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“Not one more person will violate the command of darkness,” he growls dangerously, “until the kaligorven lift it.”

8. Amyrah

AMYRAH

IF WE DIDN’T HAVE THE SOLA’S LIGHT shining like a beacon in the distance, I don’t know how we’d find our way. Even with my gift surrounding us, there isn’t much to give us direction except the feeling of the ground slanting away beneath our feet. I try not to worry. Clutching my father’s arm tightly, the tension drains from my back and escapes through my fingertips. We are together. The inexhaustible bird flutters ahead of us from branch to branch, so I must believe the world will be right again.

But my father refuses to look at the sola.

It is the early hours of the morning when we emerge from the trees and into the clearing on Utsanek’s north side—at least that’s what my instincts tell me. But there’s no real way of knowing. My brows pinch together. Something feels wrong. I slow down to listen. Father sighs deeply, and I feel his agitation as a swell of guilt. He wasn’t ready to see another sola. I should have known.

I do my best to push the feeling aside, though it is hard. I hate how this thing that brought me hope has caused him even greater torment. The creatures he set out to kill, that he thought he was justified in hunting . . . he owes them his life.

We cross the hard-packed earth to the stone pit. The wren darts to the treetops, as if it knows this is no place for a Light Creature. Even somewhat removed, it still casts enough illumination to reveal the clearing.

It is in disarray. Broken branches and other debris congest the ground. I slip my arm out of my father’s elbow and approach a bundle of clothes lying in the dirt. Crouching, I lift a corner with my forefinger and thumb. From within its folds emanates a sickly light. Sola brossa. I let it drop back to the earth, perplexed. Straightening and dusting off my hands, I return to my father.

He is a statue, immobilized at the edge of the spent fire, staring down into its charred depths. I lay my hand on his forearm, cautious not to startle him.

“What is it?”

“Kuvror Erovantus,” he mutters, like the words will catch and spread. When I open my mouth in question, he clears his throat and nods his chin toward the ashes. “They burned the sola blood. Look.”

I peer into the pit. Shattered pieces of pottery and blackened remains of wood litter the ashy earth in a ring around its circumference, swept clean to the edges as if a forceful blast has pushed it aside.

“It is what happens when sola kuvror, Light Creature blood, meets fire. It does not mix. The reaction is ... unpredictable.”

From the forest’s edge, the sola chirps out five sweet notes. I look at it, wincing for the thousandth time at its brightness. How can you explain such great power dwelling in something so small?

But the bird’s refrain does not comfort my father. He keeps his chin down and wraps an arm around my shoulders to turn me away from the wreckage, toward Utsanek. If it wouldn’t take an extra hour, I know he would rather take me around the city. Not through it. But we are on the wrong edge, and I’m sure he is as desperate for home as I am.

As we approached the veiled streets, the shadows converge upon us. Glancing behind, I see only ténesomni. The light has gone. I don’t blame the sola for abandoning us, but I can’t help feeling sad. The little bird felt like a friend.

When I turn back to the cobbled path, I find even though the lanterns are lit, they barely cast any illumination. I’ve never known ignati to be so concealed by ténesomni. If it wasn’t for the strange orb that surrounds me wherever I go, we would not be able to see anything. I glance up at my father. He has made no comment about my peculiar gift. I dare not draw attention to it at such a fragile moment. If he wasn’t aware of it before, it would surprise him now.

The burning embers of anger threaten to catch in my chest again. He must have known about it for a while, perhaps my whole life. Why has he kept the truth from me, as he kept the existence of the solas secret? Has everything in my life been a farce?

I let the tide of fury drain away from my muscles, the cool wind of reason taking their place. Now is not the time.

Down the winding streets and past towering structures that lean threateningly overhead, the air grows thicker. Suffocating. No misplaced sola bone gives the darkness chase, even from within the dwellings. Drawn curtains and latched doors stare at us morosely. We are the anomaly, the only things possessed with life.

“Why aren’t people up yet?” I give my swirling anxieties a voice. The merchants always battle with each other to make it to the square as soon as the morning bell tolls, with the hopes of gaining an advantage over the competition. I’ve spent my own share of early hours running Orlagh’s booth.

Father shrugs, lost in his own restless thoughts. His shoulders curve forward, and the downward turn of his face conceals his expression in shadow.

We emerge from the maze of the residential sector and into the market square. An inhale rushes past my lips.

It’s unrecognizable. Even here, there are no sola brossa left to illuminate Utsanek’s center of trade. The smudges of red ignati behind the lanterns’ glass can hardly be seen.

We keep to the edge of the square, coming across overturned merchant booths and refuse littering the cobblestones. A tingling sweeps down my arms and pools in my fingertips. What could cause the valefolk to rip down the glowing strings of bones they depend on and lock themselves indoors? A new day approaches, but the Vale dares not to greet it.

A sharp clatter startles me, and I swallow as my pulse lurches. Father’s tendons stiffen beneath my fingers as we approach the sound together. Down the line of booths, a small shape materializes out of the gloom. It scrounges carelessly around a familiar stall, knocking over a stool.

“Hey,” I shout, fierce loyalty displacing the cold from my veins. That booth is Orlagh’s.? The figure bolts upright and regards us, a defiant desperation shining in his black eyes. His thin chest rises and falls rapidly as he conceals a soiled loaf of bread behind his back. I stare at him, speechless.

“Leave him be,” my father murmurs, breaking the silence. His fingers dig into my shoulder, scraping the linen of my dress across it like coarse sand.

I glance from him to the scavenger, and all at once the inconsiderate thief transforms into a terrified, helpless child. My brows unhitch themselves.