Owl [https://i.imgur.com/5l6WvQl.png]

You can't rescue them, Balsevor says. That's not why we're here, remember?

I grunt in response, continuing to stare at the giant golden doors of the grand temple from my perch atop the nearby admissions building. I have one knee bent, my elbow resting on it so that my chin can cradle easily in my palm. Below me, students hurry about campus in their gray robes, carrying bundles of books or practicing wand technique. None of them notice the figure sitting like some strange gargoyle high above their heads.

Owl, you've been scowling at that tower for over an hour now. He's gone! Balsevor says.

I've been unable to think of anything but that gnome ever since I stormed out of class earlier this morning. I waited outside to catch Rogemere taking the creature from the Pneumatists' Tower after the first semester students were finished with their heartless experimenting. The High Priest strode across the campus with the miniature tailor suspended in a spinning metal cage that hovered in the air before him, glittering in the sunlight. The sharp, knife-like pieces of the iron prison spun in seemingly impossible criss-crossing patterns around the tiny faerie in his yellow suit, like the cage itself was alive - and angry.

I followed Rogemere to the main temple and spied through a crack in the door as he stepped behind the tall tiered stage all the way in the back of the room. And then, with the red stone glowing atop his staff, he disappeared through the hazy crismon outline of a door that wasn't there. Vanished, leaving only solid wall behind, smooth and impenetrable.

"Why have another magic door?" I ask under my breath, for probably the hundredth time. "Why? The 'UP' door is right there."

I don't know why this particular mystery frustrates me so much. Maybe because, without meaning to, I've been imagining that somewhere there must be a list of all the names to every room far above in the spires of the golden temple, or a map with each destination clearly labeled. And if I just found this master sheet of names… But of course nothing can be so simple. With the Ironborn, it seems there will always be more hidden layers. More lies. It's not satisfying to find out Rogemere has a secret door to what I can only assume is a dungeon full of tortured faeries. It's infuriating.

I know you're avoiding Master 'Specimen,' Balsevor says, but don't you have other classes you're supposed to be going to?

He's right; at this time I'd usually be making my way to the Glossomancy Tower for "Introduction to Runes and Words of Power," but I'm not in the mood for more classrooms and lectures. I want to do something. Free Rogemere's collection of faerie creatures, punish these people for their ignorant beliefs, reduce the University to ashes. Or leave, and return to my peaceful home in the Wood. Something. Unfortunately, I can't do any of that if I want to find my mother, let alone learn new ways of doing magic. It seems so stupid that I'd thought that would be a good idea. Now I'm stuck playing a role, a pretend Ironborn, unable to break any of their rules or question their methods without risking discovery.

Just then, shooting out of nowhere with hummingbird speed and a trail of sparkly blue fluff, a twittering pixie launches itself straight into my face, grabbing hold of my fingers with its tiny hands. "Hurry-hurry-hurry..." it says, each desperate word colliding with the next in a seemingly never-ending plea.

I jerk my head away from the little thing as its thrumming wings tickle against my skin. I know this pixie; it's the one who was so interested in Sindred. It has very rodent-like features, for one of its kind, as well as an unusually large vocabulary. I remember her shooing it away, but the effort was probably unsuccessful. Creatures like this tend to be very stubborn and hard to get rid of.

Hurry? Balsevor asks. Hurry where?

The pixie tugs repetitively against my fingers and just keeps repeating, "Hurry-hurry-hurry..."

"Hey! You have to slow down for just a moment," I say, with as much patience as I can muster. "What's wrong?"

"LADY!" it squeals, with impressive volume considering its diminutive size.

I'm on my feet with no further explanation. The note of fear in the creature's voice is enough to spur me into action. I'm already running towards the far edge of the roof, preparing to take off where my flight is less likely to draw attention, but I glance back as a loud ringing sound fills the air, coming from the main temple. The golden doors burst open and I see Rogemere stagger out, robes flapping.

He's raised the alarm. Soldiers will be filling the skies any second, rushing to get their orders from the High Priest. My heart thuds, dread sinking heavily into my stomach. What happened?

"Hurry-lady-hurry!" the pixie says, pulling on my hair as though trying to drag me along.

I turn and leap into the air, hoping that with all the commotion one more flying wizard won't stand out and lead them straight to their target, because it seems obvious who that must be.

The pixie doesn't lead me towards camp, which is northeast of the city, but instead in the direction of the palace. I fly as fast as I can, relying on speed alone to keep me from being followed. I feel flames licking across my skin as I use my power to push against the boundaries of physics. It feels good to fly like this. Thrilling. But some part of me wants to slow down, like I might lose control of myself.

There are dozens of Ironborn soldiers already standing in a perimeter outside the palace wall, a few in the air waving to give directions to those on the ground. The pixie's "hurry-hurry" starts to make more sense as I see them spread out in a search pattern, wands out and ready. If Sindred is down there somewhere, they will find her, glamour or not. She's trapped.

Go! We can fight them off if we need to, Balsevor says. Just go!

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

To the soldiers, I must look like a fiery comet darting by them and into the trees near the forest's border. They don't have time to shoot me down, but I know as I descend, following the pixie, that they'll be on us in moments. It doesn't matter. Not as long as I get there first.

I slow my dive at the last possible second and manage to land lightly in the familiar shadows of the palace forest. Even with the pixie guiding me, I almost don't see her, lying in the underbrush, her silvery glow obscured by damp brown leaves and thorny twigs. But maybe that's because she isn't really glowing at all. That shimmery opalescent light she always gives off has become a dim, bluish flicker.

Her body is half-curled in on itself, one arm splayed out like she was trying to claw her way up but didn't have the strength. The pale fabric of her dress is stained with dark splotches. I drop to my knees at her side, gently brushing dirt and pine needles off of her face.

"Sindred," I say, leaning close to whisper her name against her cold cheek. "Sin. Please, Sin."

The pixie flies frantically around us, repeating "lady" and "hurry" at various intervals.

She's alive, Balsevor says, in response to the catch in my breath. I can see her breathing. Faintly. It looks like she's lost a lot of blood.

I pull my hand away from where I'd pressed it against her shoulder and see that it's smeared with red. Those dark stains are blood, soaking through her layers of clothing. From the pattern of it across her body, it looks like she was stabbed with hundreds of tiny knives, mostly in her back and arms. I reach for her hands, clenched into fists and tucked against her stomach, blood dripping through the cracks between her fingers. Her skin is freezing.

"Sin!" I say again, begging. Her eyelids flutter, and I inhale sharply with relief.

We have to go, Owl, Balsevor says. We can't help her here. They're coming.

She opens her eyes at that moment, staring at me with that icy, crystalline gaze. I feel her start to shake. "They're coming," she says, ever so softly, and I realize from the chuckle in her voice that the shaking is from laughter.

My breathing becomes rapid as relief turns quickly into panic. "Sindred?" I ask.

"Owl," she says, reaching out a hand to touch my face and smiling. "I died, Owl." She giggles again. "I died, but I feel fine now."

The ringing of the Ironborn's alarm grows nearer, and through the leafy canopy I see a glimpse of sizzling blue scorch-nets.

Let's go, Balsevor says. NOW.

"Don't worry, grumpy dragon," Sindred says. "They can't find us. We're ghosts, you and I." Her head falls limply to the side as she seems to sink back into unconsciousness.

"I don't want to move her," I say. "What if I make it worse? We don't know…"

You have no choice, Balsevor says.

I slip my arms beneath her prone body, lifting her easily. She stirs, opening her eyes again and looking up as I cradle her against me.

"I'll protect you," she says, the quivering statement far from reassuring. "'Watch over him.' That's my job…" She trails off, sighing.

But maybe she is protecting us, somehow. As I begin to fly, carrying her close against my chest, I keep waiting for shouts and a barrage of spells, and there's nothing. I'd seen the soldiers quickly closing in on where we'd just been, and there's no way they didn't notice the sudden rush of movement heading north, barely under the canopy of trees. Yet they don't seem to see us making our escape. Like we're invisible.

Ghosts.

....

Back at the camp, Aisling has me lay her down on a wooden table to the side of the cave that's usually covered in a spread of maps and documents. They help me as I carefully position her stomach-side down, exposing the area where she seems to have the most severe injuries. Aurelius orders someone to boil some water while Aisling takes out her dagger and saws through the layers of Sindred's dress, starting at the blood-soaked neckline.

Sindred blinks her eyes open. I crouch down so mine are level with hers. "The prince..." she says, attempting to lift one of her arms as though to reach towards me. "Where…?"

Owl… this isn't... I don't think… Balsevor says.

"Let me heal her," I say, standing to face Aisling. I wince when I see the cuts she's just revealed, jagged red lines across the pale skin of Sindred's back, deeper ones still oozing with blood. They're mostly small and shallow, but there are so many, with no apparent pattern.

"Ironborn magic? No," Aisling says. "We can use Ezebel's recipes. Aurelius will help."

Aurelius grimaces at this. "Aisling, I…"

She spins to look at him. "What? You worked with her in the palace! You must know-"

"I don't!" he interrupts. "I have never made a single potion. I don't know even the most basic medicine. I was a manservant."

"There are others here who must know…" Aisling looks around at the rag-tag assortment of rebels huddled together in the cave. Mostly children and adolescents, scrappy urchins used to taking care of themselves in survival situations. There are a few older folks, tough, grizzled. The kind you'd send to hurt someone, not mend them. Everyone is silent.

"Let me," I say.

Aisling glares at me, more suspicion and anger in that look than she's ever given me before. "If you harm her-"

"I won't." I meet her eyes steadily, showing more confidence than I have any right to.

"Even by accident," she adds.

"I know," I say.

You can close those wounds, Balsevor says, but I don't think those little scrapes are what really ails her. Owl, something's wrong. Something deeper.

Acknowledging that will have to come later. I can't leave her weak and bleeding on a table. Not when I've spent weeks practicing a beginner level spell to knit flesh back together. I can fix this. I have to fix this.

"At least it wasn't iron," Aurelius says, his voice low. "I think… it was glass. Shards of glass. There's still some in there…"

I take a deep breath in and step up to the table. He's right; I can see the glinting of broken glass within some of the open wounds. I'll have to remove it as part of the spell. It'll make it slightly more complicated, but it's doable.

I close my eyes for a moment, let out the air I've been holding in my lungs. Then I move my hands so that my open palms are hovering just over her torn skin, and concentrate.

"Cressycor," I whisper, and energy rushes into my hands, instantly setting them alight with a fiery copper glow. Possessing the power is never the issue, it's keeping it tamed. Bending it to my will. Preventing it from burning. I've never cast this spell without inflicting searing pain in the process. Not once, no matter how many times I practiced. But I can't hurt her. I can't. So this time will have to be different.

We won't burn her, Balsevor says. Not her.

For some reason, the memory of my first encounter with the sun dragon flashes through my mind. Stumbling down the hill of the crater to confront the crumpled, dying giant, a beast surrounded by a world on fire. When I reached out to touch him, to feel those colorful flames, they hadn't felt hot at all. Instead, it'd felt like dunking my hands into a sun-soaked river, almost cool, moving against my skin with the pulsing pull of a current. I could feel power, tantalizing, tempting, but no burning pain.

Why? Why me? Had it just been luck, me being there in just the right place, only a few feet from what would've surely meant my fiery death? How does a little boy come out of that unscathed, a dragon heart roaring in his chest?

You heard me, Balsevor says.

My eyes widen. I look down at my hands, blazing with light and held so close to Sindred's delicate skin. Then I begin to trail my fingers lightly along the largest cut, using the magic of the spell to feel the break in the flesh, knitting it back together with an orangey bright glow.

Sindred turns her head to look at me, moaning softly. She gives me a droopy-eyed expression of surprise before she slumps back down. "I thought it would hurt," she mumbles. "But… it feels nice. You... touching me."