The caravan stops atop a steep hill, the afternoon sun baking the stone paved road. I leave Mother and Kyna behind as I press to the front, heart racing. We’re finally here. But the adults have slack faces, their eyes narrowed into something other than joy. When I reach the front of the column and look down the valley, I understand.

Tents spread out in all directions, swallowing the countryside. Foul cook smoke and angry voices drift on the air, and a writhing mass of people twist toward Isren’s closed gates.

“By the Great Prophet,” someone behind me says.

“More like us,” Davos’ father says, eyes bloodshot. “The Hafthan flayed the coast, and this is what’s left.”

Liam told me once about the slums in the capital. The filth, stench, and desperate people he described I see churning below me. My stomach sinks, my excitement turned to bitterness. I’m not sure what I expected when we arrived. I think some part of me still believed we would find shelter and safety once we reached Isren. But all I have are sore feet and dashed hopes.

“I suppose we know where the inhabitants of those two burnt out villages ended up,” Mr. Oliver says, stepping up beside me. “Such a devastating sight. But why do the Hafthan rage so?”

“They're animals, Mr. Oliver. Monsters just like I said.” I take my first step down the hill, something awful stinging my nose. “Only monsters could do something like this.” A few sad faces stare up at me as I make my way down. Worse than their tattered clothes and empty eyes are their expressions. The sadness tugging at them comes from recognition, an understanding that we are just like them.

“What are we supposed to do?” someone asks.

“The gates are closed. They don’t want us,” Davos’ father says, his sour breath carrying down wind. “Might as well cast ourselves into the sea.”

“There’s a line,” Davos moves past me, eyes hard set. “They have to be letting some people in. They have to.”

I want to tell him he’s right, but my heart says otherwise. But we are all Bladorian’s here. Isren looks huge. Is there really no room for all these people?

Davos and I lead the way down, the people behind shuffling in silence. As we reach the base of the hill, a group of men pull a wagon across the road. Two are armed with short swords, one an axe, and a fourth has a spear. They glare at us, brows down and weapons showing.

“Gooday,” the shortest of the bunch says, the metal gleam of a dagger pommel sticking from his belt. “You lot are more refugees I take it. Sad times these are.” He nods at the armed men beside him. “Now, the city is full. Almost a full moon people been streaming down from the west. And since folk don’t have nowhere to go, they end up here.” He gestures at the sprawling sea of tents and ramshackle buildings behind him. “Now this little camp is full. But I’m merciful, not like those bastards at the gate.” He spits. “A few silver coins and you can pass.”

“Silver coins?” I ask. I’ve never even seen a silver. Hardly a copper has passed through my hands, and that only comes at the end of a harvest.

Before I can say anything else, Mr. Yarnel pushes past me, two of his guards behind him. He walks up to the short man and they whisper. Mr. Yarnel presses something into the other man’s palm and then he motions for his workers to bring down his wagons.

I step aside as Mr. Yarnel’s men and his two wagons pass. Mr. Yarnel stares back at me as they disappear down the road, the armed thugs watching us intently. Then after a lingering moment, Mr. Yarnel walks around the corner and vanishes.

“Bastard paid for him and his and left the rest of us out here,” Davos’ father says. “I know for a fact he had enough coin.” He stumbles forward, the man with the spear sneering at him. “Yarnel, you old fuck! Come back and get the rest of us through!”

Davos’ father pushes forward, but a swift whack to his stomach from the blunt end of a spear sends him into the dirt.

“No one gets any closer without some coin,” the short man says, drawing his dagger.

“By whose authority to you collect a toll?” Mr. Oliver asks, his face grim.

“By no ones,” the thug looks Mr. Oliver up and down. “I don’t like you. You’re like that old crone in the camp. Talks all funny, thinks she’s better than the rest of us.”

Mr. Oliver is about to say something in return, but I step out in front of him. “Why are you doing this?” I look each man in the eye as I speak, my heart lurching. But I smother the fear, bury it behind a steady gaze. “We are all Bladorians here, are we not?” I take another step forward. “We are all one people.”

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The leader scoffs. “My people sparkle in the sun. They clink and grease palms and get the whores to love you.” He points his dagger at me. “You and that ragged lot behind you got more in common with pig shit than you do with me.” He motions for his men to move closer. “Now pay or return to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Davos’ father groans on the ground and grips his stomach, spit foaming on his beard. Davos moves toward him but the man with the spear jabs him back. “You get any closer and I’ll skewer him.”

These are my people, aren’t they? But looking at them, the way they threaten and sneer, they’re more like the Hafthan than men of Bladoria.

“Please just let us pass, we have no money,” I say, but I know it’s a lie. Two of the men further behind us own the large farms outside the village. They probably have enough to pay the silver for us all, but for some reason they hang back and watch.

“No money means you walk on back the way you came.” The leader waves his dagger at the hill behind me. “But I see some fine young women with you. I’m sure a few of them can work their way through.”

I’m not sure what he means, but something about it really sets me off. I’m about to have a go at him when Mr. Oliver grabs my shoulder.

“Gentlemen, I like to believe I’m above my base impulses and worldly attachments.” Mr. Oliver lets go of my shoulder and brings his hands up. “But if you threaten any of these people again—”

“You’ll give us a stern lecture?” The leader laughs. “Now get the fuck back.” He brings his dagger forward, but he only gets a single step before his whole hand twists off his arm.

He screams, his wrist a mangled mass of bone and flesh. Both the people behind me and the thugs gasp, some already retreating. I snatch up the leader’s dagger and watch. The other thugs have all gone pale, and they each look to the other for direction. But their leader is on his knees gripping the torn mass that used to be his hand.

“Leave. Now,” Mr. Oliver says.

The thugs are quick to obey. They throw down their weapons and run down the road, leaving their leader behind.

“You…you fucking…” Despite the blood pooling around him, the leader snarls and makes ready to rush Mr. Oliver. But I drive the dagger into his throat before he has the chance.

I let the blade go and back away, my hands covered in blood.

“Luther!” my mother’s voice.

I don’t know why I stabbed him. The moment he moved it was like my body acted in it's own. But worse yet is how I don’t feel bad about it. He is a Bladorian. He falls forward, blood gushing from his mouth with each breath. I’ve killed one of my own people. But my heart does not weep. Instead, looking at his writhing body makes me feel nothing. No joy, no sorrow or sense of triumph. Nothing.

“I…” Mr. Oliver suddenly stumbles, his face waxen and dripping with sweat. Then he falls, his body crashing to the dirt before I have a chance to catch him.

I toss the dagger aside and lean down. “Mr. Oliver!” I shake him but he doesn't move.

Mother comes up beside me, others still keeping their distance. “What is wrong with him?”

He used too much of his gate. But I can’t tell Mother that. I made a promise. And would she be able to help him even if she knew?

“I may be able to assist you.” I look up to see an old woman approaching from the direction of Isren. She wears a grey robe like Mr. Oliver, and I can see the air sparkle and shimmer about her shoulders. Another wizard.

“Who are you?” my mother asks, her hands trembling as she tries to coax Mr. Oliver awake.

“I am an old friend of that one,” she says pointing at Mr. Oliver. “And he is very lucky I heard a bunch of hoodlums shouting about magic.”

“Magic,” Mother says, a hint of recognition in the word.

“Father!” I turn to find Davos crouched over his father, but the man isn’t moving.

“Go to him,” the old woman says to Mother. “Conventional healing will not help this one.”

Mother looks at the old woman and then to me before she rises and rushes to Davos’ father’s side.

“Now you, are you Oliver’s apprentice?” the old woman asks me as soon as Mother steps away.

“I am,” I say, honestly not sure how I should answer.

“Good. I’m sure you know, but the old fool blew his gate out some years back. His little stunt probably used too much energy and now his soul is leaking out all over the place.” She sighs. “If we don’t reverse it, he’ll be dead in a few minutes.”

“How do we help?” The thought of losing Mr. Oliver sends my mind reeling. No. Not him. I can’t lose anyone else.

“Give me your hand.” I give her my hand, my palm sweat slick. She places it on Mr. Oliver’s chest, her own hand cupped over mine. “We have to push back on his gate. We do this hard enough and it will keep him from draining himself dry. Problem is, I’m old and used up. That means I have to channel my gate through yours.” She pats me on the back with her free hand. “This will hurt. A lot. And there’s a chance you may—”

“I don’t care how much it hurts or what happens if it keeps Mr. Oliver alive.”

She smiles, nothing but gums showing. “He lucked out finding an apprentice like you. Much better then that Hafthan boy with his big sword.”

Hafthan? I shake the thought out of my head. The only thing that matters is helping Mr. Oliver. “Do it.”

She grips my hand tightly. “Prepare yourself, and no matter what, keep that hand steady.”

Before I can assure her I’m ready, a wave of pain like I’ve never felt rips through me. I scream, but nothing escapes my lips. It’s like I’m caught in a storm of blades. I can feel something deep inside me ripping, tearing free of its hinges. The world grows darker and darker, the pain piercing me even deeper. But I keep my hand steady, energy flowing through me. I won’t let anyone else I care about die. Molten tears stream down my cheeks, the wind razers against my skin. Somehow the stinging within grows hotter, but I focus on the moment Mr. Oliver saved me. He showed me then that even the frail, even the weak can stand up and fight back. He not only saved my life that day, he showed me how to be brave. So I will take on this pain for him. No matter how badly I cry, I will never let go.

Then there’s a release, and I tumble back. I’m in the old woman’s arms, staring up at the sky. Mr. Oliver pushes up beside me and I smile. He’s alive. But when he looks at me, his face goes rigid. Don’t worry Mr. Oliver, you’re going to be alright. I try and speak, but my tongue is so heavy. My eye lids droop, the sky above swirls.

And all becomes black.