When I open my eyes, I find myself staring out a dewy window into the misty, gray-pink morning. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then the memory of it all floods my mind. I would believe this some long, weird dream were it not for the fact that I’m clearly not at the community home anymore.

I stand and cross to the closet. If I want the High Council to take me seriously, I need to look like I belong here. A large majority of the clothing inside has been torn and gnawed on, but I manage to find a few intact items that must have belonged to my mother. The size is the problem—the clothes look a little large.

Out of options, I slide into a pair of black pants, hoping they won’t look too baggy. I zip them up, but my fingers still, a shocked gasp escaping my lips, when they magically tailor themselves to fit my form exactly.

Next, I find an olive sweater, hoping it will do the same. But as I move to pull it on, a new sight makes me pause. A strange tattoo marks my right forearm—one that wasn’t there before. A four-cornered endless knot with one loop encircling a small dragon. Bold and vivid. The mark I dreamed about on my birthday… same as the one on the pendant.

Unease pools in my stomach. Seeing no reason to draw attention to it until I understand its meaning, I tuck the pendant securely beneath my sweater and make sure that my sleeve fully covers the mark.

***

“We will travel by shadow imparter,” says Waldon after collecting me from the manor. He pulls a silver object from his pocket—the same item that Officer Tash used the day before.

I’m suddenly reminded of something. “Mr. Lewis?”

“Call me Waldon,” he says.

“Right. Waldon. Um, the police said something when they arrested me—”

“Scorchers.”

“What?”

“The authorities here are called scorchers.”

“Oh. Well, they said no one had been able to enter the manor in over a decade—”

“Fifteen years, to be exact,” says Waldon, a sideways smile gracing his lips. “But I’m guessing you had no difficulty entering?”

“Well… no. The door wasn’t even locked.”

“That wouldn’t have mattered. Only the rightful heir would have been able to enter the place. Not even the Elders could get in. It’s been quite the mystery—until now.”

Waldon clicks the top of the imparter, and a shadowy black wraith rises up like before, its long arms shrouding us in darkness. Once again, my soul is sucked from my body and pulled through an endless void, a familiar sense of horror burrowing through me as those writhing strands of silver—which I now know to be spirits—swarm the distance.

And then I’m reunited with my body, the trip much quicker with the shadow imparter than the teleportation hub or flashport.

“Why does anyone bother with a teleportation hub when they could just use those?” I ask, as Waldon pockets the imparter.

“The oil inside is expensive,” says Waldon. “And only good for about three trips, depending on the distance. Plus, only those aged eighteen or older are allowed to operate one.”

“Why?”

“Because shadow imparters can be temperamental,” says Waldon. “Disastrous even. They only work for places you’ve already been to. That’s why the telehub is the best option for the majority of people. Of course, there are self-steered carriages, if one prefers the scenic route. But I can’t imagine who has time for that nowadays.”

He motions behind me. “Wingate Castle—headquarters of the High Council. We’re now on the northern edge of the Misty Moors region.”

I turn. My jaw goes slack.

A thousand windows poke through the walls of the largest castle I’ve ever seen. Though it looks several centuries old, its structures are as sturdy and striking as ever. Numerous spires and turrets dot the sky, rising so high that only their shadowy outlines are distinguishable through the haze. Its stone walls have darkened with age so that it blends quite fittingly with the backdrop of the cloudy gray sky. A dozen winged forms circle its turrets, sweeping through the sky like oversized bats.

One lands on a bridge ahead of us, sharp claws digging into the railing. A gargoyle—this one resembling an angry winged troll with teeth like knives. I gulp as it narrows its gaze at us.

Waldon leads me to a covered stone bridge that stretches across a deep ravine, where a gray-blue river rushes a hundred feet below. It connects the castle with a smaller stone building behind us, which I think is a telehub.

“Those are the Craggy Mountains,” says Waldon, pointing to the immense, lofty range of jagged gray rock blanketing the horizon. Between two summits, the sun is attempting—and failing—to peek out from behind the sea of gray clouds.

We climb a set of stone steps to the arched entrance, and Waldon presses a badge to the door. It opens into a long corridor lined with mullioned windows on one side and flaming lanterns on the other. My gaze circles around, soaking everything in like a child seeing the world for the first time, as Waldon ushers me down a labyrinth of stone passages.

“This is the Hall of Emeritus,” he says, as we arrive at a corridor accentuated with a plush red rug. Large portraits crowd every inch of wall space on either side. “These are late politicians who once served the High Council. They were later awarded membership to the Order of Emeritus for some extraordinary contribution. It’s the highest honor a politician can hope to achieve.”

Judging by his voice, Waldon clearly hopes to one day earn a spot on the wall.

We stop at a door at the end of the hall. Waldon turns to me. “We’ll be meeting today with the high councilors of the Witch Council—representing the Misty Moors. Each order’s region is divided into twelve territories, with one high councilor elected to represent it as governor. Ready?”

Insides squirming, I nod, and Waldon opens the door. I follow him into a large, echoing meeting hall. Its walls flicker orange with every crackle of fire in the monstrous fireplace at one end. A dozen high-backed chairs flank a long table, the majority occupied with people chatting quietly amongst themselves.

“That’s Atticus Wolcott,” says Waldon, nudging me. “He’s the Witch Elder.”

I follow Waldon’s gaze to a man sitting at the head of the table. He has sharp features and hard stone-gray eyes. His lips are angled down in a frown, and he’s the only one sitting in silence.

So this is the person who will decide my fate.

“He seems upset,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

“He always looks that way,” says Waldon.

At that moment, Atticus’s stony gaze flicks to us. He raises an impatient eyebrow.

“Shall we?” says Waldon.

I follow Waldon to the table, my face heating as the room evaporates into silence, all gazes rising to settle on us as we sit down.

Waldon clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. I apologize for the short notice. I have someone here for you to meet.” I look down, focusing on a thin scratch on the table’s surface as the weight of everyone’s gazes pins me down. “This is Riley James, daughter of Arthur and Wendy James.”

There is a sudden outbreak of movement and murmurs. And I can’t help it—I glance up. The reactions are mixed: Most exchange significant looks of shock or disbelief; a man with bright orange hair has frozen as though in a stupor, one eyebrow etched high above the other; a strong-jawed woman with thick dark hair knotted in a wild bun is peering at me with an intelligent, curious gaze, as though looking straight through me. Opposite her, Atticus sits very still, a hard expression on his face. His frown has deepened.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“The daughter of Arthur and Wendy?” Atticus repeats slowly, lips barely moving. “It’s absurd. Surely you, Waldon, of all people do not believe this?”

I decide I don’t much like Atticus.

“It’s her, Atticus,” says Waldon, unfazed. “They confirmed her identity at the Registry Department yesterday.”

“But, Waldon,” says a man beside Atticus—clad in an immaculate green suit with thick, trimly cut dark hair and a pointed nose. “Arthur told us she was stillborn.”

“And yet, Alistair, here she is in the flesh,” says Waldon. As everyone looks to me again, I resume staring at the table. “Riley has been in Scotland all this time—the Stornoway Community Home on the Isle of Lewis.”

“How did she manage to get here?” someone asks.

Waldon recounts the attack and the chest and its contents, including the flashport. Atticus’s expression sours.

“But how was her identity confirmed if she’s not in the registry?” asks another councilor.

Instead of answering her, Waldon turns to me. “Could you please retrieve that exam from your bag?”

I blink, before leaning down to fumble through my rucksack. I tug the exam out from under the chest, accidentally ripping it in two in the process. I stiffen as the sound slices through the hall.

I curse under my breath before straightening. Face burning, I hand both halves to Waldon with an apologetic look.

“She had this in her bag when it was confiscated,” says Waldon, pushing it across the table to a fellow councilor. “She was trying to conceal her identity, but as you can see, her name is written clearly at the top corner there… nope, on the right half.”

Face now so hot it could probably fry an egg, I sink deep into my chair as my failed history exam makes its way around the room. If only I could have predicted this moment, I might have studied harder.

When it comes around to him, the man with orange hair laughs jovially. “I don’t like history that much, meself,” he says with a thick accent, winking at me.

I slump lower in my chair, head almost level with the table. When the exam’s returned to me, I stuff it furiously into my bag.

“Waldon, with all due respect, that exam could have been faked,” says Atticus, stroking back his dark hair.

“The girl has no knowledge of Aurelia, Atticus,” says Waldon, frowning. Apparently, this isn’t going as planned. “She was able to enter James Manor. No one but the true heir of Arthur and Wendy could have done so, as we all know.”

Atticus clears his throat. “Fine. But the child cannot stay here. She was not born in Aurelia and therefore has no magical capability whatsoever. If she is not in the Birth Registry, then she is not considered a citizen. That is our law.”

My heart lands in my stomach. That’s it? Atticus isn’t even going to consider other options?

“I realize that, Atticus. But surely given the circumstances—”

“Arthur and Wendy made their choice,” says Atticus, lips thinning. “Besides, she will be safest outside of Aurelia.”

The room falls silent. Waldon nods stiffly. I can tell he feels sorry for me. Just not sorry enough to appeal further.

“Arthur and Wendy wanted her to have the choice to come here, Atticus,” says the strong-jawed woman with dark hair, staring down Atticus from the opposite end of the table. “That much is evident from the flashport they gave her.”

“Are you forgetting that Arthur stole that item from the Council? Its use outside of Aurelia is illegal, and for good reason. He knew that. What if it had fallen into the wrong hands and our country had been infiltrated by outsiders?” Murmurs of agreement around the table. “He tricked us all, Athena,” says Atticus softly.

“Can you blame him?” asks Athena. “Look at the circumstances. Arthur and Wendy didn’t know who to trust, so they took matters into their own hands to ensure their daughter’s safety. You can’t possibly fault them for that. It’s clear they always intended for her to know her true home.”

“It does not matter what Arthur and Wendy intended,” says Atticus, raising his voice. “It is our laws that matter here. They are in place for a reason, as you very well know.”

“That law is meant for someone of no magical ancestry or connection to Aurelia.” Athena doesn’t raise her voice, but it nevertheless commands a degree of authority. “Riley James is a descendant of one of the most esteemed families in Aurelian history. Aurelia is her birthright.”

“Perhaps that would have been true if Arthur and Wendy had not chosen to break countless laws in their effort to deceive the High Council.”

“Just because you’re angry that Arthur and Wendy hoodwinked you, Atticus—” a collective intake of breath around the table “—doesn’t give you the right to take it out on their daughter.”

“Aurelia is a dangerous place, particularly for someone of no magical ability,” says Atticus, his face reddening. “Would you condemn her to the life of the Human Order?”

On either side of the table, the gazes of the others dance back and forth in unison between Atticus and Athena, as though watching a competitive game of ping-pong.

“She would not go to live on Phantom Island,” says Athena. “She would stay at James Manor where she belongs.”

“And who would supervise her? The High Council has more important things to do than babysit a child.”

“She is not a child,” says Athena. “I’m sure the girl is well aware by now that there’s a danger to staying in Aurelia. She deserves a choice in the matter.” Before Atticus can interject, Athena turns her amber eyes on me. “Riley, do you want to stay in Aurelia or return to Scotland?”

Everyone except Atticus, who is glaring daggers at Athena, turns to me.

“I want to stay,” I say clearly.

Athena smiles at me.

Atticus slams a fist on the table. “I will not allow it,” he snarls. “She has no magical ability. We would have to assign a Council member as her legal guardian. We would have to educate her—it’s not as though she could simply enroll at Grimlock. It would be an inappropriate use of the Council’s resources.”

“An inappropriate use of Council resources?” A quiet fury laces Athena’s voice. “Looking after the daughter of a man who served this Council for most of his life? Someone who would have done anything to protect the very people in this room?”

Several members murmur their agreement.

Atticus forces a smile, though it looks very much like a grimace. “Arthur’s actions as Witch Guardian were admirable. The best way to repay him is to ensure his daughter’s safety. She will not be safe in Aurelia—not when she has no magic to defend herself.”

Athena opens her mouth—

“This is not up for debate,” says Atticus, with an air of finality. “She cannot stay.”

Silence falls on the room.

My heart leaves my chest.

“But there’s a Human Order,” I blurt out desperately. “There are others here who can’t do magic—”

Atticus turns his stony gaze on me. “Unlike you, Miss James, their names are in the Birth Registry. Do not speak about that which you don’t understand.”

“But no one there knows who I am anymore,” I say, hating when my voice cracks. “I used Forget-Me Dust.”

“You can be re-introduced,” says Atticus, with a lazy wave of his hand.

Start from scratch? After having my memory wiped? He can’t be serious. Only… he is. I swallow, looking around the table. Though I’m met by looks of pity, no one else intervenes on my behalf. Next to me, Waldon avoids my gaze. It appears that this man, Atticus, holds a power in the Council that will not be overruled. If not for him, I could have stayed in Aurelia.

No… if not for Hodge.

And suddenly, all I see is red, my nails biting into my skin as I clench my fists under the table. It’s because of him that I’m in this situation. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I repeat this over and over in my head.

My new mantra.

Athena is breathing heavily as she stares—no, glares—at Atticus, no longer making an effort to contain her anger. “You will not take away her memory of this, Atticus. It would be cruel. She deserves to keep the knowledge she has learned of her parents and where she is from.”

“You propose returning her outside with full knowledge of Aurelia? You would prefer to put our nation at risk? As a High Councilor, you ought to know better, Athena,” says Atticus.

“She could sign an oath,” says Athena, lips tight. “Just as our own citizens do when they leave the country. One of us can bind the document after she signs it.”

Atticus does not look happy but doesn’t dispute further. He leans back in his chair and waves a dismissive hand in Athena’s direction. “Well, get on with it then.”

Athena exhales and stands, chair scraping noisily against the floor. Everyone waits as she leaves the room.

My eyes burn, and I blink furiously. How can I return to life at the community home knowing what I know now? It’s almost worse than the blissful ignorance that would come from having my memory wiped. Almost.

Athena returns a few minutes later with a coil of yellow paper in hand. She rolls out the scroll, then picks up a black pen that matches her polished black nails. The room is silent except for the sound of pen against paper as Athena scribbles in blanks, pressing much harder than necessary.

As I watch her, I remember something. The mystery pen from the chest. The label said to use it in case of an emergency. Well, this is an emergency, isn’t it? Is it possible my parents foresaw this hurdle in their grand plan?

Athena stops writing and passes the document down the table.

I need to do something. As the document travels from hand to hand, an idea hatches in my mind. It might not work. I might be wrong… but I have to try. There’s nothing to lose and everything to gain, if my theory is correct.

“I’m sorry, Riley,” says Waldon, pausing with the scroll in his hands. Written at the top of the page are the words Oath of Secrecy. “We will need your signature at the bottom here. Once you’ve signed, we will discuss details of your departure.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he passes me the contract and pen.

Taking a deep breath, I pull the contract to me, strategically moving it so that the pen on top rolls off the edge of the table, to the floor. The clatter echoes around the room. “Oops, sorry,” I mutter, praying that the others will attribute the fumble to nerves.

Heart racing, I bend down in the guise of picking it up—and then, use that moment to extract the one from within my open rucksack. Thanks to my earlier search for the exam, I know exactly where it is. As I straighten, I nudge the other pen farther under the table with my foot.

Slowly, I lift the pen above the signature line, hand trembling as I wait for someone to shout, to rip the pen away. But there’s only tense silence. No one noticed the swap. I sign my name, not knowing what—if anything—to expect.

“Now, I will bind—” Waldon’s voice breaks off.

A thread of purple flows from my signature. The contract rises of its own accord, hovering just above the table as the thread twists and coils, roping itself around the document in a flurry. The bound scroll falls back onto the table, quite still.

I look up uncertainly. My eyes first find Athena, whose lips are stretched wide in a triumphant smile. Then I look sideways at Waldon, who’s staring at the scroll, his expression a blend of shock and satisfaction. Around the table, the others share similar looks of disbelief. The orange-haired man across from me mutters “Ha!” under his breath.

Atticus is the only one who appears outright angry, staring hard at the document as though it has personally insulted him.

“Well, that settles it then, eh?” says the orange-haired man. “The girl’s a witch after all.”