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Bharash and Selene cornered Oskar and Guinevere up against a tree trunk.

Their weapons went slicing through the air toward Oskar at the same time.

There was no opportunity to second-guess, to hesitate.

Guinevere ran out from behind Oskar and placed herself in front of him, shaking, tears of fright welling up in her eyes.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die—

The mercenaries snatched their arms back suddenly. Both the dagger and the morning star veered away mere centimeters before they would have collided with Guinevere.

Everyone froze.

“Why are you crying ?” Bharash asked Guinevere. In spite of the confusion evident in his tone, his deep voice still boomed like thunder.

Guinevere wasn’t just crying; she was bawling. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and sobs wracked her frame. She was so, so scared, and the weapons had nearly hit her, but she had to save Oskar.

“She does that a lot,” Oskar told the dragonblood. Right before he pulled her close and whispered “run” in her ear, and shoved her with all his might.

Into the bushes. Away from the field of combat.

Steel rang against steel once more, but Guinevere only heard it. She’d started running, and there was no time to look back. She thought about Clan Bonecrusher and their vast array of clubs and axes. She had to find the campsite, she had to get help—

She’d barely gone a couple of feet before she tripped over a figure lurking in the undergrowth. Namely, the purple gnome who was in league with the mercenaries.

He was covered in bandages from when Vindicator had trampled him several days ago.

He’d been blending in with the bushes, casting his magic with stiffly held arms and broken fingers.

Guinevere crashed into him and the spell broke, air warping, colors flashing, rocks and trees rearranging themselves until the path between the campsite and the stream became recognizable and the normal sounds of the forest rushed back in.

“There they are!” someone yelled. It sounded like Rodregg.

And the ground was shaking, and a collective, guttural battle cry was rending the heavens, and the woods were bristling with clubs and axes as the Bonecrushers charged. They raced past Guinevere and swarmed Bharash and Selene from all sides.

The purple gnome shot Guinevere a look of pure venom. He creakily waved his bandaged arms, preparing to cast a spell. She could only stare at him, reeling, not knowing what to do.

Teinidh, she begged.

In the darkness of her heart, embers glowed. A crown of fire rippled and turned, and eyes like craters looked at her, hollow and resigned.

Thin, ghostly shackles were wrapped around Teinidh’s molten form, chaining her to this place that was not a place.

When we were younger, I could go off at the slightest provocation. Teinidh sounded shivery and far-off, like a dying candle. But spending time in this world means growing attached to things. A nice house. A parent’s love. The open road. The shape of someone’s smile.

I don’t have time for this! Guinevere snapped. We have to help Oskar!

How, when you’re afraid that we’ll hurt him?

Shackles spun around flame. Guinevere could only watch, because here it was, at last, laid bare.

Finally, she knew. Finally, she understood why.

You’re afraid that he’ll burn along with the rest. You’re afraid of losing him. That fear eclipses everything else.

In the material realm, the realm of clashing blades and blood-soaked grass, the purple gnome held up a palm, his eyes locked on to Guinevere. Magic crackled at his fingertips, and—

—and he was consumed by a ball of fire.

At first, Guinevere thought that she’d surmounted Teinidh’s shackles. Then she thought that perhaps his spell had gone awry. Then she turned and saw Zugri, advancing through the undergrowth.

A strange triangular mark had appeared on the goblin’s forehead. It glowed in the same crimson light that now filled her eyes.

Zugri was a runechild. Beneath that domestic, motherly exterior lurked a natural font of arcane energy.

Her eyes narrowed, and the fire intensified until there was nothing left of the purple gnome, only a pile of soot and the odor of charred flesh.

The bright flames licked through the bushes, spreading fast, and Guinevere was no stranger to this.

She braced herself for inferno. For the fire to sweep out of control and obliterate everything in its path.

But it didn’t. Zugri banished every single smoke-laden tendril with one wave of her hand.

All her life, Guinevere had known fire magic only as the great destroyer. She hadn’t realized that it could be manipulated so artfully, that one could choose what to burn and what to save.

I wish I could learn.

The desire gripped Guinevere as she watched the rune melt back into Zugri’s skin. As she listened to a cry of victory rising up from the Bonecrushers, and Oskar shouting for her amidst the clamor. As she smelled the lingering remnants of smoke and felt only the coolness of autumn.

I want to learn.