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But Dawsyn can still feel the hum of that magic, can still see that strange haze, and something within propels her forward.

Above her, the moon is glowing in spite of the sun, a pink hue tinging its face.

She comes to the barrier’s edge. The flame in her hand seems to lean toward it, as though wishing to touch it.

Bracing to be hurled through the air once more, she shuts her eyes, and reaches forward.

Nothing happens. When she opens her eyes again, she finds her arm extended through the barrier, the mage light still dancing in her palm.

“Dawsyn?” Hector calls to her.

“I’m all right,” she says incredulously, a bubble of laughter catching in her throat. She goes to step forward.

“Don’t!” Hector calls again.

But Dawsyn is already through. Already standing on the other side, and no force tries to expel her.

She looks back at the others, standing on the slope. But their gazes are darting in every direction and they call out her name.

“I am well!” she tells them, but they do not seem to hear her.

“Dawsyn!” Salem bellows, his hands cupped around his mouth. His face is stricken, panicked.

“He cannot see you,” comes a voice.

Dawsyn whips around, pulling her ax from its sheath. Where before there had been no-one, now stands a group amongst the trees. Men and women, with animal skin draped over their shoulders and fire in their eyes.

Mages.

“Who are you, ax-wielder?” the closest of them says. A woman with black hair, thin lips.

Dawsyn’s heart beats rapidly in her chest, but she does not dare back away. “Dawsyn Sabar,” she says, wondering if they can hear the awe in her voice, wondering if they can feel the warmth she suddenly feels. Her mind is flooded with it.

“Sabar?” the woman asks, her eyebrow rising. “A descendant of Melares?”

Dawsyn recalls the name. Baltisse used it not so long ago.

“Yes,” she says.

“A foolish girl,” the woman says ruefully, “to marry a king of Terrsaw. Monarchs only take and never give.” Her eyes hold Dawsyn in their grip, the colour within them swirling viciously. “Is that why you have come, princess?” she asks. “Have you come to take?”

Dawsyn sees their stance subtly change, becoming defensive. Ready.

“No,” she says.

“Then why have you come?”

She grips the ax handle tightly. “I… I saw the haze. The barrier. I could feel it.”

“This is not your mountain, child. Go back to your castle.”

“I have no castle,” Dawsyn says, her voice rising. “And I am no royal.”

“Have they cast you out, child?” the mage asks, her head tilting to the side. “Did they too learn of your blood?”

“No. I am not from Terrsaw.”

“You are a Sabar–”