Nyashia knew her people in Osrayan as the way they were – every shade of brown in between, gleaming copper figures that breathed and loved with warm, beating hearts and hopeful song. Their heads were dense with loose black curls, or braided into rows, or shaved or wrapped with colorful cloths. To Nyashia, Osrayan was beautiful because of its people, like the magic that made Nyashia yielded with her scepter, like the tattoos on her back, an intricate mass of ink and hieroglyphs. Until her nightmares appeared, always the same. A ghostly pale boy, a head of white curls, with eyes that stalked Nyashia’s mind the way a lioness hides herself among the grass, spying on her prey. A language she cannot understand. Along with a spark in her chest that Nyashia cannot identify. Moons later, people of his kind step down from their wide, monstrous vessels, with the same white hair, the same pale skin. The boy is among them, dressed in silks, with a crown on his head. The living ghosts bring chests of gifts and offerings, riches that Osrayan have never seen. New metals, new weapons, new herbs. Nyashia’s family welcome them all into the palace, brushing off Nyashia’s worries and fears about the strangers that have come into Osrayan. But Nyashia’s mind cannot dwell long on the possibilities of war, for she is distracted, by her family, her responsibility as Osrayan’s princess- And the ghostly boy that haunts her dreams.