By the end of the day, everyone is exhausted, but in good spirits. We create some accommodations for a few of the ships to spend the night, while all but Captain Marlowe and the agriculture team depart. We all meet in the office after dinner for a debrief.

  “Lisari?” Dizzi repeats when I ask her if she’d spoken to the scholar. “Yeah, I chatted with her a bit. Pretty cool application of wind arcana. Must be way more advanced than what I use for her to be able to sense her surroundings with any level of detail. But I’d never thought to apply it that way!”

  I’d discreetly informed Mirzayael of the encounter I’d had with the woman as soon as she’d left my line of sight. Mirzayael had kept an eye on her in my absence, but Lisari hadn’t done or said anything strange after that, as far as I’m aware. I’m beginning to doubt my own instincts on the matter.

  “Did she ask about Fyrethians? Or Fyreneth?” I press.

  Dizzi seems surprised. “What? No. Does she know?”

  “She found a statue of Fyreneth and seemed familiar with her,” I say. Familiar enough to mistake me for her. Or had that just been a coincidence, as I appeared right when she was examining the statue? I shake my head. “Perhaps you can do some gentle prodding tomorrow if she returns. In fact, we all should attempt to discern what these people know about us.”

  “The murals aren’t particularly subtle,” Nek says, leaning against a wall, arms folded. “I heard a few comments on the artistry, but none on the content.”

  “We could ask for history books,” Torim suggests. “I realize currently we are trading for more practical supplies, but I’m sure at least the scholars would be willing to help.”

  “As long as we can do so subtly,” Mirzayael says. “If they do harbor feelings similar to the Jorrians, we don’t want to expose our history without cause.”

  My mind drifts to the two Jorrians downstairs. I wonder if they might be able to help with this, actually. Ragna would invite me to shove my request up facets of my anatomy. Luckily, she will be out of our hair by the time we’ve left Mount Haze behind. Gardi, however…

  “I’ll put some feelers out,” Dizzi says. “It shouldn’t be too hard to slip in, since Lord Merit and the scholars will be returning with some texts tomorrow.” Her feathers ruffle in excitement. “I can’t wait to see what they’ve got!”

  “Speaking of,” Torim says, “we should prepare for what offers we can anticipate. I was mostly engaged with Lord Calaman, the banker.” He looks to Nek.

  “The agriculture guild appears open to working with us,” Nek says. “They seemed interested in the textile group, but more so with our fertilization techniques. They spoke with Agate earlier, and he told them about the different additives they use to alter the acidity of the soil. They seemed interested in procuring some.”

  That wasn’t a trade item I had been expecting. I had produced phosphorus for Agate to add to the soil to help lower the pH, as apparently the soil we currently have to work with is very basic due to all the limestone it had steeped in over the centuries. It makes sense that the agriculture team would be interested in additives that would help their produce.

  But is soil in a volcanic city also basic? (Alkaline, if I remember my college chemistry.) Or was it acidic? If it’s already acidic, then adding more phosphorus would only be damaging. Not to mention, I’d never considered refining these materials in large enough quantities to trade. I suppose I could, I’d just have to think about how we would store and transfer it all.

  “Have them bring a sample of their soil as soon as they’re able,” I tell Nek. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  We talk through a few more trade options that had arisen through the casual day of mingling, until Torim eventually brings it back to the banker once more. “There’s one aspect we haven’t yet discussed—a few of the others alluded to payment rather than trade. I spoke with Lord Calaman about this. There is local currency as well as regional currency. The local currency is a form of parchment with different denotations of worth marked on the leaves. It seems symbolic of worth more than anything. The regional currency is more tied to direct worth of the materials it’s made of. The four most common forms are bronze, copper, silver, and gold.”

  “You mean like, the metal?” Dizzi asks, seemingly confused.

  “Yes,” Torim says. “It seems the ore is considered highly valuable in this region. Though they don’t trade with just the raw material; they’re shaped a certain way and imprinted with designs.”

  “Huh.”

  I frown, mulling this over. “If we can, we should avoid accepting any of the local currency; it would be worthless once we move to other cities. I’m uncertain about the regional variant. While it could be useful for future trade, we still have immediate needs to attend to, and a ton of flour would be much more valuable to us at this moment than an equivalent weight in gold.”

  But the other Fyrethians appear more thoughtful.

  “They would also accept these metals from us in exchange for goods?” Mirzayael asks.

  “Yes,” Torim says. “If they’re shaped correctly.”

  Nek hums thoughtfully. He shifts his hand up and down, as if mentally weighing something. “How much would they trade for a kilogram of copper?”

  Torim considers. “One of their coins seemed to be a few grams. So… about five hundred copper coins. They mentioned a blueseed fruit costs one coin. So that would be quite a large crate of fruit.

  The Fyrethians appear stunned.

  “You’re saying we could trade one large copper pot for enough fruit to feed everyone in the Fortress?” Mirzayael asks, baffled.

  It finally sinks in what they’re all talking about. The Fyrethians spent centuries living in caves, mining whatever materials they could from their surroundings. Most dwarves have a stone affinity, which helped them to form tools from the surrounding earth. While silver and gold is still fairly rare (though not absent) in Fyrethian society, copper makes up most of the cookware that we use in the city. Everything from bowls to cauldrons, and spoons to cups. And while these materials are useful to Fyrethians, they are so common they mostly considered worthless.

  Meanwhile, we served our guests lunch on plates literally made of money.

  Dizzi whistles. “That’s wild!”

  “I suppose it explains how polite everyone has been,” I say faintly.

  “Of course, we will need to shape our metal into the shapes of their coins,” Torim says.

  “Is that something you could do?” Mirzayael asks me. “If we procured a few coins for you to use as examples.”

  “What?” the question startles me. “You want me to mint our own coins?”

  “I mean, we have tons of copper to work with,” Dizzi says, entirely unaware of my mounting discomfort. “That shouldn’t be hard to reshape. But you can change the material of things too, right? Can you convert some of that stone in the Dungeon Core’s Inventory to silver and gold?”

  “I could,” I say, hesitating. “Changing the elemental nature of matter costs mana. It would eat into the Fortress’s reserves and reduce our flight time. But… doesn’t this seem wrong?” I pleadingly meet everyone’s gaze.

  They all return blank looks.

  “Why?” Mirzayael asks. “This is something they want, and we can provide it. It seems an ideal trade opportunity.”

  “Of course, but…” I have no idea how to articulate my instinctive aversion to printing our own money. I’d never really given it much thought before this moment. But printing your own money is clearly unethical, because… “It… it would be bad for the economy, wouldn’t it? It could devalue the metal’s worth.”

  The Fyrethians appear unfazed.

  “One city’s worth of copper could disrupt an entire economy?” Dizzi asks. She’s not being critical, just curious.

  “Probably not,” I admit. We’re only a few thousand in number, after all. The single city we’re passing over likely has three or four times as many people as we do. And when you take the rest of the continent into account, our impact does seem pretty small.

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  But it’s still wrong isn’t it?

  Isn’t it?

  But I’m struggling to see the harm. Our intention is not to become wealthy or powerful, but to feed our people. To secure our city and improve our quality of life. That makes it justifiable, doesn’t it?

  I need to reflect on this matter. No—I need to reflect on my own feelings on this matter.

  “Alright,” I say, rubbing a temple. “See if you can secure a few of the regional coins tomorrow, and I’ll… I’ll at least look into it.”

  Conversations wrap up not long after that, and as the night is growing late, the room disperses.

  “Are you heading to bed as well?” Mirzayael asks.

  “Soon,” I tell her, scanning the day’s notes. God, I can’t wait until we have a disposable amount of paper at our fingertips. “Just a few more things I want to wrap up.”

  “Alright.” She lingers in the doorway. “Though I have trust in my guards, I still am not entirely trustful of the outsiders who are staying with us. I would feel better if you did not sleep alone and unguarded.”

  I look up at her, raising an amused eyebrow. “Stationing guards outside our rooms seems a bit overkill. Then we really would feel like royalty, wouldn’t we?”

  Mirzayael doesn’t appear to share my amusement. “That woman you pointed out before leaves me uneasy. Perhaps it was nothing, as you said, but on the off chance there is some deeper conspiracy afoot, I am willing to spend the night in your chambers to ensure your safety.”

  “And who will ensure your safety?” I tease, shaking my head. “Lisari left with the other scholars. I’m not concerned about any of our guests who stayed.”

  “If that is your wish,” Mirzayael says. “Goodnight, Fyre.”

  “Goodnight, Mir.” I smile fondly as she leaves the room.

  I finish up my work and begin to descend through the layers of the palace. I’m halfway to the Jorrian cells when it abruptly hits me: Was she asking to spend the night with me?

  I smack my forehead and drag my hand down my face. Fyre, you fool, I think. She wasn’t even being particularly subtle about it—I’m just that boneheaded. I consider mentally reaching out to her, but I’m not sure what to say. Not to mention, I still have one last task to complete before I turn in. With a sigh, I continue my descent to the Jorrians.

  There’s a guard posted at each of their doors. I pass over Ragna’s cell and ask to step inside Gardi’s. The guard steps aside and unlocks the door to let me in.

  Gardi glances up in surprise when I enter. They’re lying on the folded blanket I’d given them. Not under it, though; as I’d heard from many other felis, this palace feels unusually warm to them now that it’s heated and we’re out of the arctic. I might fiddle with the atmospheric spell settings to lower the temperature a bit, if that’s what most of the Fyrethians would prefer. (Yet another task on my unending to-do list.)

  “Hello, Gardi,” I say as they sit up. “Have you been eating well?”

  They give me a curious look. Not the same suspicious look they originally regarded me with, but perhaps a level of puzzlement. Beneath that, though, is an undercurrent of weariness. It’s etched deep into the lines of their face.

  “Yes,” they say as I sit down across from them. “Yesterday I was given soup and greens—at least I think it was yesterday. I cannot keep track of time in this place.”

  Leftovers from the festival. Good, I wasn’t sure if the guards would follow through on my request to send some of the excess to our prisoners. Somehow, we managed to produce more food for the feast than was eaten, so now we’re in a scramble to reuse as much as we can before any of it goes to waste.

  “Yes, that was yesterday,” I tell them. “And right now, it’s night. I’ll try to get something installed in this passage to better simulate the natural light outside.”

  “Why?” they ask. Again, not suspicious, just wearily baffled.

  “Because it would improve your quality of life,” I say. I dig a package out of my bag and hold it out. After a moment, they gingerly accept.

  “Have you decided what you want to do?” I ask them as they pick at the twine. “We are currently at Mount Haze, and we’ll be dropping Ragna off in the city in the next few days. We could drop you off there, too.”

  They slowly shake their head as they unfold the wrappings. “She would not wish for me to accompany her. It would be best for me to give her that space.” They peel open the package to reveal a brush and a small box. They tip their head. “What’s this?”

  “The brush I think is obvious,” I say. I’ve noticed how meticulous some felis can be about grooming. “And that is a puzzle box. I figured you could use something to occupy your time. I’d rather offer you a book, but we don’t have any yet.”

  Gardi stares at them for a moment, then up at me. “What do you want?”

  “This isn’t bribery,” I tell them. “I understand how terrible the isolation must be. Without Ragna to talk to… Well, this seemed the only thing I could really offer.”

  Gardi sighs through their nose, and leans back against the wall. “I don’t understand why you are offering such kindness. It’s difficult for me to trust you. I still don’t quite understand why you trust me.”

  I suspect there’s nothing I can say that would change their mind at this point. But perhaps I can show them.

  I hold out my hands, palm up. “Here. Let me show you why I feel the way I do.”

  They eye me suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “I have a psionic spell that allows me to speak mind-to-mind,” I explain. “It only works if we’re in physical contact. If you won’t believe my words, perhaps you will believe my conviction.”

  Gardi doesn’t move. “You want me to submit to a mind spell? How do I know it’s not mind control?”

  I give them a disappointed look. “If I wanted to violate your autonomy, do you think I would be asking?” When Gardi still looks unsure, I soften my expression, offering an encouraging smile. “Trust me on this one thing, and I will not ask you to trust me on anything else.”

  Gardi stares at my hands for a long stretch of silence. I stay still, allowing them to think it through. I feel much like a child attempting to coax a frightened cat out from under the porch with a bit of food.

  “Okay.”

  They swallow, hesitantly reaching out a hand. I quickly segregate my Psionic Links so Gardi won’t catch any of their thoughts by accident. The felis’s fur brushes against my fingers as they carefully touch my fingers with the barest of touch.

  [Psionic Touch activated.]

  Gardi stiffens, their hair puffing up, as their mind timidly makes contact with my own. I don’t say anything, careful not to overwhelm them, but simply open my mind and emanate a sense of warmth and openness, letting them venture forward at their own pace.

  It takes some time, but they eventually do. I can feel their fear and uncertainty. Their guilt. Their regret. Thoughts of their family swim through their mind, dripping with heartache; they believe there is no going. The thoughts are sharp and painful, and tears prickle at my eyes as I feel their emotions as if they were my own.

  Gardi wanders through my mind, touching on an occasional feeling or memory. I don’t give them access to everything; I retain knowledge of my interdimensional nature. But they find the feelings I still have for my daughter, who I’ll never see again, and they find the warmth I feel for the people I’ve come to know here. They linger at my compassion and resolve, like warming themself before a fire.

  Eventually, they pull away. They look away, scratching at a cheek before discretely brushing at one of their eyes. “I’m your prisoner,” they finally say, voice hoarse. “You should see me as your enemy.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to be enemies,” I say. “And maybe you don’t have to be a prisoner.”

  They look up with a weary frown. “What are you suggesting?”

  “A second chance,” I say. I’d discussed this already with Mirzayael. She thought it was foolish, but she didn’t stop me; I suspect mostly because she thought Gardi wouldn’t accept. “You believe you won’t be welcomed home. And you have no interest in leaving with Ragna. We could drop you in some far away city, if that’s what you prefer—or you could stay with us.”

  Gardi looks at me like I’ve just grown horns and a goatee. “You want to free me? You want me to become a Fyrethian?”

  “Perhaps in time,” I admit. “But your actions against us can’t be entirely dismissed. You would need to work for your freedom. Give back to the community. Earn your place among our people.”

  Gardi continues to stare for several seconds longer, then lets out a mirthless laugh, resting their forehead in their hands as they shake their head. “You are asking me to defect.”

  “I am asking you to keep an open mind,” I say. “Perhaps we are not as evil as you believe.”

  “I don’t believe you are evil, Lord Fyre,” Gardi says with a sigh. “The gods have punished those undeserving of retribution before.”

  I tip my head, faintly surprised by this. I also wonder what other people they might be referring to. “If you don’t think we’re evil, then why are you set so firmly against us?”

  “They’re the gods.” They look up at me. “For Jorria to view me as a traitor is one thing. For the heavens to view me as a traitor is something much more.”

  “Is that how most of Jorria sees our subjugation?” I ask them. “Pitiable, but necessary to avoid the gods’ wrath themselves?”

  Gardi picks up the puzzle box, turning it over in their hands to avoid looking at me. “It’s complicated. Varied. Outside of the clergy, most didn’t even believe you were more than myth before we marched on your kingdom.”

  This is an interesting nugget to chew on. The two Jorrian representatives we’d interacted with, Biorne and Alis, had both been in the clergy. Were they not representative of the majority of the population? Or is that merely wishful thinking?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. “Is it similar with the rest of the world?” I ask, finally getting to the crux of why I came to speak to them. “Do they believe we are myth?”

  Gardi shakes their head. “I don’t know. I’ve never left Jorria. Had never left. It wasn’t something I ever talked with foreigners about. Though…” They pause for a long moment. “...Though if I were to guess, I’d suspect they’ve long forgotten. It was already fading from importance within our kingdom, and no one would have more reason to care than us.”

  This is potentially good news. If the rest of the world doesn’t even remember Fyreneth, we have an opportunity to reinvent ourselves without the stigma of being marked by the gods. Indeed, everyone we’ve interacted with so far seem to know nothing of our history or treat us with any suspicion.

  That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t continue to be careful, however. Things could still be written in history books; those with enough curiosity and determination would likely learn of our origins. The question is, what would they do with that information?

  “Thank you for your insight,” I say. “And consider my offer. You don’t have to decide today. Though if you change your mind and would like to be dropped off in Mount Haze with Ragna—”

  “No,” they say firmly.

  But they hadn’t firmly said no to considering my offer.

  “Just think about it,” I repeat. “Whether or not you believe the gods will target us again, you’re here now. You’ll suffer the same fate as us. The question is, would you like to do something productive with your time while you’re here?”

  I push myself to my feet. “Rest well, Gardi. Please reach out through the guards if you need anything.”

  Gardi doesn’t say anything else as I leave, and not for the first time, I wonder what I am doing. Mirzayael had asked the same: Why spend so much time and effort on one individual? I’m not sure myself. Maybe I just want to believe they’ve been misled, and their bigotry stems from an indoctrination of lies rather than true hate.

  Or is there any difference in the motivation if the outcome is the same? I don’t know.

  Maybe I just want to believe in second chances.

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