly her heart fell to a regular pulse, and her body cooled. She kept off the main road, but stuck close to them. It would be safer to be caught by him where others could see her, but she would not want to be so easy to find on the main road either. Luckily, her run had taken her out of the worst part of town and she was in the neighborhoods that bordered market winding. The buildings here looked warm, with roofs of terracotta shingles and built of fired bricks. The sun had climbed higher, sneaking out as slowly the clouds were dispersing, and as his rays fell upon the city, more people were out in the streets, alive for the day. She caught odd glances from her attire and the sweat plastering her face. She ignored them.

  She rounded a corner and stepped onto another side street. She was not returning home, not yet. Ahead she saw a couple of kids probably a few years younger than Willow walking as a group. They were dragging a cart covered by a tarp, though Gwynfor could see pumpkins poking out. They had the look of farm kids, with broad shoulders, tanned skin, and simple expressions. She saw a couple of them pointing at her as she was walking. One of them, a bit older than the others, was flashing teeth, and making sure that his arms were very visible as he was pulling the cart.

  She rolled her eyes as she passed by them, and heard one of them laughing a moment after she passed by. Then the wind picked up. She wasn’t ready for it. The heavy gust slammed into her, pelting her skin with scattered rain and whisking away her scarf. She lunged to catch it, but the garment slipped from her fingers and floated down in front of the cart. She groaned as they stopped, the one who had smiled at her looked excited as he picked up her scarf and turned to deliver it to her like the glove of a princess. He froze seeing her, seeing her hair, her ears. She saw the smile curdle into a cruel little smirk of a man who was given a treat too tasty to pass him by.

  “Give it back,” she said, stalking towards him. She could run, leave the scarf behind, but it had been a gift from her mother. It had taken hours for her to make, and purple dye was expensive. She hated the thing but she loved the effort of it.

  “Or what leafer?” the kid sneered. Gone was the admiring smile.

  She held her hand out. “It’s mine, give it.”

  “Not very nice.”

  She bit down her anger. “May I please have my scarf back?”

  The boy laughed, looking towards one of his friends for affirmation. “Look at that Gaston, I already got the leafer trained!” He looked back at her. “I’ll give it back for a kiss.”

  Gwynfor lunged forward, and tore the scarf from the boy’s hand. He looked dumbfounded and she felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing him standing there stupidly with an empty hand. She turned and whisked the cursed thing back around her head.

  A sharp pain hit her in the back, and she tumbled forward, crashing into the ground, water splashing up around her. She twisted and saw the boy leering over her, fury in his face. His friends were gathered in a semi-circle, a few feet back, shock turning into hollers of joy.

  “Get her!”

  “Show her what you’re worth!”

  “YEAH!”

  Gwynfor groaned. What a day. She scrambled to her feet, soaked to the bone, and now with mud staining her clothes. She glared at the kid, who held his fists up as if he meant to fight. “Walk away kid,” she said, trying to soothe her anger. Be a perfect young woman.

  He growled and charged. She tried to leap aside, but he was faster than expected. He shoved his hands against her and she fell again. She was prepared for it this time though, and managed to convert a flop into a roll, and got back to her feet. As he came around the second time, she kicked her leg out and tripped him. He fell face first into a puddle, and she heard the groans of his friends. She turned, ready to run, and froze when she saw a familiar figure, his face a mess of scars, limping down the road.

  What a cursed day.

  Then, pain blossomed in her legs and she felt nothing beneath her as she fell. She barely managed to throw her hands out to prevent her head cracking against the ground, but she felt the world rock around her. Cheers and leers filled the air as she felt a boot slam into her side. Then again. Then again. Pause, pain, pause, pain. Pain PAIN. Over and over she felt the kid kick her. Tears welled in her eyes. Then the kicking stopped. She felt something slide from around her neck. It took a bleary few seconds on that dreary ground for her to realize her scarf was gone.

  Blinking tears from her eyes, she pushed herself to her feet and saw the kid was holding her scarf aloft with a triumphant look to his eyes. He spat at her. “I wouldn’t want to kiss that disgusting face anyways.”

  A couple of his friends laughed as Gwynfor burned with hate, and pain, and embarrassment, and shame. She crawled to her feet. The scary man was still approaching, but she didn’t care. What could she do anyways. Once more she heard her moth’s warning in her head. She leapt forward and crashed into the kid, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of flailing arms and shouts.

  Her victory was short-lived. For all her time spent exercising and building muscle with rolling out dough and carrying wagons of grain, the other kid clearly had spent much more time at such things than her. He managed to turn their tiff onto the ground into her pinned against the cobblestone, her arm at an awful angle, body screaming in pain. Or was she actually screaming? She wasn’t sure anymore.

  Then, the weight on top of her vanished. Something metal clattered to the ground. She blinked the rain from her eyes–that’s what she wanted to assume the water was anyways–out and crawled into a more comfortable sprawl onto the ground. The kid had backed away from her, and was now staring at the scary man. He seemed to loom like a specter, his hood thrown back to reveal that horrid face. The sound Gwynfor heard was a sword on the ground, thrown between the scary man and the kid. Was he giving the kid a weapon? Even in the blurriness of her pain, she could feel fear building in her.

  “What’s that for?” the kid asked, and Gwynfor heard his own fear staining his voice.

  “It’s for the duel,” croaked the scary man, his voice like the rattle of bones.

  “D-duel?” the kid asked.

  “You asked for a fight and so I oblige you. Pick up the blade and fight as a man would,” the scary man's tone went lower as another sword seemed to appear from thin air in his hand, “or would you name yourself a coward?”

  “You’re crazy” the kid said, staring at the sword on the ground like it was a poisonous snake. “That girl was asking for it. I ain’t fighting you.”

  The scary man stepped forward, and he glanced at Gwynfor. He looked sorry. She began to feel calmer, the fear ebbing away like the fall of the tide. He turned back to the kid. “So you are a coward then? Ready to fight a defenseless girl but ready to run at a real challenge?”

  Gwynfor pushed herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled, her side ached. She felt blood welling in her mouth. She didn’t need this man to save her. She toppled over as she tried to take another step, a sharp pain darting through her leg where the kid had slammed his foot against it.

  She felt their eyes on her when she fell and her face burned with shame. Cursed stupid day. I’ll be alright though, the thought came.

  “Either pick up the sword or go running to bigger men than yourself. Unless any of your friends think themselves braver and will fight in your stead.”

  There was a pregnant silence, that for Gwynfor was filled with pain. Finally she saw the kid turn and walk away. His face redder than beets. “Come on, this is stupid.”

  As they ran away, leaving her behind on the ground, she heard the tap of boots against stone. A hand grabbed at her. A flash of fear ran through her, but the touch was gentle.

  “You alright?” The man asked.

  Slowly she looked at him. He still looked as scary as before, but his eyes had a different look to them. She saw a deep well of blue, filled with the profound look of someone who had seen and felt much. She glanced away, cheeks still burning with shame.

  “Yes,” she lied. The man helped her to her feet, and was glaring at the retreating kid.

  “Morterran cursed brats,” the man swore. He shook his head. “Your scarf, it's ripped.”

  Gwynfor stared down, feeling cold. Sometime during the scuffle, the stupid thing had been torn down the center, and much of its sides were frayed. More rain filled her eyes. Stupid, stupid thing. “It’s not a big deal, I hated that scarf anyways,” she lied and told the truth.

  The man slowly nodded. Who was he? Why had he followed her and was now so kind. What was his game? Gwynfor shivered. He leaned forward suddenly, Gwynfor twitched away, but he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her closer so that his mouth was right by her ear. “You can get in trouble, running your mouths like that, where anyone can hear,” he growled.

  Gwynfor said nothing.

  “Figured you should know.” He let her go and straightened. “Oh, and warn Lydia that they have a Gravimancer tonight.” Then he walked away without another word, leaving Gwynfor’s mind spinning and swirling like a fish caught in an eddy.

  Then, as the rain began to fall once more, and with the man vanishing down another street, the fear, shame, and anger all boiled up suddenly again, as if a dam had been unleashed. Gwynfor fell to the ground, and wept. Why, why, why had this day gone so horribly! She slammed her fists into the earth, and they stung from the impact. Stupid day! Tears fell down her face and blood still dripped in her mouth. She spat out the awful metal taste as she wept and sniffed and ached. Why had she let herself be caught by some stupid kids then needed some stupid savior. She wanted to curl into a ball and just lie there. Finally though, after some time, she saw–even with the rain–faint rays of light were streaming from the clouds, and she saw a bit of the sun shining once more.

  Miserable, she stood up, and nearly fell again from the pain. She gritted her teeth though. She was not some delicate flower. She limped forward. She couldn’t go home, not for some time. She called out to the spirits and asked them that those kids would not make a fuss. She had to be a perfect young woman for her moth. Had to be, even if it was just pretend for a bit. She marched on. She knew her destination, and hoped that Lydia was there. Otherwise, this whole trek and humiliation would have been for naught.

  Gwynfor finally limped towards her goal. It had been an arduous task to get here, having to keep to the side streets even more than usual. She was still bleeding and bruised and disheveled from her encounter with that kid. She didn’t want too many questions asked. She had used rainwater to wash the worst of the dirt and blood from her and to tame her hair a little bit. She had forwent the scarf, it was ruined now. All those hours of work from her mother, ripped apart in seconds. She got even worse looks from the few people she came across in the late morning as she navigated the labyrinthian streets of lower Redport. Iron hill was well planned, but the rest of the city was left to their own whims on where to go.

  The house was covered in shadow, hidden between two much larger buildings like blocks of bricks. It had once stood by itself, surrounded by a grove of trees, but outward expansion over the years had left it a lone garden in the shadow of industry. Gwynfor wished she had been alive to see the house in its prime, but that was long ago. Plants still decorated it, but they were the kind which could grow without much direct sun. The building itself was cheery looking, built of wood and log, and looked out of time. Gwynfor passed by an old lonely rocking chair on the front porch and rapped her knuckles on the door.

  There was a long silence as Gwynfor counted to ten, before this time knocking. She heard movement behind the threshold. There was a sound of locks being undone and a chain unclasped. The door slowly creaked open and a lone eye peeked out. “What is the meaning of crimson?”

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  “To stand before others and be heard,” Gwynfor responded, her stomach aching and making it hard to get the words out. But she managed. The door shut. Gwynfor waited, then knocked once more, two taps in quick succession.

  The door opened.

  Lydia waited, a red cloak drawn over her shoulders. She looked weathered. Dark cycles surrounded her eyes, one of her feathered earrings was torn and frayed, dirt hemmed her cloak. She was leaning against the railing of the stairs. She made a solid contrast to the room. It was all wicker and doilies with pastel pinks and cheery yellows , while Lydia was dirt and grime and travel. Her hair was unkempt, a tangle of vines across her face, and all manner of scars decorated her features. Most people would have a heart attack seeing the kind of mud on her boots in a room with rugs and carpets so meticulously kept, but Lydia moved with intimate familiarity around the space, not a single speck of muck fell upon the well-kept decor.

  She crossed to Gwynfor in a single moment, and grabbed her arm. It stung. The door slammed behind her. “In quickly,” she said. Gwynfor heard the locks being done again with rapidity. Lydia then turned back to her. “Thei’Amna suvai. What happened, who did this to you, is it worse than it looks, Ei’teilan?” She spoke quickly, worry in her eyes, as she swapped between threstrian and galadin with ease.

  Gwynfor shook her head. “I’m going to be sore, but not much else. My parents are going to kill me though, I was supposed to keep out of trouble.”

  “Who did this?” Lydia pushed, and at the same time she began to examine Gwynfor’s injuries, shoving her sleeves up and looking at the arm the kid had twisted.

  Gwynfor looked away, color rising in her cheeks. “It was just some kid on the road. The wind picked up and took off my scarf, and he decided to play mean. I…escalated it, he just made me so mad,” Gwynfor’s fingers were digging into her hands as she bit her lips, trying to hold back tears of frustration and shame.

  Lydia’s hand was a warm presence on the shoulder. “Kulk. And where is the human?” Her voice was cold.

  Gwynfor started, before realizing Lydia was talking about the kid. “Gone, he got scared away.”

  “You did good leita.”

  A little smile tugged at Gwynfor's mouth. She sometimes had trouble following Lydia’s use of galadin, but she knew Leita’s meaning; it meant something along the lines of soul of oak. “It wasn’t me who scared him away,” Gwynfor hesitated for a moment, then barrelled forward. “I have a lot to tell you.” Gwynfor explained everything, the promise to her moth, the possible encounter with the Red Wraith, her meeting with Willow, the scary man, and the kid.

  Lydia was very quiet. “Let me see your side,” she said finally. Gwynfor pulled her shirt up, and grimaced, seeing the purple blotch from where she had been repeatedly kicked. There was a fire behind Lydia’s eyes seeing that. Her touch was cold, but she began to pull out a bunch of pungent smelling herbs from a pouch on her side and began to mix them in a small mortar and pestle she grabbed out as well.

  Gwynfor said nothing, and just let Lydia work in silence. She would speak when she was ready. Gwynfor didn’t even cough or groan in pain from the herbs or the foul-tasting medicine Lydia eventually gave her. It washed down her throat like fire and made her nostrils fill with the scent of dirt.

  Finally, Lydia said, “First describe the man to me. Detail please.”

  Gwynfor blinked. No questions about the Red Wraith first? She hesitated, trying to recall as much as she could. “He was bigger than me, shorter than Willow. His face was scarred. His eyes were a bright blue. He wore a reef-jacket, and relied on a cane as he had a bad limp. I think the rest of him was just as broken as his face. He did help me though. I don’t know.”

  “Easy man to spot in crowd. I do not know them. That I do not like. They know too much though.”

  “Are you back for long?” Gwynfor asked, hopeful.

  “We will see. I follow an old acquaintance here. The wind blows fast. You will miss the Banishment?”

  Gwynfor nodded. “It won’t be that bad, missing one. None of us were taken this time, so who cares,” she lied.

  “Someone must care. Even humans get taken for Banishment, more than us. We are all kindling for the fire of their progress.” She spoke more assuredly in threstrian than usual. It had a practiced sound to it. “Besides, you care too. There are many like that kulken kid who hurt you, but there are Willows too.”

  Gwynfor said nothing. She still felt the hatred bubbling in her belly, but it had cooled with the easing of her pains. “Maybe,” she finally said.

  “This scary man, watch for him. He seems to know too much. There are many who would not mind me having a dangerous accident.”

  Gwynfor did not like the way Lydia spoke so bluntly of others seeking to kill her. She had always been cavalier, but this seemed different. Once, Lydia had been so filled with hope, Gwynfor still recalled falling asleep to her stories of fighting with The Five Flowers, with the work Lydia did to make the lives of their kind easier, better. It had been a long time since she talked about those days.

  “And the Red Wraith?”

  “Do not worry of them. We take their name as a warning, not an endorsement.”

  “You’re planning something, aren’t you. At the Banishment.”

  Lydia was quiet. “Maybe, maybe not. We see how the wind blows.”

  They moved onto brighter conversation. Gwynfor knew when Lydia was done, there would be no further secrets shared. Gwynfor saw the hours slip away, as the sun spiraled to his midday peak and then passed. Slowly, he vanished behind the clouds which slowly ate away at the sky, bringing with them the salt from the seas and the faint scent of brimstone from Ghost.

  Lydia told of her adventures, her time spent visiting many of the elven tribes across Artaghan. Gwynfor usually thought of the elves as a single people, but that was far from true. Humans, when they had arrived to their shores thousands of years before from their Broken Land, had slowly wrested the continent under their control. They had driven the elves into smaller and smaller lands. Now, all they had left was the island of Thyshar’Ra and the dunes. Elves still lived on their ancestral lands, but it was under the law of man, the law of the Dragon. Once too, there had been the dwarves, but they had passed underground, and none had heard from them.

  They were many peoples, forced under a banner named by another. But that was all Gwynfor had known. They may be different, but they shared a story all too familiar of homes conquered and ways forgotten. Lydia told of the elders she had met, the stories she had gleaned. She talked of the clans and tribes and cities and towns she visited. Thyshar’Ra most prominent of all. The city beneath the first tree, the oldest of the elven people, and the one place where the humans deigned to let them rule in peace. Even the dunes were under the eye of House Vren in name, if not really in practice.

  Lydia though, did not speak much of what she was really doing. She never did, but Gwynfor knew. She was planting seeds, making friends, readying disparate people to rally behind a shared dream. There were hints in the way she talked about some of the people she met, the way she mentioned they liked her ideas.

  Gwynfor did not ask for elaboration. She knew Lydia would never share that, not now. Best leave it unspoken, for now. Eventually, Lydia offered Gwynfor a bath. Lydia had a private one, not reliant on the local bathhouse. Gwynfor had used it many times in her life, the water was drawn swiftly and it was warm. Of all the wealth and riches Lydia had acquired during her life, this was perhaps the best. The water was heated by special stones mined in the Vren Desert that always were warm. Gwynfor felt her pains soothed by the warm waters, and the cleansing joy of her grime and filth washed away.

  Eventually, she had to leave, her body groaning with the effort of abandoning a rare comfort, but she toweled herself off and dressed with a clean set of clothes provided by Lydia. When she came back down into the living room, she found the headscarf cleaned, and quickly resewn down the middle. It was far from perfect, but it was whole once again. Gwynfor felt tears welling in her eyes.

  “It is not much, but I hope this makes you better,” Lydia said, proffering the thing to her.

  “Thank you,” Gwynfor said, tying it around her head. It would make travel in the city so much easier. Her heart panged, wishing she could join Lydia and the others at the Banishent tonight, but she couldn’t. As she looked out the window, she shook her head in surprise. She knew time had been passing, but only just saw the shadows beginning to fall. Evening was close.

  “I’m a kulk,” she swore, jumping to her feet. “I’m going to be late to meet Willow.”

  “Worry not, I have food you can bring,” Lydia went to her feet, and danced through the room, avoiding the fine rugs. She gathered a small basket of bread and some cheese. There was always food here, even when Lydia never was. “Hit him on the head and call him stupid for me,” Lydia said, her tone light. “And tell him to be safe as well. He is blundering and lacks vision like the rest of his kind, but he is a good man.”

  “I will,” Gwynfor promised, taking her first tentative steps. They were painful, but possible.

  “And do not tell your Moth and Pad I am back. They will not like it.”

  Gwynfor nodded. It would be hard to explain what happened to them, once she got back from meeting Willow, but she would find a way. Lydia undid the locks on the door.

  It was raining again. Joyous.

  Gwynfor turned and hugged Lydia. The older elf froze, surprised, then returned the gesture, with a bit of awkwardness. Hugging was a very human ritual, but Gwynfor’s parents had adopted it when she was young. Lydia wasn’t wrong, not all humans were bad. She thought of Willow, of some of her neighbors, the bookstore owner who let her borrow books as if it were a library. “I’m glad you’re back,” Gwynfor said, “Thank you for the herbs and for your words. Please be careful.”

  Lydia patted her back. She hesitated for a long moment, Gwynfor saw her mouth working as she chose her next words. “I will be careful as the butterfly. Be safe, young one.” Gwynfor pulled away, and realized there were tears in her eyes. Three years apart, and this was all she could manage. Hating the promise she made to her mother, she turned away, and began to hobble towards her meeting place.

  It was only after she left, did Gwynfor think about Lydia’s words. The butterfly’s most famous story in the Galadrin tribe was where it birthed from its cocoon on the branch of a tree battered by a hurricane. It had chosen the spot not for the safety, but for the beauty of the sight and the ability to see further than the other cocoons.

  Redport was always busy in the evenings, even with the scattered clouds and sprinkling of rain. The wind still blew, but Gwynfor had tied her scarf tight. People dotted the streets, dressed in all manner of attire. As she made her way through Market Winding, they went from the nicer clothing of Iron hill, to more common wear. Ponchos were popular, and made for a colorful addition to the streets, worn over simple brown and white tunics and work pants. Headscarves too were prevalent amongst many of the women, especially those who lived lives between that of rich or poor. The women tended to have more variety in their color and attire, with ponchos, dresses, scarves of the head and shoulders, and even their hair all bore different and sometimes clashing colors. It was ridiculous, but Gwynfor also could see some of the appeal, though many of their choices looked awfully difficult to actually live in.

  Soon though, she arrived at her destination. It was a small little pavilion nestled in one of the back alleys, surrounded by a few squat houses with a well in the center. She glanced around, and did not see Willow, though he often tried to hide away to scare her. Usually he was easy to find, but she couldn’t spot him. Sighing, she readied herself for him jumping out from some hidden corner to scare her, and walked into the pavilion.

  Nothing occurred.

  It was quiet here, away from the main thoroughfares of the city. The houses nearby seemed empty. Her eyes moved from spot to spot, searching. None of the windows were open. There was a shadow moving in one of the back streets. She cautiously made her way over. A dog prowled in the alley, a mangy-looking thing with a friendly face and with visible ribs. It looked at her with eyes first scared, then wide and pleading. Gwynfor tossed a loaf from the bag to the animal. It took it and ran off. Willow could survive without an extra half-loaf, he deserved it for being a stupid late oaf. Unlike her…

  She waited, leaning against the well. He was probably just delayed by work, Mr. Kelsey could be a harsh man if he wanted something done. She bit her lip as minutes passed without a sign of him. Could something have gone wrong? An image of the scary man flashed through her mind. Had there been more to him? Could he have done something to Willow? Or could someone else have?

  A few more minutes passed. Gwynfor paced around. A minute. Then another. Shadows began to fall over the pavilion. Night was coming. Another minute. Was that the shadow of a person? Yes, but not Willow, they opened one of the doors to a nearby house and walked in. The light was gone from the alley again. Another minute. Where was he? Gwynfor fell back against the well and stared up at the sky. The sun was barely in sight now. She stood up, and began to walk. If he had just forgotten the meeting and forced her to walk all the way to him, she was going to kill him.

  She hoped he was alright.

  In the approach of night, the same walk she made in the morning seemed all the eerier. Things seemed to lurk in the shadows. She felt as if she was being watched. She rubbed her eyes. Every now and then, she wondered if she caught a glimpse of red in the corner of her eyes. Worry was making her see things, eating away at her. She pressed on, but found herself jogging now instead of walking. Each footfall sent a little shock of pain running through her, but she ignored it.

  Finally, she came to the Siren.

  And froze.

  Two of the windows were shattered, the outside furniture had been tossed aside, a few of the chairs had been broken. There were people out on the boardwalk, but they gave a wide berth to the building, as if the plague lived there.

  Gwynfor felt her heart beat like a drum in her throat. She walked towards the building, unsure what to do.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder. “You crazy? Ain’t nobody dumb enough to rob a place under the Dragon’s Eye.” The voice speaking to her was thick and heavy, and the man she turned to see looked like a sailor.

  “The Dragon’s Eye?” she said, and felt as if the voice she heard wasn’t hers. She was separate, as if seeing everything from the outside.

  “Yeah,” the man said, pointing to a figure Gwynfor had missed. A Wyvern Guard stood to the side of the Siren, dressed in the spiky armor of the Dragon’s personal retinue. They were the hand of the emperor, and none dared mess with them. “They came midday, there was a whole scuffle. Took the owner and the kid. Rumor is one of them is a traitor, and getting banished tonight… You alright?”

  Gwynfor felt the blood drain from her face. Banished? Everyone in Redport knew of it, it was the purpose of their city. They were the final destination for the criminals of Artaghan with no chance at redemption. Redport was the city they were brought to be sailed away to Ghost. There, they could rot away in the perpetual storm of punishment which battered the island or choose to join the Reef and die fighting monsters from the Broken Land who assailed the fortification. Banishment was supposed to be a rare thing, but House Itterarkh prided itself on ruling the safest province of Artaghan, and many infractions were met with banishment.

  Willow, banished. Willow, gone. She slowly began to walk away, felt the sailor’s hand fall from her shoulder. “Hey, where are you going?”

  Where was she going? Her legs ferried her off without the input of mind. Her whole body was ice, her mind frozen. Willow gone. Banishment. Be a perfect young woman. No trouble. Willow. Banishment. Lydia. Gone. Gone. Gone. Do not get into trouble. Banishment.

  Gone.

  Gone.

  Gone.

  Willow…

  Beneath the layer of ice, something else blossomed in Gwynfor’s stomach. A fire burned. How dare they take the one friend she had made. How dare they banish one of their own kind. She had lost people to Ghost before, every elf in the city had. It was the way of things. You keep your head down, play their games, do as you’re told. One foot out of line and to Ghost it was. Gwynfor remembered the day, so many years ago when her first friend was taken. She remembered staying up all night crying for her moth to bring them back. She had missed that Banishment. She hadn’t missed another one since.

  Be a perfect young woman.

  Do not get into trouble.

  Gone.

  The ice was gone, and in its stead was only fire. It burned bright through Gwynfor. Her pain seemed a distant thing. What was physical pain to this?

  Gone.

  Not gone. He was not gone yet. The Banishment was tonight.

  Perfect.

  Trouble.

  Banishment.

  Gwynfor realized where she was going.

  She rapped her knuckles on the door.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  She knocked.

  Movement in the building, lights flickered awake.

  Not yet gone.

  Locks were undone.

  “What is the–”

  “They took Willow. I’m going to the Banishment.”

  Silence followed.

  The door closed.

  Chains fell from the door. It creaked open. Gwynfor entered. Lydia stood between the doily rugs, dressed now in long crimson robes, her face hidden behind a porcelain mask. She wore a sword on her side. Gwynfor stared at it. She had worn the robes before, all of them had. They had even carried small weapons, just in case. Never a sword though. Lydia seemed to ignore her stare.

  “Hurry then. The Banishment is not far off.”