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Phineas continues, “This place still stands, and so does the Pool of Iskra, and there will always be one who seeks to control it.”

“Not as Vasteel did,” Ryon counters, his control waning. “No one will reign in terror as you and the rest of your fucking court once reigned.”

Phineas meets his stare wholly. No vestige of sleep remains. His face twitches, and Ryon realises that the Glacian is fighting tears.

“I used to tell you to keep your distance from Adrik, did I not? I tried to lead you away. I even threatened him. I thought I had succeeded. I thought… I tried to help you… for Thaddius.”

The mention of his father’s name makes Ryon flinch.

“I saw you on that mountain, with that human, and it was like seeing your father once more, clinging to some moronic hope that you would find a life that defied the one you were born to. I knew then that I had failed. I knew I had not separated you from Adrik… from the fate of your father.”

Ryon frowns, struggling to find the meaning behind the words.

“Do you remember what I told you, deshun? I told you that your father… He was a good man, but he was without any power. In the end, he could do nothing to save himself or your mother.”

Good. Bad. Ryon has heard so many renditions of his father in his life.

“You are no different, deshun,” Phineas continues. “You are good, but you are… so much less powerful than you know.”

Ryon rises to standing. Perhaps it is the remorse in Phineas’s voice, the nostalgia. Perhaps it is the disquiet he feels, being warned of powerlessness by someone chained and caged. Whatever the reason, Ryon abruptly turns away. Despite the intention he came with, he escapes the smell and feel of the dungeon, leaving Phineas, his betrayer, his foe, still very much alive.

The Pool of Iskra churns resolutely, and Ryon finds it difficult to tear his eyes away. There is a fragment of iskra left within him. A small wisp of it, faint and fading, but it still sings at the nearness of the pool. It begs him to re-join it, and if he were any less dutiful, he might be tempted.

The meeting with the Council is thick with tension as they discuss their many undertakings. Many of the dozen are weary, stricken with the labour they have endured in the past weeks. Rivdan, an auburn-haired male, has bandages tightly wound around each hand. He insisted that each of the fallen Izgoi be buried, rather than thrown to the Chasm. Blisters were the price of his decency. Tasheem and several others have been relocating the mixed into the pure-village, treating the wounded, guarding the brute prisoners and the pool. The rest have organised groups to hunt in the mountain ranges, providing food and supplies for the kingdom. They have unified to protect and serve their people, and it brings Ryon no small amount of comfort.

It seems only a few have failed to lift a finger, and one of them is Adrik.

Ryon is the leader of the Izgoi, but not the Council. Even so, he knows that a certain weight of responsibility for Adrik’s failures lies on him. In his youth, Ryon had been taught by Adrik that he would be the key to their glory, that his middling blood was the answer to their troubles. Adrik had ensured the Council was taught the same. As such, they revered Ryon, in some ways. They held him in esteem. They prayed he would grow to fulfil this prophecy.

With the hope that his success carries the weight of persuasion, Ryon raises his voice over the others who talk of task delegations and sentry duties. “There is another task we’ve yet to discuss,” he says, and the words reverberate into the high ceilings of the throne room.

The mixed males and females fall quiet, turning expectantly toward him.

Ryon breathes deeply.Let them see reason.He thinks. “We’ve sought our own freedom from Vasteel’s court and won. It is time we aided his other prisoners.”

There is a pause, confusion, and then, “The human slaves?” asks Adrik. “They are free to come and go as they please, of course.” He has turned away again before the sentence is through.

“I am not speaking of the prisoners here in Glacia,” Ryon counters. “I speak of the Ledge.”

There is silence, taut with conflict. Each face wears a variance of bemusement, even outrage. And then, the quiet breaks, and each voice collides with the next.

“They are not our responsibility, Ryon.”

“What of our own kin in the Colony?”

“So, we doom them there for all eternity?”

“If we do not move them, we must provide for them.”

“Surely this is an argument for another time?”

“There is no other time,” Ryon cuts in, his own voice squashing the rest. “Humans were not made to survive this mountain. If we ignore them, then we condemn them. Whether or not it is fair, the Ledge is now our responsibility.” Ryon scans his audience. Some of the faces before him are wary, indignant even. But some… some are contemplative.

“Those who can, should fly them into Terrsaw,” Tasheem interjects, nodding her head. “Not to do so would be a cruelty.”

Another Council member, Veritt, scoffs. “And you think those Queens would allow us to enter their territory? They’d fire their arrows upon us.”

“They needn’t know,” Ryon argues. “They will be none the wiser in their palace. We will take the humans to the other side of the Boulder Gate and no further.”