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The days that follow become monotonous tedium. Most of the others are lethargic from the heat but busy themselves around the camp rather than remaining still. They are a sombre bunch without Esra to taunt and tantalise them. He remains within Baltisse’s cabin, making slow improvement with the persuasion of the mage’s odd remedies. She seems put out that she cannot conjure the power to heal him fully and redirects her energies by making salves for his skin and tonics for the pain. It is Gerrot who becomes Baltisse’s right-hand man in nursing Esra. He helps to lift him, clean his wounds, collect herbs, and it makes Dawsyn think of his late wife, Mavah, a medicine woman of the Ledge. She wonders if he once assisted her up on the mountain before he was selected.

Baltisse, shockingly, allows his interference. Perhaps it is his inability to speak that appeals to her. The two remain sequestered in the cabin with Esra, watching over him without respite. By the third day in their new settlement, Esra’s cries of agony begin to cease. He is finally healing.

Salem nurses his rage quietly, and there is not one amongst their party who dare chastise him for his self-pity. Every so often, Dawsyn sees his glare divert back to Ruby, but he makes no more effort to confront her.

Ruby makes attempts to appease the others. She offers to collect water, to cook, to clean Esra’s bandages, and it serves to slowly thaw Salem’s hostility toward her. Eventually, he makes peace with the captain’s obvious remorse.

Hector asks incessant questions to whoever will answer. He is intrigued by the mixed and their way of life, by Terrsaw, by all that he sees. Dawsyn remembers feeling the same when she first set foot in this strange valley, though she was radically less annoying about it. Tasheem grows tired of the man quickly, threatening to dump him back on the Ledge if he continues. Hector, who has spent his life fearing the Glacians, heeds the warning immediately.

Dawsyn, who is unused to being in close quarters with so many, opts to slip away as often as possible. She is made uncomfortable by more than one internal struggle, and it makes present company and the lack of any activity all the more unbearable.

She wanders the woods under the guise of surveillance and stalks the perimeter of the camp at a wide radius. She listens for the sounds of an unfamiliar approach, perhaps from a Terrsaw guard or a wayward traveller, but the bulk of her thought is ensnared with the Ledge.

All the others are relying on her to coin a plan, and she is abundantly aware of it. They have followed her whims thus far. They are willing to follow her back to the Ledge once more, and she cannot fail them all again.

Dawsyn remembers that her grandmother once called Briar a ‘reluctant servant.’ A woman who took the place of Dawsyn’s mother when Harlow Sabar died of the cold. A woman who became the head of their family. A woman who slept with a knife beside their door, lest someone unwelcome breach its threshold.

Briar never asked to be a heroine,Valma had said.But our blood decides, Dawsyn. She is our hero, no matter how reluctant.

That is the truth Dawsyn accepts now. She, too, is the reluctant servant. The unwilling saviour. She is well aware that not a single soul has asked her to shoulder this burden. Not one person has requested it, and yet she feels the responsibility rest with her anyway.

She will fulfil it, because if not her, then who else?

Dawsyn’s hide boots crush the dried leaves beneath her. It is a satisfying feeling, far more so than the crunch of ice or snow. She walks and walks and tries to conjure the answers she needs.

Flowers are wilting on their stems all around. It reminds her of the blossoms that Baltisse lured into her palms. The mage has such influence over her own power, despite its current depletion. If Dawsyn had the same abilities, the quest ahead might be that much easier.

Tentatively, Dawsyn slows. She stops at the sight of a primrose bush. The petals droop, suffocating in the heat of the fertile season. She understands how they feel.

With grim determination, she reaches toward one of the delicate yellow blossoms. It might be a trick of the eye, but Dawsyn thinks she sees it lift a little as her fingertips come closer, reaching toward her, magnetised.

Bolstered, Dawsyn searches within herself as Baltisse had once bade her to. She tries to recall what the mage had said.

If you demand it, force it, it will bite. If you want the magic to rise at your will, then you will find the ways to coax it out.

Dawsyn finds the iskra dormant and waiting.

You may come,she thinks.It is safe.

She feels it stir – that strange, heavy entity. It uncoils, uncertain.

I’ll lay the path,she vows. She tries to make her limbs pliant, welcoming.Come.

It remains.Release me,it says in return.

Dawsyn grits her teeth. She tries to supress her irritation, her frustration.Show me how.

But it ignores her, curling back into itself, unwilling or unable to rise from her depths.

Dawsyn growls, ripping the primrose blossoms from their stems. “Fuck!” she shouts.

The path is not clear,the iskra murmurs, an echo that repeats over and over.The path is not clear.

“Prishmyr?”

Dawsyn startles at the voice, turning to find the speaker.

Rivdan approaches, his flaming hair and long beard gleaming where the sun finds it. He is mere feet from her, and that alone is disturbing. Dawsyn is unaccustomed to being taken by surprise.