The house brimmed with chaos when Mags entered. A couple Strongtowers in the kitchen shucking corn, two setting the table and arguing about the “right” placement of the big spoon, a few more antagonizing the matriarch.

Needless to say, it was business as usual.

Mags stomped through the house, ignoring the pleading eyes of her mother. “Can’t right now!” she called over the din. “I’ll be out back!”

Nira groaned, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening as she threw back a retort. “Just ‘cause you’re in a temper doesn’t mean you’ve gotta drag mud through my house! Learn some manners, young lady!”

Don’t say anything, she coached herself. She doesn’t deserve your anger. Mags hadn’t shouted at either of her parents in years. It made her feel awful. Born with the Strongtower gift of gab, it was a testament to her frustration that she couldn’t dredge up any snark. She didn’t even throw off her day pack, just walked down the hall and straight out the back door.

Pumping a little water, she scrubbed her hands with lye soap, wanting to rid her fingers of the vile smell of uncured deer hide. On an average week, she reserved all of Restraint for mischief and idle time. Much of that she’d spend on training with bow or blade anyhow, but to Mags, the practice had become a meditation. Today, however, Shem Tavins had sent for her. Apparently, a gaggle of hunters had come in late the night before with a pile of hides so tall Mags couldn’t see over the top of it without rising to her tiptoes.

The soap burned her hands, and so did the hard-bristled brush as it scraped away the filth of decay. She embraced the discomfort, for it harmonized with her bitter mood.

Cursing, she listed everything she could have done instead of earning the measly two silver Shem had given her for over ten hours of hard work. “Fish all day and lay about in the sun? Nope! Who’d want to do that? Hound Danick for chores and eat bread pudding as payment till my belly sticks out? Nah! Oh, I know! Spend the day scraping fat from dead flesh; that’s the best use of my free time!”

Mags scrubbed till she felt her fingers would bleed. Then she pumped icy water across them, washing the froth away. After, she sniffed them and growled. The stink wouldn’t come out no matter how hard she tried. “This all there’ll be? Work my fingers to the nub till I give in and marry some fat, ugly farmer and let him breed me like stock?” They were the same tired questions. Mags clenched her jaw and shook out her hands to dry them. Tears of frustration burned her eyes as she tilted back her head. She wouldn’t cry about this. “A Class, a life of my own, and a little adventure,” she said, the empty sky her audience. “Is that really too much to ask? Judgment knows I’ve worked hard to get it.”

Breathing deeply, she finally allowed herself to relax a little. Enough to drop her pack, at least, and pick up her bow and quiver. The first arrow slammed into a stump beneath the great oak tree behind her house. Filling her lungs, she retrieved a second arrow, placed it on the string, and drew. Mags released the arrow along with her breath.

Her aim was awful. She still landed the shot within the circle, if only just barely. Anything less would be laughable. Regardless, at twenty paces, she expected all arrows to hit the apple-sized inner ring. “Can’t just pull the arrow, damn ya, Mags. Focus. No way I’ll unlock Ranger if I don’t focus.” Stubbornly, she continued her training, unaware that many in town thought her half mad. Anyone else would have given up years ago.

The back door crashed shut. Apparently, the bodkin striking wood on her last shot had masked the sound of its opening. “Why the pissy mood, Mags? Another Hunter turn you down?”

“Shem bleeding Tavins!” she replied, pulling the string back, three fingernails lightly touching her cheek. The arrow hissed through the chill evening air and smacked home, a bit closer to center this time. “Two silvers, Liam! Two Rift-cursed silvers! Poor trade for the first day of Restraint.”

Liam folded his arms across his chest. As usual, he wore that smug expression that told her he could see straight through her lies. “Two silver is more than most make in a day,” he said casually. “Nah, it’s something else. It’s your Class that’s bothering you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Mags clenched a fist and spun to face him. “Why, Liam, what Class are you speaking of? I’m afraid I don’t have one! So, sure, I’ll say it. You’re wrong, big brother!” The last few words came out louder than she’d intended.

He chuckled, amused and sympathetic. Three years her senior, Liam had always been the closest of her siblings. He was chronically full of crap and had the wit of a drunken kobold. Most of all, her brother simply loved her—a trait Mags was ashamed to admit had an effect. “It’ll come,” he said, his tone confident.

“When? I’ve put in the work! Principalities, Liam! I’m gonna be twenty-one this fall!”

Liam strode up and hugged her with one arm, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers. With characteristic gentleness, he kissed her brow. “I know. And I suspect they do as well. Remember, I didn’t unlock Carpenter until my eighteenth birthday. Us Strongtowers take time to mature. Keep faith, Sister. It’ll come.”

She grunted lamely, causing him to laugh again. Then, smacking her between the shoulder blades, he said, “Come and eat when your shoulder’s good and tired. I’ll tell Ma you need some time.”

“Thank you,” she said, watching him go. “And tell her I’ll help clean up when the eating’s done!”

As she faced the target and nocked an arrow, she heard Liam grunt in agreement. Then she heard the door open, allowing Quentin’s voice to carry out to her ears. “Yes, I will! I’ll knock you on your ass, Petar! You’re a Rift-born jerk!”

Mags’ mother snapped at the young Strongtower a fraction of a second before the door slammed shut. “You’ll watch your mouth is what you’ll do. Now, quiet already and eat your—”

Mags smiled, glad she was missing the squabble but happy she’d caught a bit of it. She loved her family fiercely. Chuckling reluctantly, a bit of her anxiety ebbed. When she loosed another arrow, it sank into the stump a quarter-inch shy of dead center. “Aye,” she whispered, “it’ll come. If I have to bribe every Hunter, Fighter, and Ranger in Ardea, I’ll get a Class of my own.”

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Mags lifted her hand to draw another shaft of pine when a vile sensation crashed into her. A fierce itching spread across the back of her skull, a feeling that reminded her of a swarm of fleas besieging scalp. “The heck is that?” she asked aloud, touching the location gingerly. She expected to feel the wet warmth of blood, or maybe an insect sinking its pincers in her. When her fingers made contact with her scalp, something far more queer happened. Almost like a bubble bursting, the sensation ceased immediately. It left behind the distinct impression that her thoughts were no longer her own. Good evening, Marigold, a voice said in the chamber of her mind. You’ll have to excuse me for the intrusion, but I have a favor to ask that’s quite urgent.

Mags frowned, unnerved but also not entirely surprised. Marek had mentioned the mage’s odd habits more than a few times, and this mind speech was one her friend had complained about many times. Besides, she could recognize the voice: slightly hoarse, kindly, and always concealing a hint of amusement. “Rauld? That you in there?”

Who else? I haven’t much time, so listen good, will you? The ancient man spoke at a faster clip than usual, giving her the impression he was anxious, and that troubled her. Your good friend Marek is attempting to leave Misthearth as we speak. I’d been unsure about whether or not to inform you of his departure. Circumstances have changed, and unfortunately, there seems to be no choice.

“Wait, he’s leaving?” she said, interrupted the mage. “He never told me about no trips. Where’s he going?”

Like I said, we haven’t time to banter. Keep your voice down if others are near. Your thoughts alone are enough to communicate with me. Now, shut up, Marigold Strongtower, and listen!

She suppressed several responses, her caution outweighing annoyance. Aye, she thought back. I’m listening.

Marek is on a quest of great importance. He must be gone from Misthearth post haste. Unfortunately, I used my Messenger Bird Spell on him earlier this night, and the target cooldown hasn’t been reset. Hence why I’m calling on you.

Mags shook her head, unsure of what to say. “What do you want me to do?” she finally asked.

The mage hummed thoughtfully—a satisfied sound, if she’d read the tone correctly. I’m pleased you’re so quick to ask. Your friend will need you in the coming months, I’m afraid. His task is urgent, and it begins with escape.

Catching on, Mags thought, Escape? From what? Are Isaac and those jerks after him?

Much worse, I’m afraid. Casteran soldiers are entering Misthearth as we speak. They’ve split their forces, and one will intercept Marek in Southshore if you don’t intervene.

Mags’ brow sprouted chill sweat. She stared at the turf between her feet, unsure of what to do. Soldiers? Is Misthearth under attack? Why don’t you inform Callum Fray? The Captain of the Guard is almost a Master in his Class. He’s a lot more qualified than—

Hush, child! Rauld snapped. Marek will explain. The Casterans will be coming under a banner of peace. Yet the fact that they divided their forces worries me. I have good reason to believe they’re after Marek. He’ll explain in the days to come. I charge you with a quest of your own: Don’t let our Marek die.

Mags’ stomach was a knot, empty from having skipped lunch and thrumming with nerves. I… I won’t, Rauld, but what is all this? You’re scaring me.

When Rauld answered, his voice was softened with compassion. Good. Fear is ever an ally. Without delay, you must take up your things, all you need to survive in the wilderness, and as much food as your family can spare. Marek will be leaving his uncle’s any moment now. Find him and leave Misthearth on the southern road. His pursuers are heading to the eastern road, then likely down Pub Street to sweep Southshore. Be swift, Marigold! And for Principalities’ sake, avoid the Casterans at all costs!

Some would have spent precious minutes scratching their head and pondering the mage’s strange request. Mags hadn’t survived military training for nothing, though, and Rauld wasn’t one to jest. Taking the mage at his word, she flew into action without delay. Her breath plumed in the chill air as she ticked off a mental list of preparations. Less than a minute passed before she’d decided her course of action.

Mags began with the obvious and close at hand. She retrieved the arrows and ran to the side of the house. Gritting her teeth, she shimmied up to her room window on the second story, using the chimney as a ladder. A few of the stones were hot, and she cursed under her breath, knowing she’d likely earn a few blisters from the climb.

Prying the window open, Mags quietly slid inside. She fumbled around in the dark. After a moment, her groping fingers found her sigil rod. “Come on,” she whispered. “No funny business.” When the rod sparked, she lit an oil lamp and sighed with relief. With light to see, Mags got to work.

In five short minutes, she’d stuffed her things into the large backpack she’d taken with her after leaving the King’s army. Bracing a foot against the wall, she lowered the pack from her window, using a length of rope. It took all her hand strength to do so, letting it down slowly to avoid making any noise that might draw attention.

When she finished, Mags threw a leg over the sill to follow but paused. A foul idea had come to her—one she couldn’t ignore. “Damn, but Liam’s going to kill me.” Guilt gnawed at her conscience as she snuck down the hallway and ducked into her brother’s room. He only spent half his days at home, yet they kept his little room available at all times. As she’d suspected, Mags found Liam’s shortsword in its scabbard near his bed. Sighing, she took the weapon along with the sack of beans, grain, and dried fruit he’d packed for his upcoming trip. “Sorry,” she whispered, glancing back at her brother’s bed in regret. “I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

When Mags closed the door behind her, a creak in the hall floorboards sent a spike of fear lancing up her spine. Yet when she confronted the spy, she found only little Quentin holding a candle in one hand. Eyes wide, the boy asked, “Whatcha doin’, Mags?”

She let out a relieved breath and leaned down. Close up, she could make out twin trails on his round cheeks where tears had cut through the day’s grime. “Going on a big adventure. Do you think you can do me a big, big favor, Quentin? It’s really important.”

He nodded eagerly. The boy revered his older siblings—all but Petar, at least, who spent most of his days pestering him. Mags was no exception. “Yeah, I can do that. I… I don’t know how to use a sword, but I’ll try.”

Mags winced and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. You’re to be my messenger.” Miraculously, Quentin’s eyes managed to get even wider. “I need you to wait until Liam heads upstairs to go to sleep. Then tell him I left, that I took his sword and some food.”

“His sword?” Quentin asked. “Mags, he’ll kill you!”

She shushed him, then nodded. “I’m only borrowing it, okay? He’ll understand. Liam’s gonna get good and pissed, and when he does, I need you to ask him to trust me enough not to try to follow. Understand?”

Quentin stood with his mouth hanging open, fear blossoming in his big eyes. “But where ya goin’, Mags?” he asked, nearly echoing his first question.

She kissed him on the cheek, her lips coming back wet with the salt of his recent tears. “Like I said, just a little adventure. I need Ma and Pa not to find out till the morning, though. Can you do this for me? Will you be my messenger?”

Ultimately, Quentin had no defense for such a request. He nodded so vigorously he jostled the candle, and a bit of wax spilled to the floorboards. Mags steadied the candle and smiled, forcing her memory to keep this image of her little brother. In his eyes swam the admiration and longing so many younger siblings held for those that had come first. “Thank you,” she said, pinching off the emotions that threatened to well up. “I will see you soon, little brother. Promise promise.”