(Fourthday of the Fourth Week of Krakrenra, 669 AC)

  “Thank you, again,” Dahlia said, bowing to the shopkeeper, a man by the name of Crez, as she backed toward the door of the shop.

  “Don’t thank me,” he grumbled, clearly still not happy about doing business with her, even considering the nature of her request and the sum of money she’d agreed to pay upon its completion. “And don’t tell anyone it was me!” he shouted after her, just before the door swung shut behind her.

  Dahlia stopped outside the shop, allowing herself to clasp her hands together and let out a little squeal of delight. Someone had actually agreed to work with her! It had taken a lot of asking around, even more rejection, but finally she had found a sculptor that would craft a statue to act as a memorial for those in Shraven that lost their lives in the war. He said it should only take a few weeks for what he wanted to make, too, which only made Dahlia jump up and down.

  Finally, something was going her way.

  Passersby were looking at her. She quickly composed herself, clearing her throat, but she couldn’t fight the smile that still overtook her features. And why should she? Things were finally looking up.

  She nodded to herself and started down the street back toward the church. She hadn’t even had to use all the money the church had agreed to send her, so maybe she would go to the market and buy something nice for dinner. Surely Wanily would appreciate a good meal rather than the porridge and occasional haul brought from the forest, courtesy of Eko.

  Mind made up, she adjusted her course and turned down the street at the next junction, toward where she thought she remembered the nearest bakery was.

  The summer sun shone brightly down on her, the heat of the afternoon warmer than what was pleasant. Dahlia found, though, that it didn’t bother her. It was a beautiful day.

  Harriet crossed her arms and leaned against the wall of her home, waiting. Wanily thrust her hand out and tossed up the pebble that had previously been in her palm. Harriet watched as it rose through the air, as expected, but once it reached the height of its path, it slowed drastically. It took several seconds for the stone to return to Wanily’s waiting hand, and she grinned up at Harriet, smug.

  “Finally figured it out after all,” Harriet said. She found herself smiling and quickly put a stop to that, not that it mattered. Wanily had already spotted it, and it only made her grin wider. “What would you like to learn next? I figure I can either teach you how to create fire, or you can start trying to access soul magic.”

  Wanily considered this, if her long pause and thoughtful expression were any indicators. “It would be really useful to know how to make fire,” she mused. “What can you even do with soul magic?”

  Harriet grimaced. Soul magic was a bit of an enigma, even to skilled old magic mages like her. The art had lost many of its practitioners during the Cataclysm, and then almost all of the remaining masters of soul magic died during the Necroplague pandemic. Necroalgae targeted the soul, after all, and no practice enlarged the soul quite like soul magic itself.

  That being the case, there was only so much Harriet knew how to do with soul magic, and none of it was very flashy. She could teach Wanily how to heat or cool her body temperature by manipulating the very edges of her soul, but then, a fire could warm her just as easily. Another decent starting point with soul magic--and pretty much the only other thing Harriet knew how to do with it--was amplify another spell by drawing more energy from the soul. But Wanily knew so few spells as it was. It would probably be in her better interest to learn how to create fire.

  “Not enough to justify teaching you that over how to make a fire,” Harriet eventually decided. “You should probably find this easier than harnessing gravity magic--you already know how to use energy magic. That’s all that fire really relies on.”

  “Cool!” Wanily said, eyes shining. “Let’s do it, then.”

  Harriet nodded. She figured that Wanily would be less likely to burn her house down if they practiced fire out in the street, so she grabbed some firewood and headed outside. Wanily scrambled to follow.

  Harriet set the first piece of firewood on the ground about ten paces from the front of her house and pointed at it. “Fire is a chain reaction. It requires heat, air, and something to burn. As mages, we will provide the heat as heat is just a form of energy.” Wanily nodded slowly, and Harriet continued, “We turn our magic into energy and pour it into a specific point. That is the easiest way to create fire.”

  Harriet focused on the piece of wood then, drawing on her magic and pushing it into a point in the middle of the firewood. Almost immediately, enough magic had pooled inside the wood to spark a small flame.

  “Wow,” Wanily said, brows raising. “That’s way easier than the usual way. You didn’t even need kindling.”

  “Convenient, huh?” Harriet nodded, more to herself than anything. “You might want to close your eyes,” she added, glancing at Wanily.

  Wanily frowned but did so, and Harriet pulled on the heat from the fire and transformed it to a burst of light, extinguishing the flames. It was the most harmless way she knew to put out fires, but transforming one form of energy to another would probably be a bit advanced for Wanily right now. For now, she would just have Wanily focus on starting a fire, not putting one out.

  Wanily jumped at the sudden flash of light even with her eyes closed. She cautiously peeked one eye open, then blinked first at the piece of firewood then at Harriet. “You put the fire out,” she said, “by turning it to light?”

  “More or less,” Harriet said. “Remember: fire requires heat. I took the heat from the flames and turned it to light, and that’s what extinguished it.”

  Wanily hummed in thought, her gaze falling back to the piece of firewood. Harriet thought she was just looking at it and pondering, so she was startled when a small fire burst forward from the middle of the piece of wood.

  “Hey, I did it,” Wanily said. She smiled. “That was way easier than using gravity magic.”

  Harriet, for just a moment, was speechless. Wanily had picked up on the new skill much quicker than she had anticipated. Admittedly, fire was rather easy to create, but still--Wanily had never done it before. And now she heard Harriet explain it once and managed to do it?

  “Right, well,” Harriet said, a little ruffled, “that’s all I had for today. Why don’t you go practice making more fires? I’m sure you can find some harmless things to burn around town.”

  “What about putting it out?” Wanily asked.

  Harriet grunted. “Focus on starting fires for now. Like I said, to put it out I turned the heat to light, so if you can figure out how to do that, by all means, go ahead and try.”

  Wanily hummed again, squinting at the piece of firewood. The flame continued to crackle and grow, and after several seconds, Wanily’s shoulders fell. “Yeah, that one’s not as easy, I think.”

  Harriet snorted. “No, it isn’t. Took me ages to figure it out.” She glanced at the fire and put it out with another burst of light. Wanily yelped, caught off guard this time and squeezing her eyes shut. Harriet laughed. “Run along, Wanily. Go practice.”

  Wanily rubbed at her eyes, blinked a few times, then nodded. Harriet watched her race away with an uncomfortable feeling squirming in her chest.

  Damn, she was getting attached to the kid, wasn’t she?

  Two weeks passed by in a blur. On the third day, Dahlia received the money from the church to pay the artist and promptly paid him half of it--the other half would be handed over when he completed the project. Crez counted each mark right in front of Dahlia like he thought she would try to short him, and when he found the correct amount there, he merely grunted.

  “I already started the memorial,” he said, tucking the bundle of marks into his back pocket. “Should be ready by the first week of Krakrenro.”

  “Perfect,” Dahlia said. Crez grunted again and turned away from her, so she took her leave.

  In the days that followed, she spent her time sewing, cooking, and walking the forest with Wanily. Apparently, Harriet taught Wanily how to use her magic to create fire, and it was all she did lately. Dahlia couldn’t really blame her--Wanily wanted to learn magic, and she was. It had to be very exciting.

  Not once had she seen Darik since he came and offered his ultimatum, and she was glad for it. She didn’t know how to tell him that she wasn’t about to leave Fris behind without giving one more shot at reaching the hearts of the people. He might take it as a refusal of his proposition, which Dahlia didn’t want to commit to just yet.

  If the memorial didn’t work... maybe then she would consider going back. Returning to Tiranda to never return. What would happen to Wanily if she left Fris, though? As much as she didn’t want to abandon her duties here, she didn’t want to abandon Wanily even more.

  But then, Tiranda was basically the capital of all things magic. If Wanily wanted to keep learning magic, maybe Dahlia could convince her to travel with Tiranda with her. It wasn’t like she or her family had very much, but Dahlia would bet anything that her parents would accept her into their fold.

  It seemed like a perfect compromise. Dahlia would try her best here one last time, and if nothing came of it, then she would go home, hopefully with Wanily in tow. It was the least she could do for Wanily--and for herself.

  She brought it up to Wanily the day before Crez promised the memorial would be ready. Dahlia was leaning against the counter on one side of the room, and Wanily was sitting on the counter against the other wall. She swung her legs back and forth and watched the fire--that she lit--crackle in the fireplace, the both of them enjoying some comfortable silence.

  Dahlia took a deep breath and changed that. “Wanily? Have you ever thought of traveling to the eastern continent?”

  Wanily dragged her gaze to Dahlia, cocking her head. “Well, I think that’s where the Archmage lives, so when I become the Archmage I think I’ll have to go east. But other than that, not really. Why?”

  “Well,” Dahlia started, feeling a little uncertain now, “there’s a college, you know, for magic in Tiranda. I mean, there are other colleges for magic, but the College of Lo Lenney is the college for learning magic.”

  Wanily blinked at her. “What’s a college?”

  Dahlia smiled. “A college is like a more prestigious school, usually for adults. I think you have to be a certain age to attend the College of Lo Lenney, but I could be wrong about that. I never attended it, myself.”

  Wanily tapped a finger against the countertop, clearly thinking. “Does it teach new or old magic?” she asked.

  “Both..?” Dahlia said, unsure. It made sense that a school as renowned as the College of Lo Lenney would teach all kinds of magic. Dahlia just didn’t know, though. “I think, at least.”

  “But Harriet is teaching me magic,” Wanily said after another moment. “I don’t need to go to a college or whatever.”

  Dahlia nodded, something twisting in her gut. “Right. I was just mentioning it, you know, in case you ever... wanted to go to Tiranda.”

  Wanily stared at her with her big, golden eyes. It felt like she could see into her very soul, and Dahlia resisted the urge to squirm. “You’re thinking about going home to your brother, aren’t you?” Wanily finally asked.

  It wasn’t accusatory. If anything, Wanily asked it very gently, but it still made Dahlia’s chest tighten. “It’s just in case,” she said. “Just in case the memorial doesn’t go over well.”

  Wanily nodded. She looked at the ground as she asked, “And... you’d want me to go with you?”

  Dahlia swallowed hard, closing her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Well, Eko would have to come, too,” Wanily said. “He could fly, though, and wait for us in Tiranda.”

  Dahlia’s eyes snapped open in surprise. Wanily was still watching the ground, though, unwilling to meet Dahlia’s gaze. She realized then--Dahlia had been afraid of a harsh rejection, but Wanily was just as nervous at the prospect.

  Dahlia smiled, then, even if Wanily wasn’t looking to see it. “Of course. I wouldn’t try to take Eko away from you. Although,” she said, chuckling slightly, “my parents’ house might be a little small for a griffin. I’m sure we can figure it out, though.”

  Wanily smiled, still not meeting Dahlia’s eye. “And I’d still get to learn magic. At the college.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Dahlia answered it like one anyway. “Yes. If I leave Fris, Wanily, I don’t want to just abandon you here. You...” she trailed off, uncertain how to encompass everything she was thinking into words.

  Wanily had been so kind to Dahlia, the first person in Fris that had been genuinely nice to her. She was ambitious and passionate and--and more than that, she was just a good person. Dahlia was coming to realize that was rare enough in itself. She didn’t want to leave Wanily behind.

  Maybe it was just the big sister in her, but she wanted to protect Wanily as much as she could.

  “I want you to come with me,” Dahlia finally said.

  “Only if the memorial goes bad,” Wanily said.

  “Only if the memorial goes bad,” Dahlia confirmed.

  Wanily grinned. “It won’t. But if it does, I’ll come with you.”

  Dahlia found herself smiling back. “Good.”

  The next day, Dahlia woke early to head to Crez’s workshop. He stood just outside the door, smoking from a pipe and frowning at the world. His frown only deepened when he caught sight of Dahlia walking down the street toward him.

  “Got the money?” he asked once she was close enough.

  Dahlia almost just handed it over, but she rallied herself. “I’d like to see the memorial first, please,” she said.

  Crez grunted and turned to head into the workshop. Dahlia followed him, just barely stopping the door from smacking into her when Crez let go of it. She should have expected that Crez wouldn’t hold it open for her.

  He glanced at the hearth in the corner of the room, and Dahlia jumped when it suddenly roared to life. Stupid old magic and its lack of indicators, she thought.

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  In the middle of the room was, presumably, a statue, but it was covered by a tarp. Crez marched right up to it and yanked the tarp off, revealing the memorial statue below.

  It was beautiful. Carved out of a pale stone was the image of a man with long, flowing hair cradling a child to his chest. Even made out of stone, it was clear that the child was limp. At the man’s feet was an inscription: For those lost in senseless war. May Moss remember your souls.

  The man was undoubtedly supposed to be Moss, the old god of souls. Dahlia would have preferred a depiction of Amera, but she knew that wasn’t what the memorial was about. This was about healing the wounds the people of Fris had suffered, and deferring to the god they worshipped rather than the god Dahlia wished they worshipped would go further in accomplishing that.

  “It’s wonderful,” Dahlia breathed, stepping forward. She walked in a circle around the statue, appreciating the artistry of it. And Crez was able to accomplish this all in two weeks? He must have used magic to help him get in done in such a short time.

  “Great,” Crez deadpanned. “My money?”

  “Right,” Dahlia said, a little flustered. She pulled out a bag of the remaining marks she owed him and handed it over. Again, he counted it all and nodded when he found all the money there. Dahlia pursed her lips when he moved to leave. “So how do I move it to the town square?” she asked.

  “Not my problem,” he said, waving to her without turning around. “I’ll leave the workshop unlocked for the next two hours, so it better be gone by the time I get back.”

  He left, then, and Dahlia looked back at the statue at a loss. There was no way she could carry it, she had no equipment to move it, and she didn’t know enough magic to be able to do anything in that regard. But, maybe, she didn’t have to be the one to move it. She nodded to herself and rushed back to the church.

  Wanily was not happy to be woken up so early, but she listened to Dahlia’s plight with half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, I can move it,” she said, yawning halfway through the statement. “Maybe not all the way to the square though. You don’t have a cart or something like that?”

  “There was a small pallet with wheels back in Crez’s workshop,” Dahlia said, thinking back. “Could you move it onto that, and then move that to the square?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Wanily said, moving to tug on her boots. When she was done, she stood and yawned again. “Lead the way.”

  Dahlia brought her back to Crez’s workshop, and Wanily stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of the statue. “Wow, he did a good job,” she said.

  Dahlia smiled. “I think so, too.” She turned to the pallet she saw earlier and pulled it next to the statue. It would be just big enough to hold the statue, hopefully. Maybe Dahlia should feel bad about using Crez’s equipment without his permission, but, well, she needed to use it. And she would bring it back. No harm, no foul, right?

  Wanily moved in front of the statue and put her hands on her hips. “Looks heavy,” she announced.

  Dahlia chuckled. “Yes, that too.”

  “Can you stand on that side and push it?” Wanily said, pointing to the side opposite of the pallet.

  “I can’t push it onto the pallet,” Dahlia said slowly.

  Wanily rolled her eyes. “I know that. I’m going to amplify the force of your push.”

  Dahlia was suddenly nervous. “That won’t break it, right?”

  Wanily huffed, “I’ll be careful. Do you trust me or not?”

  “Right.” Dahlia said, more to herself. “Okay, I’ll just... push the statue.”

  She moved to where Wanily pointed, putting her right along Moss’s back, which would at least give her a good area to push. She put both hands on the statue and, feeling a little ridiculous, put as much strength as she could into pushing it. Of course, it didn’t so much as budge.

  “Perfect,” Wanily said. In the next instant, the statue suddenly began to tip over, and Dahlia yelped, almost falling over with it. She inhaled sharply as the statue fell toward the pallet, but before it could crash into it and break into a million pieces, its fall suddenly slowed. When it landed on the pallet, it was as softly as a mother kissing her sleeping baby.

  “There,” Wanily said. “Now, start trying to move the pallet, and I’ll help you push it along.”

  Dahlia, feeling much less ridiculous, moved to the handle of the pallet and started trying to move it toward the door. Again, it didn’t move so much as an inch before suddenly lurching forward, no doubt thanks to Wanily. Dahlia struggled to slow the pallet down, but Wanily merely jogged over until she was next to the statue. The roll of the pallet suddenly slowed to a more manageable pace, and Dahlia continued to steer it along. The pallet barely fit through the door, but it did fit. And with that, they made their way to the square under the early morning light.

  When they reached the corner of the square where Dahlia usually preached, Dahlia had Wanily stop the pallet. In turn, Wanily had Dahlia try lifting the statue up, and just like before, it jumped into motion the second after Dahlia fruitlessly attempted to move it.

  “Is that good?” Wanily asked when the statue was settled on the ground.

  The inscription faced the greater area of the square, so Dahlia nodded. Just in time, too, it seemed--people were beginning to wake and move around the city. Dahlia asked, “Can you bring the pallet back to Crez’s workshop? I’d like to stay with the memorial for a little while.”

  Wanily shrugged. “Alright. But I’m going back to sleep after that.”

  Dahlia smiled. “Sounds good. Sleep well, Wanily.”

  Wanily took her leave, and Dahlia remained next to the statue, hands clasped in front of her and smiling at the people that passed her. More than one person slowed down to look over the statue, their severe expression softening slightly as they took it in.

  “You made this?” one townsperson stopped and asked.

  Crez said he didn’t want to be outed as the person that worked with Dahlia, so she merely replied, “It was a commission. I hope it invokes a sense of peace within you.”

  The person grunted and continued on, but at least they didn’t spit at her or cuss her out. That, more than anything, was a sign of progress, Dahlia thought.

  Later in the morning, some children gathered around the statue. Dahlia doubted they could read the inscription, but they stared at it with wide eyes. Dahlia smiled at all of them but decided not to say anything. It seemed the right decision when, after a long while, one of the little girls pulled out a flower from one of her pockets and laid it at the statue’s feet.

  It was the first of many. Most people ignored her when they did it, but as the morning turned into the afternoon, townspeople began stopping by the statue and laying flowers at its base. Sometimes, she heard them murmur a name as they did so, or even just a simple supplication for Moss to remember those lost.

  Dahlia had only stayed with the statue so that people would know who had it made. So, as lunchtime rolled around, she made her way back to the church, nearly shaking with giddiness. People had been receptive to the memorial! It wasn’t the conversion to the Church of Amera that Dahlia wanted, but it was a first step in helping these people move on from the war. She would take what she could get.

  When she reached the church, she found Wanily still slumbering away, so she stayed in the main area and decided to pray, thanking Amera for allowing the people of Fris to feel her love. It wasn’t much, but it finally felt like a first step toward something better.

  Knocking at the door roused Harriet from where she was dozing in a chair in front of the fireplace. She’d been unable to sleep, tossing and turning with memories of her family plaguing her last night. So she’d come downstairs and sat in front of the fire, allowing herself to think of lost siblings and parents and grandparents until she, apparently, nodded off.

  She took a moment to stretch before getting up and answering the door. It was Nicholas, looking far too ruffled for her tastes. Immediately, her drowsiness evaporated. “What’s wrong?”

  “That priestess,” he ground out, “is making waves in our city again.”

  “Who got hurt?” Harriet demanded.

  “No one,” Nicholas said. “Yet.” At Harriet’s look of confusion, he sighed. “She’s had a statue commissioned. It’s up in the town square now, and people are laying flowers at its feet.”

  Harriet furrowed her brow. “You mean our people actually care what that priestess is getting up to?”

  “People have already started coming to me,” Nicholas said. “Saying that the statue is beautiful and that maybe the priestess is finally coming to understand us. You know what this means, Harriet?”

  “They’re growing complacent,” Harriet said. “Maybe even receptive. Show me.”

  Nicholas nodded and waited for Harriet to slip on some shoes before leading her toward the town square where the priestess usually tried to spread her gospel. Just as Nicholas promised, there was a statue off to the side of the square depicting Moss holding a dead child. Harriet saw red just looking at it.

  “Who made it?” she demanded.

  “No one knows,” Nicholas replied. “There are only a few people in town that could have made something like that, though. I have some of my men out trying to figure out who did it.”

  “Why would they work with her?”

  Nicholas sighed. “I’m sure she promised more money than any of our artists have seen in a long time.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Harriet spat. “They should know better than to work with the enemy.”

  There were dozens of flowers at the base of the statue. Harriet shrugged Nicholas off when he tried to lay a hand on her shoulder, marching up to the statue and glaring at it. It wasn’t anything special. It had some insipid inscription at the bottom. It was a depiction of Moss, but there were hundreds of statues of Moss all over the country. So what about this statue was turning Harriet’s people against her?

  Why would they care about anything that priestess did when she and her people were the ones responsible for everything wrong with Fris?

  Harriet didn’t even really think about it. One moment, she was angry and hurt and ready. The next, she thought of her family and suddenly she was furious. This priestess thought a statue would fix things? That a piece of rock would make up for the thousands of lives lost in a war perpetrated by her church and her country.

  And it was working on some of Harriet’s countrymen.

  No. She wouldn’t allow it.

  She focused on a point inside the statue and poured as much kinetic energy into it as she could muster. Breaking apart rock from the inside was no easy feat, but there was a resounding crack, fissures appearing in the surface of the statue before it suddenly burst apart like a bubble popping. Chunks of rock flew a short distance away, raining down around Harriet and the former statue’s base. People in the square stopped and stared.

  Harriet didn’t care. She could only feel a grim satisfaction at seeing the affront to her country laid in pieces on the ground.

  “We should go,” Nicholas’s voice rumbled from just behind her, and Harriet started, not realizing he had followed her. She glanced around the square, noting the guards that were slowly approaching their position.

  Harriet swallowed, hard. She had destroyed the memorial. The Empire had handed out harsh punishments for far less.

  She nodded, following Nicholas as they hurried from the square. A couple of guards tailed them, she noticed, but once they reach Stevan’s inn, no one followed them inside.

  Harriet could only sit at one of the tables and feel numb. She had destroyed the memorial. Now, she was sure the Empire would destroy her.

  Dahlia jumped when she heard a knock at the door of the church, already dreading the encounter she knew awaited her when she opened the door. It would be Darik, she was sure, come to talk about her memorial and how it was wasted on the people of Fris. But Dahlia had seen it. People were starting to care that she cared. She would not be deterred by anything Darik said.

  With that thought in mind, she marched to the door and flung it open.

  Just as she predicted, Darik waited on the other side. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and he smiled at her as soon as their eyes met.

  “Hello, sister,” he greeted. “I’m afraid I come bearing some bad news.”

  Dahlia's heart clenched, certain that he was about to tell her that Quiv had passed. “What’s wrong?”

  “You put up a memorial earlier today, correct?” he said, and Dahlia deflated slightly. So he was here about the memorial after all--at least he didn’t come bearing news of her brother’s death.

  “That’s right,” Dahlia said. She could have gone on to tell Darik to save his breath if he was about to tell her how useless it was, but she bit her tongue. No need to antagonize the man with the sword, after all.

  “I’m afraid it’s been destroyed,” Darik said.

  Dahlia felt all the breath leave her at once. “Destroyed?” she said faintly.

  “Yes. It seems one of these Frisian barbarians decided they didn’t like what it stood for and destroyed it.” Darik smiled, and Dahlia shivered at the sight. “As property of the Empire, they will have to be punished accordingly.”

  “Do you know who did it?” Dahlia asked, not sure if she had the stomach to find out what kind of punishment Darik would think was fitting for this crime.

  “Witnesses claim it was destroyed by old magic,” Darik said. “But there were two individuals in front of the statue when it broke. Do you know of Nicholas and Harriet?”

  Of course she knew of Nicholas and Harriet, and Darik must know that. They were basically the leaders of the city and her two staunchest, most out-spoken protesters. “I do,” Dahlia said slowly. “You think it was one of them?”

  “So it stands to reason,” Darik said. “I have men headed to apprehend them as we speak. We’ll find which one did it, and they will be made into an example.”

  Dahlia swallowed, hard. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sister,” Darik said, like he thought she was stupid but was trying to remain polite, “that whoever is responsible for the destruction of your memorial will be executed.”

  Dahlia gaped at him. That would do the exact opposite of what she was trying to accomplish! Killing one of the town leaders just because they destroyed Dahlia’s attempt at reconciliation? It was completely absurd!

  But then, Darik must know that, too. And Dahlia knew that he was just looking for an excuse to bring an iron fist down on this city. If the people rallied because Nicholas or Harriet died at the Empire’s hands, Darik would get what he wanted. Everything was falling into place for him.

  “No,” Dahlia said.

  Darik raised one eyebrow, clearly amused. “No?”

  “You will not put either of them to death,” Dahlia said. “I won’t allow it.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have any say in matters such as this, sister.” Darik said. “These types of decisions fall to me.”

  He was right in that regard. Dahlia had no power when it came to discipline of the people or maintaining order in the city, which was what Darik would undoubtedly claim this was. “You know the Empire frowns on acts of extreme violence,” she said, trying a different angle. “They got rid of the general that annexed Fris exactly for that.”

  Darik laughed right in her face. “This is hardly the same as that, sister. Now, I came here in good faith to inform you what happened and what will happen as a consequence. If you cannot stomach it, I suggest you take me up on my deal.”

  Dahlia wilted. The memorial obviously hadn’t gone over well, and she had already told Wanily that if it didn’t, they would leave. But Darik was making her less and less inclined to accept his offer with every word from his mouth.

  Darik was obviously waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t know what to say. It felt like the height of failure to accept his deal now. It also felt pointless to stay if people like Harriet and Nicholas were going to work so hard against her.

  But maybe Dahlia simply was a failure.

  “Maybe you’re right, Commander,” she murmured. “But allow me to think on it a little longer?”

  “You have until the end of the week, sister,” Darik said. “That’s when the next boat leaves for Tiranda. But I imagine your efforts won’t bear many fruits after this blunder. If you want my advice, cut your losses and help those that actually want it.”

  He said it so kindly, but Dahlia knew that he wanted her gone for a reason. Still, she simply nodded and closed the door before he could say anything further.

  She sighed, resisting the urge to thump her head against the door and turned around. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Wanily standing behind her.

  “Was that the asshole commander?” Wanily asked.

  Dahlia took a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t talk about people that way,” she scolded. “But yes.”

  “What did he want?” Wanily asked.

  This was not Wanily’s fight. As a foreigner, she had no stake in the affairs of Fris or the Empire. After a moment of hesitation, she said, “Someone destroyed the memorial, so he gave me until the end of the week to make a decision on whether or not to return to Tiranda.”

  Wanily gawked at her. “Who would destroy it? It was so nice!”

  Dahlia didn’t have the heart to tell her it was probably the person she was learning magic from. But if Darik’s men took her into custody, then Wanily would find out before very long. “Harriet,” she murmured.

  Wanily was silent for a long time, eyes searching Dahlia’s face. Finally, all she said was, “Oh.”

  “It’s not known for sure, though,” Dahlia added, sounding a little desperate even to her own ears. “All they know for sure is that the memorial was destroyed by old magic, but we’re in Fris--practically everyone knows old magic.”

  “It’s not easy to generate enough energy to break a rock with nothing but old magic,” Wanily said grimly. “And Harriet is always so angry at the Empire. It makes sense that it was her.”

  “I’m sorry, Wanily,” Dahlia said.

  Wanily sighed. She was quiet for a moment before asking, “Are we going to Tiranda, then?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? The one that Dahlia still didn’t know the answer to even after all of this. “Do you want to go to Tiranda?” she asked.

  Wanily shrugged, not meeting her eye. “I can’t learn magic from Harriet if they throw her in prison, right? So I can either look for someone else in Fris to teach me, or I can go to that school you were talking about.”

  Wanily hadn’t heard that they were going to kill whoever destroyed the memorial. Dahlia wasn’t about to tell her the truth. “Right.”

  “I’d rather stay with you,” Wanily confessed in a rush. “If that’s alright.”

  And despite everything else, Dahlia smiled. “You want to go to Tiranda?”

  Wanily nodded.

  Dahlia reigned in the sigh that threatened to escape her. She would swallow her pride, then. For Wanily and for Quiv. Fris didn’t want her, and frankly, though Dahlia wanted to help them, she was tired of their hatred toward her.

  “Okay,” Dahlia said. “Then we’ll go to Tiranda.”