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Cub’s howl was soft. “Always afraid.”

“Us too,” said Ford with that kind voice, gentle as flowers. “We’re also afraid.”

“Cub,” said Fern, “I have two daughters. Little girls, not much older than you, maybe. They’re twins. Would you like to hear about them? And then maybe you can start climbing again. Only you won’t be alone now. All right?”

Cub looked at her, then at Ford, then at her again.

“Mothers?” Cub asked.

Fern thumped her hand against her chest. “Mother.”

Ford did the same, his smile as tired as Cub felt. “Father.”

Then Fern, her words so soft, so full of warmth, told Cub the story of her daughters.

.32.

The Spotted Knife

Deep in the mountains, farther than she had ever explored with Noro, Brier Skystone sat on the cold floor of a dead stormwitch’s kitchen.

Wind whistled down the chimney. It rapped its sharp knuckles across Brier’s arms, made the door of shabby rags shudder and snap.

Brier tried not to think about the eleven harvesters held captive in the rooms below her feet—the bedroom of Zino’s dead parents; the washroom, with a drain drilled through the stone that spat water off the side of the mountain; and the smallerroom, painted with faded murals of witches and unicorns, that had once belonged to Zino’s grandpop.

There were little secret villages like this one throughout the Westlin Mountains, Brier had learned over the past two days. The villages sat in caves and tunnels and clustered along winding stone paths, cleverly carved out of stone and nestled between sheer, sharp cliffs.

Zino had told her the villages had once teemed with stormwitches.

Now, only a handful of children lived there. They had been trying to escape their lightning bolts ever since getting trapped inside them years and years ago, and over the past few weeks they had finally broken free. Zino described their escape as feeling like digging a hole through a mountain with only a little knife.

So far, only the children had managed to break free. Alone, they were scratching out a wild, lonely existence without their mothers and fathers, without their uncles and aunts and neighbors and grandparents.

Some of them were still trapped. Some of them, long gone. Harvested. Shoved into eldisks. Thrown into the Break.

Sometimes, when she grew angry with them, Brier had wished her parents away. To be able to roam Aeria without thembreathing down her neck! To run around Flower House at all hours of the night without anyone yelling at her or telling her what to do!

Then her parents had gone to Estar for their war rotation, and Brier had gotten her wish.

Sitting in this empty room where Zino had once eaten breakfast with his family, Brier felt heavy and sick with sadness. All these mothers and fathers gone, and all these parentless children—because Brier had been killing...

She had beenkilling...

A net of cold sweat beaded her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut.

At least the other harvesters were safe and bound downstairs, and couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Because I betrayed them,thought Brier. She touched her chest, which was whole and well. In exchange for her help capturing the harvesters, Zino had healed her burn completely.

But Brier could not even feel glad about it.

“You did the right thing, Brier,” whispered Mazby. He lay in Brier’s lap, swaddled in a threadbare cloth to hold his hurt wing still. “Until we can talk to the queen, we have to do what we can to protect whatever stormwitches are left. You said so yourself.”

“I know,” whispered Brier, shaking her head, “but I still feel awful. Those are myfriendsI helped capture.”

Soft cries sounded from outside. Boots scraped stone.

Mazby chirped softly, his feathered ears perking up. “Something’s happened. Someone’scrying.”