When Alize awoke, the sun beamed soft afternoon hues. Bits of blue sky peeked through the canopy overhead and underneath Alize the earth was warm and dry. She pulled herself to a sitting position and brushed the fallen leaves from her trousers. They crumbled in her hands.

For a moment, it all seemed so normal, so peaceful.

“Welcome back,” a man spoke.

Alize shifted. The Sargon sat besides her, whittling a piece of wood. Alize scrunched her eyes shut, wishing he would disappear as the shadowy man had. She felt a coolness on her calf and squinted one eye open to see a water skin. The Sargon withdrew his hand quickly.

Alize regarded him askew. She could not understand why the Sargon would offer her water, or what he meant to imply by it. He must not realize what he’s doing, Alize reckoned, for it dishonors him, not me. And though accepting his water skin would confer her a smug triumph, Alize pushed it away and reached for her own instead. As she tilted it to her parched lips, she kept her eyes on the Sargon.

For an instant, his face flickered with confusion. “I’ve also got some food,” he spoke. The roots he produced from his sac were speckled with dust and threads. He blew on them but the debris clung resolutely.

Alize wrinkled her nose before rising to her feet. She flinched when the Sargon did the same.

He stepped towards her, somewhat guardedly, and held out his hand. “I’m Davram.”

Alize let his words hang in the chilly air. His black eyes met hers, bereft of any open threats, but the scuffed callouses crowding his outstretched palm attested to his familiarity with a weapon. Alize noticed too the muscles in his forearm, broad and pronounced even while he relaxed. He carried his strength subtly, making Alize all the more apprehensive of what he might conceal.

There was no stillness in his gaze. Beneath his calm façade, something restless and impatient plagued him.

“I’m leaving,” Alize answered before pushing past him, towards Josoun.

"You can’t, not yet,” the Sargon objected, his voice low, obvious. “You need to talk to Onder.”

“I don’t need to do anything, Sargon.”

“Davram.”

“Sargon.”

“Fine. Sargon I may be, but I am not what you fear.”

Alize missed his last words as her attention shifted. Around her the forest rested in unfamiliar silence. The birds chirped in eager staccato, the soil crunched under her boots and her heart drummed. But nothing more.

Quiet swarmed where voices had always sang.

The trees were silent as the sky to Alize’s ears.

Alize clutched her head in disbelief. “What is happening?” she gasped. She wrench towards a tree to dig her fingers into the ruts in the bark. But she heard nothing. No whispers. Only drowning silence. The whole world died around her, the deflated sails of a ship so very far from shore.

“What do you mean?” Davram asked. He lips thinned into a frown when Alize did not respond. “What do you-“

“I can’t hear anything!”

“We’re having a conversation right now.”

“Not that,” she whispered, her eyes intent on the tree trunk.

“Then what?”

“Stop talking!” Alize barked. She whirled to face the Sargon with a glare she hoped would melt his skin. But though he took a step backwards, he appeared only alarmed, not distressed.

“I’ll see where Onder is.” Davram departed into the forest with heavy strides, leaving Alize to her crushing solitude.

She slid down the trunk, diminished in silence. The trees had never abandoned her. Their background served as her protection against the wild world. And as her best anchor to it.

She listened with her whole body, stretching her consciousness wide in search of the trees’ voices. The emptiness twisted in the pit of her stomach, a mass of heat and bile. But the silence swallowed her alive like a predetor’s prey, trembling, and wholly cognizant of the pain consuming her. It dissolved everything she used to define herself.

Though Alize’s head and body finally felt clear, the stillness taunted her with a wholly new despair, a whole new aching helplessness.

Alize had sworn four years ago that she would never suffer that again.

She startled when the Mage arrived.

“And how are you feeling, my dear?” he asked. Much of the color had returned to his face and he smiled as he sank into the moss beside her. He did not acknowledge Alize’s dull expression of dismay.

Instead, he rummaged through his sack to produce a glass vial. “You’ll want to see this. I must apologize for our hasty action, but these magics were battling inside you, tearing you apart.”

Alize blinked, observing three swirling colors teeming in the vial.

The Mage leaned into Alize. She had not appreciated the lightness in his voice until she heard its converse, replete with tension.

“So very inexplicable. I have spent the last forty-six years studying the properties of magic, and this vial,” he rotated it, “flouts almost every law I know.”

Whether from his tone or his information, Alize’s heart began to thump in her chest. She watched the magics struggle together in the vial.

“Do you know, my dear, what happens to magic when a Conjurer dies?”

Alize could barely form the words on her tongue. “It dissipates.”

“Exactly. Without the bearer’s soul, there’s nothing to bind it to this world, and the magic dissolves right into the air.” Onder mimicked the dispersal with his fingers. “Now,” he continued, “if Davram is to be believed, when this shape shifter you killed-”

“He killed,” Alize corrected. The Sargon had succeeded where she had failed. If she did not say it aloud, she would surely start misremembering.

“Yes, he killed.” The Mage agreed. “When the man died, his magic survived. I removed it from you using a very old spell. And here it lies.” He tapped the vial.

Alize winced at the corresponding shrill chime. She had to repeat his words in her head before she recognized their implication.

“Not only that,” the Mage added, “Our adversary carried the magic of multiple people. There are three distinct magics in this bottle.”

Alize folded her arms and studied the contorting colors. The gray swirled opaque, the green translucent, but the white shimmered like dew awash in moonlight.

“Well don’t get too excited,” Alize said finally, “one of them is mine.”

“Ah,” The Magi smiled, “I wondered about that. I didn’t know the Hrumi had any Conjurers.”

“I’m not a Conjurer,” Alize said quickly.

“How can that be, if you carry magic?” The Magi spoke softly, but Alize sensed his desperate curiosity underneath, however he attempted to shroud it.

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Alize faltered, and in that instant the memory of Celillie’s renunciation rushed through her. That was a fire she could not withstand, consuming her utterly and leaving her remains charred and broken.

She shuddered, trying to catch her breath even as the Mage scrutinized her.

“Why should I entertain your questions? You have robbed me! I demand you return my magic!”

Sadness swept across the Mage’s face. “Believe me, I would, but I’m not sure that such a thing is possible.”

His revelation announced the damage as irrevocable. Life without the trees. Alize’s last security crumbled to ashes, scattered away in the wind.

She jerked her gaze downward, lest the Mage see her pain.

“But,” he murmured, “I can try. Lady Hrumi. I can commit to you to try.”

Though Alize tried to temper it, her hope seeped through her, and slowly the blood returned to her limbs.

“But it won’t be easy, I’m afraid,” the Mage continued, “these magics are tangled and isolating yours requires an extremely difficult spell. I don’t have the materials I need here.” He regarded Alize. “But, listen to me, when has the world ever encountered perpetual magic?”

Alize squared her shoulders, “There’s no such thing. All magic dies with the bearer.”

“Hmm. Perhaps we should back up a moment. What is your name?”

The question surprised Alize. The Hrumi discouraged making contacts outside the clan, although perhaps a Mage was not included in that taboo. However, he kept a Sargon companion who would most likely learn anything Alize revealed. But he said he could help her, and what other options did Alize have, as a renounced Hrumi?

And what rules govern me now?

It was too much to navigate. “Alize,” she answered flatly. What have I done?

“Alize.” The Magi repeated with rapt attention, “I’m Onder. I want to thank you for your ministrations. I’ve not suffered such injury for many years.”

“I did it to save my sisters.”

“And I ensured they are safe from the Magi. A mistake can be forgiven.”

Alize again looked down. She could almost hear Celille’s warning. Don’t give them anything. Telling him her name had been uncomfortable enough, but revealing her gratitude risked implying a debt. Alize would be wise to avoid any further mistakes like the one she had made with the soldiers.

“We did not know your identity. The Hrumi must always act to protect ourselves.”

“Indeed. I have heard some alarming legends to this end.”

Alize bristled. “They misrepresent us. Because our souls are so valuable, the princes must justify their persecutions, no matter how peaceably we live. No matter our service to Rehsan.”

“Rehsan?” the Mage repeated, tilting his head and frowning.

His question finally granted Alize stable footing. “Surely you know of Rehsan the First Protector? The Great Priestess of the Eastern Temple! How the Gods bestowed upon her vast power, and she committed great deeds throughout the mountains and steppes?”

Onder continued Alize’s thought. “Her thirteen feats of glory, beginning with the defeat of the demon Nocturne. All Magi study Rehsan the Hegemon.”

Alize smiled. “The Hrumi proudly serve as her heirs.”

“Then the clan must recognize the significance of the earthquakes.”

That again. Frustration tingled Alize’s fingertips. “How do you see that?”

“Well,” Onder replied, “as everyone knows, there are many different accounts of her death.”

Alize nodded, but she had never heard any versions beyond the one recited around Hrumi campfires.

“Legend tells us,” Onder continued, “that when Rehsan died, her magic could not be transformed back to the gods - it was too tainted with human physicality. The gods instead burst it from her to distribute throughout the world. They say the burst had precursors - great earthquakes in all the provinces, shattering surges of energy, centered around the Sun Temple, in the east. And when it the magic was cast forth, those that stood by received the largest shares.”

“That’s not right.” Alize countered, “it was her soul cast forth. Rehsan founded the Hrumi, and granted her soul to her sisters, for protection.”

“Her soul?” Onder leaned close to Alize, his eyes blazing with curiosity. “What use have the Hrumi for her soul?”

Alize paused. She could not reveal her clan’s sacred rituals, but Rehsan’s protection was common knowledge. “All Hrumi are rescued as children, I’m sure you know, from terrible circumstances. Suffering makes our souls valuable, so the princes seek to harvest them, gifts for the High Prince in Parousia. Rehsan understood that. Her soul grants us protection, and we are honored to carry her legacy.”

Onder tilted his head in thought. “Her soul. Interesting.”

“And what about the earthquakes now?”

“Many people believe the events of Rehsan’s death are repeating themselves with the current Priestess. They are moving east. The Magi too. Of course, they expect a distribution of magic.”

Alize shrugged. “That sounds a fool’s delusion. How could the current Priestess possibly compare to Rehsan? She has committed no great deeds nor protected the vulnerable, nor the poor, nor the silent. Where was she during the Scab Plague, the Ginmae massacre or when the Kogaloks swarmed the Silver City? What use is a Priestess who does not serve the people?”

Onder frowned at her dismissive tone. “She is a servant to the Temple.”

“I’ve seen the Temple,” Alize rolled her eyes. “It’s empty but for the faith people put in it.”

“Perhaps her purpose lies elsewhere.”

“Or perhaps she possesses little power from the gods, and less to give away.” Alize tossed a rock and it clattered against a tree root. The Mage sounded like Celillie. It seemed everyone intended to journey to the Temple and Alize alone felt impervious to the appeal.

“Then you’ve visited the Temple?” Despite Alize’s disinterest, the Mage appeared captivated. “Have you been to the Ginmae plateau?”

“Not recently,” Alize replied coolly. Saying more would reveal far too much of the Hrumi.

“How did it look?”

Alize’s face darkened as she sifted through her memories, snaring some she preferred remain forgotten. “I don’t like to go,” she answered haltingly, “The Kogaloks let the land rot around them. It’s more ravaged each time I visit. The mountains above the steppes have almost all been denuded, and now all the soil fills the rivers until they’re silty and the earth barren.”

“And the people?”

Alize shuddered. “All the life there is cursed, dead or dying. The Kogaloks have no use for anything else.”

“I wish you could have seen it before the Ginmae fell. It was beautiful.”

“It hardly matters now,” Alize shrugged.

“No.” A fleeting expression passed over the Mage’s face. Alize puzzled why that should disappoint him, but he interrupted her thoughts. “The Temple sits at the edge of the steppes of the Ginmae province. Maybe the Priestess provides more protection than we realize.”

Alize rested her chin in her hands and sighed. She doubted it. “And how does any of this relate the idea of perpetual magic?”

“Think on it. The one time in history that people gathered around a dying person of great power -”

“Rehsan.” Alize nodded. “But how does this situation resemble her story?”

“This magic didn’t dissipate, as it always has. It carried forward. In fact, it sought you.” The Mage’s eyes brightened with excitement. “Alize, have you ever had any reason to think that you are different from the other Hrumi?”

The question unsettled Alize. She remembered Celillie’s renunciation and again panic rushed through her, though this time she managed to weather some of the despair. She needed to hoard her hope, delicate as starlight. All was not yet lost. The Mage may be able to restore my magic.

But that did not entitle him to witness her private anguish. “I am just like them,” Alize responded through gritted teeth.

“But did the Conjurer’s magic come to you?”

Alize turned to regard the Magi. She did not appreciate the soft tone he used for such audacious assertions. “I don’t know anything, and I don’t see why you think I should.” Alize rose to her feet, intending to leave. But nothing in the forest welcomed her. The absence of its voice throbbed like a toothache she should know better than to prod.

“Enough Onder.” Alize and Onder both turned to see the Sargon Davram approach. “Not everyone is as interested in theoretical magic as you are. Let the lady rest.” He bowed his head to Alize, “Can I get you anything? Food? Water?”

On any other day in her life Alize would have objected to any man calling her a lady and distorting all her customs.

But she frowned, wary. She did need something from them. “How will you return my magic?”

Onder and Davram exchanged a glance.

“Well,” Onder murmured, “We are traveling to the city of Mizre. I believe we can find the necessary books and equipment there.”

Alize folded her arms. A city meant leaving the forest, crossing the lonely steppes on a government road and relying on two men for guidance. Trusting them, even, that they would not betray her to the High Prince of Parousia. A Hrumi was worth gold in the cities, Alize knew that much.

“Why should I believe you won’t turn me in when we arrive?”

“Because you have something valuable. If you will permit me, Alize,” Onder said her name cautiously, “I want to understand this magic.”

His words brought a stab of bitterness. If only Celillie had said them, not a stranger. It reflected as poorly on Celillie as it reflected well on the Mage, and Alize winced with both implications. But at least it satisfied her most pressing concern. While the Mage professed interest in her magic, she could understand the Sargon’s motivations to abstain from soultrussing her. “Then I will accompany you ,” she exhaled, “so long as you provide me safety from the Sargon.”

“Of course,” Onder replied, “Let me assure you that if I do not possess the power to remove your soul, Davram doesn’t either.”

“I’m not even a Conjurer,” Davram offered.

Alize regarded him. That doesn’t absolve you. No one needed magic to soultruss. It was a rune ceremony. Yet the Sargon spoke as if his lies implied innocence, as if Alize might disregard his mandate, the history of torment he represented.

It made Alize all the more wary. Already she sensed a certain informality of the Sargon, as if he wanted to ignore the differences between them. Meanwhile, her safety depended on her vigilance. “And I do not consent to interacting with the Sargon.”

Davram blinked in surprise, but Onder said quickly, “If that’s the price to pay, so be it.”

Alize nodded and rose to refill her water skin. The wind rattled the tree branches and the leaves rushed across the ground like choreographed dancers. At the stream Alize fumbled in her task while her thoughts raced, spilling faster than the water.

The shame of traveling with a Sargon paled against her renunciation, but Alize could see no choice in either matter. There was no other way to recover her magic.

Yet her memories distressed her. Alize shivered and tugged back her sleeve to examine a slender scar at her elbow.

When Alize returned to the camp, she watched Davram’s every move.

He kept his gaze upwards as if he did not notice her attention. He had strapped his sword across his back, unconcealed. Alize’s dread flared. The stronger the Sargons were, the harder the Hrumi had to fight.

They had a few days’ ride ahead of them to a place prominently featured in Hrumi nightmares: a government city.