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“Born on the Ledge,” Dawsyn finishes. “And I did not ask to be on this mountain.”

Silence follows. The woman’s companions share glances. Confusion.

The dark-haired mage turns to them, speaking a language Dawsyn does not understand. But their eyes roil as she speaks. Their lips lift. They seem… entertained.

“A Glacian prisoner!” the mage says, smiling brilliantly back at Dawsyn. “So, it was theblood moonthat brought you to us this day. It always finds those in need of retribution. You are in luck, Dawsyn Sabar, mage of the Ledge. For tonight, we will bleed the Glacians who claim our mountain as their own, and you will have your vengeance on your captors.”

Dawsyn hesitates, pulling back toward the calls of her friends, pacing frantically just feet away. But that same hum she believed had come from the barrier seems to resonate, instead, within these mages. There is a flux of energy passing among them, between them, and out to her. It courses through Dawsyn – a gentle current. It is curiosity that moves her feet forward, rather than away.

“Who are you?” she asks of them. But only one answers.

“I am Roznier,” the black-haired mage says, taking Dawsyn’s hand. She feels a thrill run the path of her spine at her touch. “This is our clan.”

It seems to Dawsyn the mage clan has carved a piece of the mountain for themselves. Roznier leads her past huts made of tree root, as though they had risen from the ground simply to form shelter. Signs of mage magic are all around her, from the pines that curve inward, protecting the clearing, to the paths cleared of deep snow. Sunlight filters down into the circular space, making patterns on the snow, and Dawsyn feels warmed by its touch.

There’s no wind, no bite to the air. Indeed, Dawsyn feels she could do away with her furs here, so mild is the weather.

“What are you?” Roznier asks suddenly. She had been leading Dawsyn down a winding path miraculously clear of snow. They pass huts on either side, but Roznier pays little attention to the surrounds. Her discerning gaze is on Dawsyn.

Dawsyn frowns, she is unsure which answer is fitting. Mage? Human? Vagrant?

“I cannot distinguish what I sense,” Roznier continues. “What I smell.”

“You can likely smell a great many things.” Dawsyn scowls. “It has been an age since I bathed.”

“Ah yes! What a journey you’ve had. How did you come to find yourself off the Ledge, young one?”

“A long story,” Dawsyn defers, pausing to see a deer standing unafraid only several feet from them, its eyes closing as it tips its head toward the sun.

“Who taught you to use magic?” Roznier asks next, her curiosity obvious. Her companions have left the path, venturing in different directions. Roznier and Dawsyn walk on alone.

Dawsyn sighs. “A friend of mine. A mage named Baltisse,” she says, though her throat thickens to mention it.

Roznier smiles widely, then lets out a crow of laughter. “Baltisse!” she says, affection winding through each syllable. “Yes, she holds much admiration for you Sabars. Tell me, how does she fare? She has not paid us a visit in many moons.” Roznier looks expectantly at Dawsyn, searching her with new understanding. “I assume she was the one to rescue you from the Ledge?”

Dawsyn smiles sadly. She recalls again, as she often does, the sensation of freefall as she slides down the ice and over the lip of the Chasm, the second of suspended time before she and Ryon fell, and the hand that clasped her wrist and pulled them between realms. “Something of the sort.”

“You are most fortunate indeed, young one. She is a powerful being. And she has always lamented those on the Ledge. In many ways, she believesweare to blame.”

“We?” Dawsyn asks. “Mages?”

But Roznier sighs, her sight far-reaching and glassy with memory, and Dawsyn is suddenly struck by a thought. “Roznier,” she whispers, and the mage turns back to her. But Dawsyn is merely turning the name over in her mouth, a niggling sensation gnawing at her. Had Baltisse used that name when she spoke of King Vasteel and his reign in Terrsaw?

“He welcomed us into his fold of advisors and treated us like nobility. Me, two others by the names of Roznier and Grigori, and my mother, Indriss.”

Dawsyn lifts her eyes to the woman beside her and stops in her tracks. “Roznier,” she repeats. “Creator of the Pool of Iskra.”

Roznier’s lips flatten into an even thinner line, but she does not deny it. “One of four,” she says. “I cannot take all credit.”

Dawsyn does not answer. Instead, she takes the mage’s measure anew. Roznier seems to sag under the weight of the moniker, the same way Baltisse had. A similar sorrow that once darkened Baltisse’s features now darkens Roznier’s.

“Whatever hatred you feel now, Dawsyn Sabar. I assure you, it will not amount to the centuries I’ve spent in this skin, loathing every inch of it. I’ve learned to put my mind to what can be controlled and make peace with what I can’t.”

Dawsyn shakes her head. “There is no hatred.” She helped Baltisse to protect Terrsaw after all. She pulled boulders from the earth to form the Boulder Gate. There are too many to hate for Dawsyn to add another.

“Where is Baltisse now?” Roznier asks, looking past Dawsyn’s shoulder, as though she might appear there. “It is not like her to stay away on a blood moon.”

Dawsyn’s shoulders fall, but she makes herself say what Roznier has still not grasped. “She is gone,” she says tightly, lips reluctant to relinquish the words.