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“She has an ax,” Ryon says clearly. “And my blessing to use it.”

Dawsyn’s lip quirks.

They continue onward without encountering traces of anyone that still resides in the Colony. It feels and sounds devoid of all but them. It raises the hairs on her neck, unsettles her. For if the mixed are not here in the Colony, then where?

They turn a corner, coming to a large opening Dawsyn recognises. Stocks adorn its middle, laden in snow. The small dais is now a small white mound, the mountain taking back what has been left unguarded.

Dawsyn can still envision Ryon sitting on that dais, shoulders slumped in defeat, her body curled around him in a moment of forfeit.

The vision is impeded, however, when a figure appears across its space, stepping into the open, skin as white as the snow around him.

He holds a crudely made knife and the skin of an animal – a hare, it seems. It dangles from his grasp.

The Glacian halts immediately and raises his knife, head turning to view their party, counting the number. His wings do not appear. In fact, his feet shuffle backward, as though he means to flee.

The moment he appears, his name rises to Dawsyn’s lips.

“Phineas,” Ryon says, the name escaping on a breath. His eyes widen at the sight of the male, teetering in place on the other side of the clearing. No longer does he stand tall and righteous. He stoops. He quails. The hand around the small knife clenches it tightly. Long straggly hair hangs over his forehead.

It reminds Dawsyn of the Glacians they had found with the mage clan. They too were diminished. Defeated.

“Stay back!” Phineas calls, retreating back the way he came – a gap between shelters. His voice is strangled with panic.

Ryon reaches over his shoulder and slowly pulls forth a sword. “Phineas?” he says again, louder this time.

Dawsyn spins the ax in her grasp, feeling the woodgrain slide along her palm. It seems to sing through the air as it moves.

Phineas – the man who betrayed Ryon to Vasteel.

Phineas – the iskra-drinking Glacian noble.

“What are you doing out of your cage, Phineas?” Ryon asks now, his shoulders stiffening. He moves forward toward the dais but makes a motion for the rest to stay back. The message is clear – the brute is his.

Phineas suddenly stills once more. His feet cease sliding backward through the snow. “Ryon,” he says in recognition, his knife dropping an inch. Though the Glacian’s stance slackens some, the fear in his voice only intensifies. He drops the animal skin and holds his bloodied hand up placatingly. Dawsyn marks how it quivers. “Ryon,” he says again, shaking his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Ryon asks, stalking closer. His slow footfalls round the dais – a hunter cornering prey. “No, not I. This is my home. What areyoudoing here, Phineas?” Ryon’s sword flashes menacingly as he adjusts his grip and Phineas does not miss it.

He speaks carefully, as though warding off a rogue animal. “They sent me here,” he says. “King Adrik released us all and sent us here.”

A noise escapes Tasheem somewhere behind Dawsyn. It sounds like derision.

“All?”

“The remaining pure-blooded,” Phineas elaborates.

“He freed you. Gave you the Colony,” Ryon says. It is not a question. “How charitable.”

“It did not come without a cost,” Phineas replies and then he lowers his knife to his side. Wings extend from his back, or rather, what is left of them.

Splintered bones unfold and jut out over his shoulders. There is nothing else, just the broken remnants of what was once an impressive span of translucent membrane. A flash of malevolence crosses Phineas’ expression, and then his broken wings vanish from view.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Ryon intones. “I would have bled you dry.” He advances.

“Wait, deshun!”

“Call me that again,” Ryon says, continuing to stride towards him. “And I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Ryon! Please,” Phineas holds his hands before him. “I… I can help you!”