The testing starts in the morning. We gather in the yard, where Aze, Bronhold, and the other men receiving actual training are ordered into formation with the soldiers. Tenant Tyrr herds the rest of us into the tunnel, and we make the long, dark walk to the Phoenix Nest in silence. An incessant itching on the back of my neck tells me the Wordweaver Brayam has joined us, but I don’t see him until we start the fire-setting. He stands beside Tyrr, his arms folded as he watches us work, an expression of intense boredom on his face.

They make no announcement, no explanation to let us know what they’re doing. They just quietly pull a man at a time away from his work, leaving another soldier in charge while they disappear around a curve in the cavern wall. After a while, the men return with bewildered expressions to resume their work.

One of them, a dark-haired Norwikker with a birthmark on his forehead, whispers a report to our group as we load rocks into our wheelbarrows. “They’re trying to find the Wordweaver,” he says, leaning over the broken stones and beckoning us closer. “They had me try all sorts of things—setting fire, smoothing the edges of a rock, healing a cut. Why d’you think the Wordweaver’s staying hidden?”

“He may be new,” suggests another Norwikker. “My grandfather used to tell me about a Wordweaver he met during the Coastal Wars. He figures he was blessed by the Phoenix during battle, but he didn’t figure out he had the power until six months had passed.”

“Maybe it happened during the wolf attack?” Kjerrin says.

The sound of a whip cracks a few paces away, startling us away from each other. “Keep working!” shouts the soldier in charge. “No talking!”

We eat a meager meal when Tenant Tyrr decides it’s close to midday, and then continue our work for the rest of the afternoon. I can’t decipher the pattern they’re using to question us—they seem to call us out at random, and my anxiety builds the longer I wait. It should be simple enough to pass the Wordweaving test by just not calling up the power, but I’m not sure how much Brayam will be able to sense. There’s nothing about this in the fryrs’ notes.

Three other Brennrs are called before I’m summoned. It’s Brayam who shouts my borrowed name, his voice a scarlet slash through my composure. My heart freezes—throbs—stutters to life again. I clutch the handles of the wheelbarrow I was pushing in my gloved hands.

“Brennr Hirdinn,” Kjerrin muses. “I knew a man with that name. He died last year.”

I clear my throat, but one of the Norwikkers answers before I can. “I know half a dozen Hirdinns. My sister married—”

“No talking!” repeats the head soldier.

Kjerrin flashes me a tired smile as he bends to lift a chunk of rock. “Take your time, Brennr. This’ll likely be our only break today.”

I wish I could take his advice, but my heart is pounding too wildly to enjoy the respite. I make my way toward the alcove where Tyrr and Brayam wait, taking in deep breaths of smoky air to calm myself. I left my cloak on my bunk, so I have nothing to hide my face. I’ll have to rely on the grime and Mjera’s haircut to disguise me.

I turn the corner into the alcove and find three barrels set up around an unlit firepit. Tenant Tyrr is perched on one barrel and Brayam takes a seat on another, leaving the third for me.

“Quickly,” Tyrr says when I hesitate. “Sit down, boy, we don’t have all day.”

I hurry to the empty barrel and sit uneasily.

“What is your age?” Tyrr asks in a bored tone.

“Nineteen years.”

He flicks his gaze over me doubtfully. “And no beard?”

“I... prefer to shave.”

Tyrr frowns. “I see. And where are you from?”

“Vallegat, sir. In the Phoenix Valley.”

“The Phoenix Valley.” His voice is wrapped in a filmy, distrusting yellow, like pond scum clinging to the surface of his words. “How long have you lived there?”

I try to keep the confusion from my face. Aren’t we supposed to be testing for Wordweaving? “I’ve lived there my whole life.”

“Have you experienced any recent injuries which may have resulted in your acquiring the Phoenix’s Blessing?”

“No, sir.”

“No broken bones?” Tyrr presses. “Cuts? Sicknesses?”

“No, sir.”

He hums. “Tell me about your family.”

My stomach gives a nauseating roll. My family or Mjera’s? If he checks my information against the census, he’ll be able to see who Brennr’s siblings and parents were. “I have two brothers and a sister,” I say, fidgeting. “My father died when I was seven, but my mother is a skilled shepherdess. She took over the herd.”

Tyrr glances at Brayam, who gives a tiny shake of his head. A wash of icy dread sinks through me. Can Brayam see colors in voices, too? I’ve always assumed it was a trait connected to my Wordweaving, but there’s nothing about it in the fryrs’ research. Of course, their notes were all taken about Wordweavers, not by them. If Brayam can tell I’m lying, then…

“Start a fire,” Tyrr says.

I suck in a breath and look at the fire pit. Someone has already piled kindling and sticks together, giving me plenty of fuel. I swallow and try in an innocent voice, “I haven’t any flint.”

“Speak it into being,” Tyrr says impatiently.

I look at the kindling and open my mouth, but Brayam stops me. “Remove your gloves,” he directs. “Touch the wood and speak directly to it.”

Slowly, I pull off the gloves Chass gave me to replace the ones I ruined in the wolf attack, careful to keep my scarred palms facing my body. I kneel beside the pit and place my fingers on the kindling, clear my throat, and say, “Start a fire.”

A flood of energy leaps to my tongue, but I hold it there. There is no burst of golden light, no spark of flame from my fingertips—not even a hint of fennel on my lips. Nothing happens. No one stirs. I hold my breath.

“You may rejoin the others,” Tyrr says.

For a heartbeat, I stay where I am. Brayam knows I’m lying. They both do, don’t they? Why would they let me return? Why not push to make me reveal my secrets?

“Go,” Tyrr says, sternly.

I scramble to my feet and hurry away.

The scrape of Brayam’s boots follows me to the edge of the alcove, where his russet voice calls out a new name. They’re going to keep questioning the others? It must be my identity they suspect, then. When we return to the fort, Tyrr will check my answers against the census and turn me over to Captain Oristel.

It’s over.

My heartbeat thrashes against my ribcage, trapped with all my fear and helplessness. I keep my head down as I hurry to my group, pulling my gloves back onto my sweating hands and trying to control my rising panic.

“I guess that means you’re not the Wordweaver,” Kjerrin says when I grab the waiting wheelbarrow. “Pity. You could have finished the work for us.”

I let out a breathy, half-hysteric laugh and get back to work.

By the time Tyrr calls for us to stop working for the day, I’ve worried myself into an anxious, hopeless mess. Kjerrin and a few of the more optimistic Norwikkers try joking as we stack our tools and trudge back to the fort, but I keep my eyes on Tyrr and Brayam. When we exit the close air of the tunnel into the evening chill, I wait to hear my name shouted over the assembly.

It doesn’t happen.

I follow my quarter to supper, where we meet up with Aze and Bronhold. I make myself eat, not knowing when my next meal might be if I am forced to leave. I stumble on trembling legs back to the barracks, where I whisper a summary of the questioning to Aze.

I fall into my bunk, resigned to face my fate in the morning.

But when the morning comes, the bugles rouse us like normal, and Tyrr leads us into the tunnel without a glance in my direction. Brayam doesn’t join us, and we work without interruption for the rest of the day. I manage to catch Chass’s attention during the evening meal, but when he meets me in the yard before bed, he tells me that my secret is safe and that Tyrr doesn’t suspect.

“But he knows I was lying,” I insist. “Brayam could tell.”

Chass shakes his head. “Tyrr had a theory, but I disproved it. You’re in no danger.”

He will tell me nothing more, and I return to the barracks in hesitant relief.

A week passes. I think I feel Tyrr’s gaze a few times in the tunnel, but he never approaches me. He and Brayam finish their questioning, and nothing more is said about the hidden Wordweaver. Chass passes me a message through Aze to assure me that Captain Oristel has given up the search—Chass convinced him the Wordweaver must be incredibly weak not to recognize his power. It’s more than I had hoped for, so I thank the Phoenix for his protection and focus on my work in the tunnel. Aze and a handful of other villagers are spared from the work, instead focusing their attentions on learning to be real soldiers. Chass takes over their training, and Aze tells me he’s a good teacher. I wish the rest of us could benefit from it as well.

When we’re not in the tunnel, we gather wood for the fire-setting and stack it in the Phoenix Nest. Sometimes a few of us are sent to help in the kitchens or elsewhere around the fort, but as soon as those tasks are finished we return to the tunnel. Everything goes back to the tunnel.

After the second week, I lose hope that we’ll receive any training at all. Tyrr claims he’ll send groups of us back to Chass when we’ve made enough progress in the tunnel, but the days slip by and his promise goes unfulfilled. I don’t see Chass again after his assurances that I’m safe, but Aze passes a few messages between us as the week wears on. They’re comforting at first—promises that Chass is keeping an eye on Tyrr, and that his suspicions have nothing to do with the secrets I’m hiding. Then they stray to more personal topics. Chass sends Aze back with notes written in simple Saani, asking me to respond in the same language so he can practice. In halting phrases, they tell about his favorite things, his interest in mountain cultures, the pressures he feels as an only son. He asks for my thoughts on his overly competitive sister, who he hasn’t seen in months, but who continues to send challenging letters while they’re apart. He even confesses to a fear of thunder after a night of storms.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

At the end of the second week, I wake to find my monthly bleeding has started. I sign a jerking explanation to Aze as the bugle wakes the rest of the barracks and rummage through Edlan’s bag for dried red moss and wool.

Aze yawns as I stuff my supplies into my pockets and follows me into the yard, waving to a few of the soldiers already gathering for their drills. “Are you going to be able to work today?” he asks in a low voice.

“I don’t really have a choice.”

He shrugs and lets the matter drop. Back home, I always spent the first day of my bleeding in the Kynstett, curled at the foot of Ieldran’s altar with a cup of raspberry leaf tea to soothe my cramping muscles. Most women prefer to travel to the sorestry in Norwikk, where whole rooms are dedicated to the sacred monthly reminder of Ieldran’s ability to create life. But Mjera and I favored the little-used alcove in the Kynstett’s tower, with its high window and breathless, blessed quiet. There, pressing together beneath a blanket in the light of the open window, we would chant our praises and whisper our hopes to Ieldran’s patient ears.

An ache spreads through my chest. This will be the first time since I reached womanhood that I will spend my bleeding alone. Mjera’s will be starting soon as well, if it hasn’t already. Is she on her way to the Kynsyett now? Is she thinking of me, too?

Aze stands guard at the door to the primitive outhouse, which is little more than a hole in the ground covered by a wooden seat. There’s a bucket of rainwater in the corner for washing, and by the time I finish, I’m feeling refreshed enough to face the new day.

Until I open the door to find Tenant Tyrr waiting beside Aze.

“Hirdinn,” the tenant says, a harsh, contemptuous yellow streaking through his voice. “You may be used to a relaxed morning routine where you’re from, but here, you will be prompt. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will make up for your tardiness by carrying rocks instead of pushing the wheelbarrow,” Tyrr says.

My stomach sinks. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Tyrr glances at Aze, who has stood at stiff attention during the exchange. “Get your weapon, Solln. Tenant Gryfalkr is gathering the trainees.”

Aze salutes and holds himself still while Tyrr stalks away. I slam the outhouse door and stomp after him, but Aze catches my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I tried to stall, but—”

I swat at him until he lets me go. “It’s not your fault. There wasn’t much you could have done against him.”

“He doesn’t like you,” Aze says, frowning. “He kept asking how I knew you and what you did before coming here.”

Panic freezes me in place. “What did you say?”

“I said you were a shepherd,” Aze says.

I let out a breath. “Good. That’s what I told him.”

“Just… try to avoid him. He gives me a bad feeling.”

Unfortunately, avoiding him isn’t an option. He stands over me while I work, mocking my weakness and the fact that I won’t take off my shirt like so many of the other men. Kjerrin, who has removed his shirt every other time we’ve been in the tunnel, keeps his on in a surprising show of solidarity. He even winks at me when Tyrr turns his back to bark at another villager.

“Don’t show him you’re upset,” Kjerrin whispers when I stumble under the weight of a fallen stone. “It’ll only make it easier for him.”

I blink away a sudden mist over my eyes and refocus my efforts. I’ve only ever looked at Kjerrin as Aze’s annoying friend—I’ve never seen this side of him. But all of Vallegat knew how his father could be when he was drinking, so maybe Kjerrin is speaking from experience.

Maybe hardships can bring out more than the worst in people.

I lose count of the date during the third week. The days blend in a blur of dirt and aching muscles, undistinguishable and monotonous. We get up, we work in the tunnel, we eat, we work in the tunnel, we sleep, we work in the tunnel. Some of the men try exaggerating injuries to get time off, but Tyrr is merciless. Everyone must work, he says, injured or not. Ieldran protects us and prevents anything serious, simultaneously blessing us and prolonging our suffering. I treat Kjerrin’s sprained ankle with what little supplies I have, and then the pulled back muscles of a Norwikk man. Word spreads that I have knowledge of healing, and before long, my herbs and salve are gone. I muster the courage to ask Tyrr if there is more I can use, and am told that my job is to dig. “Injured men will report to the infirmary,” he snaps. “They are not your concern.”

Any men who go to the infirmary are barely examined before they’re pronounced able to return to work. I don’t think there’s even a real healer there. After my question, Tyrr brings extra soldiers whenever we work in the tunnel—for when we reach Ieli, he says. But they spend the long hours guarding the water barrels and shouting at us for working too slowly, and I feel their suspicious eyes whenever another villager speaks to me.

Our progress is painfully slow. In more than a fortnight, we have still not broken through to the other side of the mountain. I doubt we ever will. We must have dug clean through to the gates of the spirit realm by now, and the death-watchman Kuollsell is toying with us by pushing more stones into our path while we sleep.

“So much for coming home as war heroes,” Kjerrin mumbles as we finish our evening meal. The skin on his face is grimy and drawn tight from bending over the fires.

Bronhold stirs his food and speaks in a voice tinged green with guilt. “It can’t last forever. Eventually, they’ll have to train everyone.”

“If we last that long.”

“Don’t say that,” Aze says, sneaking a sidelong look at me. “We all have people we want to go back to. You wouldn’t give up on Ynria, would you, Bronhold?”

“The thought of her is all that keeps me going,” Bronhold says.

I don’t have the energy to scold either of them. Aze has been doing more of that lately—trying to tease us, making small jokes to keep our spirits up. Sometimes I appreciate the effort. Usually I just want to scream at Tyrr for making it necessary.

We finish our meal and trail out into the yard. It’s our quarter’s turn to gather wood, and though it means a reprieve from Tenant Tyrr, no one is eager to begin the work. The harsh pale sun beats down on melting patches of snow, turning the yard to mud—mud we’ll have to push wheelbarrows through to bring fuel into the tunnel.

“Captain Oristel!” A soldier sprints through the opening of the tunnel, followed closely by another two, who drag a struggling man between them. His hair is dark, darker than any of the villagers except Aze, and he’s dressed in forest greens rather than black and silver. His arms are bound behind his back with a length of rope wrapped up to his elbows, and a livid bruise is visible on his cheek even from here.

Aze touches my shoulder, but I can only stare as they haul the poor man forward, unease shivering down my arms.

Tenant Tyrr leads the first and second quarters out of the tunnel, and another pair of soldiers trail after, pushing a cart between them. It’s the cart we use for transporting wood, and its high sides prevent me from seeing into it, but as they pass I glimpse a limp arm between the gaps in the plank siding.

Captain Oristel emerges from his office, his expression as pinched and impatient as always. “What is this?”

Tenant Tyrr pushes to the front of the procession, stopping before the bound man and his guards. “Captain,” he says, and my quarter presses closer to hear. “We broke through the tunnel, sir. This Ielic soldier attacked us.”

Captain Oristel surveys the prisoner. The door to Chass’s quarters squeaks open, drawing my attention from the tense scene. Chass takes in the sight in moments and moves silently to stand beside the captain.

“How many Ielic?” Oristel says at last.

“Just him, sir. I believe he’s a scout.”

“Casualties?”

“Two killed, and another two injured.”

Oristel’s expression sours. “By him alone?”

Tyrr nods. He gestures to his men, who shove the scout forward and drive him to his knees.

Captain Oristel scowls down his nose at him. “I am the commander of Fort Foltepp. You are trespassing on Awnian land. Your actions could be interpreted as an act of war.”

“I do not understand,” the scout says in Ielic. His voice is calm, and though it’s pitched low, his words carry across the silent yard.

Captain Oristel frowns and looks to Chass, who clears his throat. “You are trespassing on Awnian land,” he says in accented Ielic. “It is an act of war.”

“Trespassing?” the scout snorts. “I was attacked on Ielic soil and forced onto Awnian land. Trespassing must have a different meaning in your country.”

“We have claimed the land on the other side of Hollow Peak as Awnian territory,” Chass says.

“Your claim means nothing,” counters the scout. “You have constructed a means of invasion and attacked an Ielic soldier on Ielic soil. If war comes of this, it will be you who began it.”

Chass translates his words, and Captain Oristel tips up his chin as if considering. “Where is his base?” he asks.

The scout only laughs when Chass repeats the question.

“Perhaps we were hasty in our judgement,” Chass says. “Give us the location of your base and we will return you.”

“Release me and I will find my own way back.”

Chass folds his hands behind his back. “You killed Awnian soldiers. You must pay for that.”

“After you return me to my base?” the scout asks mockingly.

Captain Oristel listens to Chass’s translation, his scowl deepening. “Bring him to the guardhouse,” he orders, sweeping toward the gates. The soldiers lift the scout to his feet and shove him across the yard, thrusting him into the guardhouse and locking the door behind him. He makes no noise, holding his head high even when they push him through the door.

“You are dismissed to your quarters,” Chass calls to the gathered quarters. “Tyrr, post a guard at both ends of the tunnel.”

Tyrr barks off an order to his soldiers while Chass follows the captain, his cloak brushing the mud at his feet.

“Come on,” Aze says, pulling me away with the rest of our group.

An Ielic scout. His hair was as black as Aze’s—as black as Mama’s—and the image of it stays in my mind like a rock in my boot. A tight feeling spreads across my chest, hot and insistent as the itching Wordweaver-sense I still feel whenever Brayam is near. I reach up and touch the ring I’d found in the storeroom, now looped through a cord around my neck and tucked beneath my shirt. I’d meant to give it to Chass, but I haven’t had the chance to talk to him in weeks. I thought maybe if I kept it on me I’d be able to hand it over whenever the opportunity presented itself, but so far… well, it hasn’t.

And after this, he’ll have more to worry about than missing jewelry.

“What now?” Aze asks. Other murmured questions spread among the villagers as well, as if those first words broke a spell of silence and allowed them all to speak.

“Now we go back to our quarters,” I say.

“You know what I mean,” Aze says. “Do you think we’ll start the invasion earlier than we’d expected?”

The excitement in his voice chills me. I stare at him, but his eyes are on Kjerrin.

“They’ll have to start training us all now,” Kjerrin says.

Bronhold gives a sharp nod. “Captain Oristel said it himself—it’s an act of war.”

“It’s not an act of war,” I say, frowning at him. “The scout was on his own land when he was attacked.”

“What was that?”

I stiffen as Tenant Tyrr stalks into view, his arms folded behind his back the way Chass does when he’s trying to be patient. It makes Tyrr look like a child copying an older brother.

“Nothing, Tenant,” I say.

“Repeat yourself, Hirdinn,” Tyrr insists. “Or explain yourself. Are you saying the laws of the Grand General are wrong?”

“I didn’t realize it was a law,” I say.

Tyrr leans over me. “Anything the Grand General speaks is law. Captain Oristel is his officer, and therefore carries his authority. The captain declared it an act of war, and so it is. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He glares down at me, his small eyes glinting. “If you don’t watch what you say, someone might start to question your loyalties.”

I nod, unsure of how else to answer.

“There are traitors everywhere,” Tyrr says, looking out over the rest of the quarter. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? That one of the Ryvenlock princes escaped when the Grand General took command of Awnia. Some claim he’s mounting a rebellion among the mountain dwellers.” He turns his stare back at me, his voice smooth. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to say anything that could be misunderstood.”

My heartbeat pounds like rain inside my chest. “I meant nothing by it, sir.”

He watches me a moment longer, searching for any other opening to attack, but when I’m silent, he waves me toward the barracks. “Get inside.”

We scurry into the safety of the building and close the door behind us, shutting the tenant out. The others strike up quiet conversations, eyeing me uncomfortably as they move to their bunks.

“Why is he so interested in you?” Aze asks, dropping onto his flat mattress with a sigh.

“He’s just a bully,” I mutter. “And I’m an easy target.”

“Don’t give him any more reason to notice you. If he really could accuse you of supporting the missing prince...”

“How could I support a prince whose existence is nothing more than a rumor?” I ask impatiently. “We don’t know if he’s still alive, or even which prince it is. And if he did survive and wanted to challenge the Grand General, wouldn’t he have done it by now?”

Aze shrugs. “Just be careful. We have enough trouble without inviting more from Tyrr.”

I snort and climb into my bunk. Maybe I did invite trouble by taking Arun’s place, but since then I’ve done my best to keep my head down. It isn’t my fault Tyrr’s taken such a strong dislike to me.

“Get some rest,” Aze says. “Who knows when we’ll get another break?”

“Don’t try to be wise,” I grumble.

His grass green laugh settles over me like a blanket, and I lie down beneath it and try to ignore the feeling that something terrible is about to happen.