Chapter Eleven: Snacks, Knights, & War Crimes

  Humans.

  The word doesn't leave my mouth. It just sits there in my head, heavy and cold, while my eyes trace the lines of the hazmat suit on the mannequin. The bright yellow plastic. The clouded visor. The seams designed to keep the world out and the wearer safe from things you can't fight with a sword.

  My hands go numb.

  The room tilts slightly, or maybe I do. The lantern light seems too bright suddenly, too sharp, throwing shadows that move wrong. The dust motes in the air look like they're falling upward. My breath catches in my throat, sticks there, refuses to move in or out.

  Finch is still talking. His mouth is moving, words coming out, something about trade routes and supply chains and how business has been good lately. The sounds reach my ears but they don't mean anything. They're just noise, like wind through leaves, like water over stones.

  Humans are the invaders.

  My stomach lurches, a sick rolling sensation that starts deep in my gut and spreads outward like poison. The back room suddenly feels too small, walls pressing in, ceiling dropping lower. The smell of dust and old metal becomes overwhelming, coating the back of my throat until I can taste it.

  I take a step backward. My heel hits something, probably one of Finch's carefully arranged crates, and I stumble slightly. The movement breaks whatever spell was holding me frozen.

  "Fey?" Kaela's voice cuts through the static in my head. "What's wrong?"

  I can feel them all looking at me now. Kaela's concern radiating like heat. Lyra's sharp analytical gaze trying to dissect what she's seeing. Mira's steady, unreadable attention. Even Finch has stopped his sales pitch, confusion replacing the merchant's enthusiasm on his face.

  My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

  "They're humans," I say, and my voice sounds wrong. Too thin. Too high. Like it's coming from somewhere far away and only coincidentally exiting my throat. "The Yellowmen. They're humans."

  Finch's expression shifts from confusion to something that might be offense. "I just told you, they're. . ."

  But I'm already moving.

  My feet carry me toward the curtain without consulting my brain first. I shove through it hard enough that the rings screech along the rod, the sound sharp and metallic and probably loud enough to wake the dead. The front room of the shop blurs past, shelves and trinkets and the iPod still sitting on the counter like a tiny piece of home.

  The bell jangles as I wrench the front door open and stumble out into the street.

  The fresh air hits my face and my stomach immediately lodges a formal complaint.

  I make it three steps from the door before I have to stop, bending forward, hands on my knees, breathing hard. The cobblestones swim in my vision. My mouth fills with saliva.

  Breathe. Just breathe. Don't throw up in the middle of a crowded street.

  "Fey!" The shop door bangs open and Kaela's voice cuts through my internal crisis management.

  I hear footsteps, multiple sets, rushing toward me.

  "Fey, what's... are you sick? What happened?" Lyra's voice, closer now, edged with concern. Her tail lashes behind her in sharp, agitated movements that cut through the air like a whip.

  I straighten slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand even though I managed not to actually vomit. Small victories. The street spins slightly, then settles into something resembling stability. People are moving around us, going about their day, completely unaware that I'm having an existential breakdown in public about the fact that my species is apparently the villain in their story.

  A woman with a basket of brightly colored vegetables gives me a wide berth, nose wrinkling slightly like she's worried whatever I have might be contagious. We’re drawing attention.

  "I'm fine," I say automatically, which is such an obvious lie that even I don't believe it.

  "You're not fine," Lyra says flatly, because apparently we're not doing polite fictions today. "What did you see in there?"

  "I told you. Humans. The Yellowmen are..." My voice cracks and I have to stop, swallow, try again. "They're from Earth. My world."

  A woman walks past us, giving me a curious look that lingers a bit too long. Then another person, a man with a cart, slowing slightly to stare. The street is getting more crowded, I realize. The market day traffic picking up, people flowing through the square in increasing numbers. More eyes. More attention. More chances for someone to look too closely at my face and wonder why I don't have horns or a tail or any of the other features that mark someone as belonging here.

  Mira notices too. Her hand moves to rest on her sword hilt. "We need to move," she says quietly. "This isn't a conversation for a crowded street."

  "There's a tavern," Lyra says, voice low and controlled. "We passed it on the way here."

  "A tavern?" Kaela's ears perk up slightly despite the tension radiating off her. "Are we... are we going to get snacks? In the middle of the day?"

  "We're going somewhere we can talk without an audience," Lyra corrects, but there's the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. "Snacks are optional."

  "I mean, they don't have to be optional," Kaela says, and there's a brightness to her tone that tells me she's trying to lighten the mood. "Snacks can make anything better, I remember reading that somewhere.”

  “You don’t read.” Lyra says.

  “Yes I do!” Kaela replies.

  Mira steps closer to me, and before I can ask what she's doing, her hand reaches up and tugs my hood forward. The fabric falls further over my face, shadowing my features, and I realize with a cold jolt that people are staring. At me specifically.

  "Keep your head down," Mira murmurs, her voice barely audible over the street noise.

  Right. Because I'm human. And if anyone knows what Yellowmen look like under those suits, then my face is potentially a death sentence. Or at least a very awkward conversation I'm not prepared to have.

  The tavern isn't far, just around a corner and down a street that smells like baking bread. The scent makes my stomach do another uncomfortable flip, but at least it's not threatening full rebellion anymore.

  The sign shows a faded mug overflowing with foam. Very creative. I'm sure the marketing team worked overtime on that one. The door is heavy wood, and the hinges creak like they’re personally offended. Inside, the tavern is dim and warm, the kind of comfortable darkness that comes from small windows and a fire burning in the hearth even though it's not particularly cold outside. The smell hits me immediately, ale and wood smoke and something cooking that makes my empty stomach growl despite the nausea still churning in my gut.

  There are maybe a dozen people scattered around the room, sitting at rough wooden tables, nursing drinks or picking at plates of food. A few glance up when we enter, but most don't bother. We're just more customers, and in a tavern that's apparently unremarkable enough to not warrant sustained attention.

  The floor is sticky under my boots, that particular tavern stickiness that comes from years of spilled drinks and inadequate cleaning. I try not to think about what exactly is making it sticky.

  Mira chooses a table in the back corner, positioned so we can see the door but aren't immediately visible from it.

  We sit, and the chairs scrape against the floor with a sound that makes me wince. Kaela immediately scoots her chair closer to mine, the legs making an awful screech against the wood, and her tail curls around the leg of the table like she's anchoring herself. Lyra sits across from me and Mira takes the seat that gives her the clearest view of the door, because of course she does.

  The chair is uncomfortable, the wood worn smooth in some places and rough in others, like it's been repaired multiple times with whatever materials were available. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't dig into my spine, and fail spectacularly.

  A woman approaches our table, wiping her hands on an apron that might have been white once but is now a mottled gray that speaks of many years and many stains. Her face has the kind of lines that come from years of smiling at customers even when you don't feel like it, and her horns are small and curved, almost decorative. "What'll it be?"

  "Four. . ." Mira starts, but Kaela cuts her off before she can finish.

  "Wait, what kind of snacks do you have?" Kaela asks, leaning forward with sudden interest, her tail unwinding from the table leg. "Do you have those little fried things?"

  Mira turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "We don't need snacks right now."

  "We absolutely need snacks," Kaela says, and her tail lashes once, sharply, punctuating her point. "When was the last time any of us ate? This morning? Before dawn? I can't even remember, which means it's been too long."

  "We need to focus," Mira says, each word deliberate.

  "Snacks help you focus," Kaela counters, warming to her argument. "You can't think properly when you're hungry."

  "What we need," Mira says, her voice taking on that patient tone that suggests her patience is actually running out, "is something to help Fey calm down and talk about what she saw. Not. . ."

  "Snacks are calming!" Kaela interrupts, and now she's fully committed to this position.

  "At least you're honest," Lyra mutters.

  The woman with the apron looks between them, her expression settling into something that suggests she's seen this exact dynamic play out a thousand times with a thousand different groups of customers. The universal look of a server who is Not Paid Enough For This. "I'll come back with something," she says diplomatically, and disappears toward the kitchen before either of them can rope her into their debate.

  Silence settles over our table, heavy and expectant. I can feel them waiting for me to explain, to elaborate, to make sense of what I said in the street.

  I pull my hood back slightly, just enough that I can see them clearly without looking like I'm trying to hide my face from my own friends. Which I guess I kind of was.

  "Okay," I say finally, because someone has to start and apparently it's going to be me. "The suits. The yellow suits. They're called hazmat suits. Hazardous materials suits. You wear them when you're dealing with chemicals, or diseases, or radiation... things that can kill you just by touching them or breathing them in."

  "So the Yellowmen. . . are humans. . . like me." I say.

  Kaela and Lyra look at me, both clearly confused.

  "Well you did try to bite me." Mira offers.

  "Fey isn't evil just because other humans are?" Kaela says. "We can't judge her based on what others are doing."

  "You said they are called Haz-Mat suits?" Lyra says, turning from looking at Kaela. "Why would they wear something like that? It didn't look that strong."

  "They must be trying to protect themselves from something, that's what suits like that are meant for." I say. "Maybe they think the air is toxic. Or there are diseases they're not immune to. Or maybe they're just being cautious because that's what you do when you're invading somewhere new, you assume everything is dangerous until proven otherwise."

  "The weapons," Mira says, "The ones that shoot metal. You called them guns?"

  "Yeah. Guns. They use. . ." I pause, trying to figure out how to explain gunpowder and ballistics to someone from a world that runs on magic. "They use explosions. Controlled explosions that propel small pieces of metal very fast. Fast enough to punch through armor."

  The woman returns, balancing a tray laden with bowls and bread. She sets everything down with practiced efficiency, four bowls of stew, thick and steaming, with chunks of meat and vegetables I don't recognize. Bread on the side, crusty and warm.

  "That'll be eight marks," she says, wiping her hands on her apron. Then, with a slightly apologetic look: "I'll need to see if you can pay before I leave it."

  Mira reaches into her belt and pulls out a small pouch, loosening the drawstring to reveal coins inside. She tips a few into her palm and places them on the table.

  The woman picks them up, examining them briefly before nodding and tucking them into her apron pocket. "Enjoy your meal."

  I watch the exchange with curiosity. "That was money?"

  "Runemarks," Mira says, cinching the pouch closed and returning it to her belt. "Most people just call them marks."

  I lean forward slightly, trying to remember what the coins looked like in the brief moment they were visible. "They had runes on them?"

  "Each coin stores a small amount of mana," Mira explains, picking up her spoon. "Not ignis.. .that would be worthless for currency since it's everywhere. Usually Aqua, Terra, or Aer. The brown ones I just used are the least expensive. You can usually buy a loaf of bread with four or five of them. Higher denominations use rarer types of mana."

  "So the value is based on the type of mana stored in them?" I ask, fascinated despite everything. It's nice to focus on something that isn't existentially horrifying for a moment.

  "Exactly." Mira picks up her spoon, apparently satisfied that the currency lesson is complete. "It's standardized. Makes trade easier. Back before runemarks, people used precious metals, but once a runesmith discovered how to transmute metals with mana..." She shrugs. "That system collapsed pretty quickly."

  "What stops people from just making their own?" I ask, because that seems like an obvious flaw in the system.

  "Nothing," Lyra answers, taking a bite of her stew. She chews, swallows, then continues. "People do make their own. But as long as they contain the right type and amount of mana, no one cares. You'd need the right mana, the right metal, and the right engraving. It's a lot of effort to do what amounts to a public service. Runemarks are basically an easy way to encourage people to gather the rarer types of mana and put them into circulation."

  "That's... actually really smart," I say, looking down at my stew

  The stew smells incredible. Rich and savory, with herbs I can't identify but that make my mouth water. Kaela is staring at me across the table, clearly anticipating my reaction to the food, her tail swishing with barely contained excitement.

  I grip my spoon and take a bite.

  It's good. Really good. The meat is tender, falling apart at the touch of the spoon. The vegetables are cooked just right, soft but not mushy. The broth is thick and flavorful, with a depth that suggests it's been simmering.

  We eat in silence for a while, the sounds of the tavern filling the space between us. Conversation from other tables, the clink of mugs, the crackle of the fire. The scrape of spoons against bowls. The soft sound of Kaela's tail thumping against her chair leg.

  I'm halfway through my bowl when Kaela speaks again. "So if the Yellowmen, the humans, are from your world, does that mean there's a way back? Like, could you go home?"

  "I don't know," I say quietly. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know if there's a way back. And even if there is..." I trail off, because I don't know how to finish that sentence.

  Even if there is, would I take it? Would I leave this world, these people, to go back to a place where I was blind?

  Where I couldn't see Eve's face.

  "You miss it?" Lyra says, questioning.

  "Parts of it," I admit. "I miss people. I miss knowing how things work."

  Kaela finishes her food and pushes the bowl away from her with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in her chair. "You look exhausted," she says.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I probably do. I feel exhausted. The kind of tired that comes from the lingering nausea of realizing your species is the villain.

  "We should get a room," Lyra says, glancing at Mira. "At an inn. Somewhere we can rest and walk back to the academy tomorrow.

  Kaela perks up immediately, exhaustion forgotten. "A room? Like, like a sleepover?" Her tail starts wagging.

  "I've never been to a sleepover," I say, and it's true. Even before I lost my sight, I was never the kind of kid who got invited to those things.

  Kaela's eyes go wide. "Never? Not even once?"

  "Not even once."

  "Then we're definitely doing this," Kaela declares with the conviction of someone who has just discovered a grave injustice that must be corrected immediately. "You can't go your whole life without experiencing the joy of staying up too late and eating snacks and talking about..." She pauses, considering. "What do people talk about at sleepovers?"

  "Everything," Lyra says dryly. "Literally everything. That's the point."

  "Then it's settled!" Kaela bounces slightly in her chair, which makes an alarming creaking sound. "We're having a sleepover. A proper one. With snacks and talking."

  We finish our food, then we head back outside.

  The street is still crowded, maybe more so now, and I keep my hood up as we navigate through the press of bodies. People are shopping, talking, laughing, living their lives. A child runs past, chasing a ball that bounces erratically across the cobblestones, nearly colliding with Kaela. She sidesteps smoothly, catching the ball and tossing it back to the kid with a grin. A merchant calls out prices, his voice carrying over the crowd. Two women stand in a doorway, heads bent together in conversation, and one of them laughs at something the other says.

  The inn is easy to spot, the building is well-maintained and clearly a step up from the kind of place that rents rooms by the hour. The door is solid wood with iron fittings, and when Mira pushes it open it swings smoothly on well-oiled hinges.

  Inside is small but clean, with a desk by the door and stairs to the rooms. There's a small sitting area with chairs that look actually comfortable, upholstered in fabric that's worn but not threadbare.

  A woman stands behind the desk, older, with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of face that suggests she's seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it. Her dark gray horns sweep back from her head, twisting and curling so that the tips point backward away from her face. She looks up as we enter, eyes scanning us with the practiced efficiency of someone used to sizing up potential customers and determining their likelihood of causing problems.

  "Room for four," Mira says, approaching the desk. "Until the first bell tomorrow."

  The woman looks us over, gaze lingering on our academy uniforms, then nods. "Twenty marks."

  Mira counts out the coins, emptying almost her entire pouch onto the desk. The innkeeper sweeps them into her hand, then produces a key from somewhere under the desk. It's heavy iron with a wooden tag attached, the number "7" burned into the wood.

  "Second floor, end of the hall," the innkeeper says, her voice businesslike but not unfriendly. "Breakfast is included with the room. First bell, in the common area."

  "Thank you," Lyra says politely.

  We take the key and head for the stairs, boots thudding on wooden steps that creak under our weight but feel solid enough. The hallway on the second floor is narrow, doors on either side, and I can hear sounds from behind some of them, conversation, laughter, and the creak of bedsprings that I'm trying very hard not to think about.

  The room at the end is small but serviceable. Two beds, a washbasin on a stand, and a window overlooking the street below. The kind of place that's meant for sleeping and nothing else, but it's clean and the beds look reasonably comfortable.

  Kaela immediately throws herself onto one of the beds, bouncing slightly and grinning. "I want this one! I call sleeping with Fey!"

  "I don't think that's how that works," Lyra says, but she's smiling.

  "It's exactly how it works," Kaela insists. "I said it first, therefore it's mine. That's the law. I swear on her grace themselves."

  I sit on the edge of the bed, and the mattress is lumpy but better than the ground. Significantly better than the ground. My whole body aches with tiredness. It's the kind of tired that comes from having your entire worldview shifted sideways.

  Kaela crawls down to the edge of the bed where I'm sitting. Her arms wrap around me from behind and she rests her head on top of mine.

  "You can have some of my snacks," Kaela says, her chin pressing into my head. "So," she says, her tone shifting back to cheerful, "what do we do first at a sleepover? Snacks? Stories?"

  "Rest," Mira says firmly from where she's moved to stand by the window, looking out at the street below. "We should. . ."

  A sound from downstairs cuts her off. Voices, raised and angry. The kind of volume that means someone is either very drunk or very entitled, and given that it's barely afternoon, I'm betting on entitled.

  We exchange glances.

  "Stay here," Mira says, hand going to her sword.

  Lyra's already moving toward the door. "If there's trouble, we should all know about it."

  "And if there's no trouble, we can just come back," Kaela adds, following Lyra with the logic of someone who's already decided we're investigating regardless of what Mira says.

  Mira sighs but doesn't argue. We move back into the hallway, toward the stairs, and the voices get louder as we descend. By the time we reach the landing where we can see the lobby, I can make out actual words.

  "Do you see what I'm wearing?!"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I just sold the last room. . ."

  "Then unsell it!" The voice is male, deep, and absolutely dripping with the kind of entitlement that comes from never being told no. "Now!"

  We crouch at the top of the stairs, peering down through the bars of the railing like children spying on their parents' party. Which, given our current situation, isn't that far off.

  There are four knights in the lobby.

  And when I say knights, I don't mean the kind of ceremonial guards you see at tourist attractions. I mean knights. They're wearing full plate armor, polished to a mirror shine, every surface covered in runes that glow faintly in the dim light of the lobby. The inscriptions run down their arms, across their chests, along their legs in intricate patterns. The armor is beautiful in a terrible way. Each piece is perfectly fitted, the metal worked with a skill that speaks of master craftsmen and serious money. This isn't the kind of gear you buy off a rack. This is custom work, probably worth more than everything I owned back on Earth combined.

  One of them has a bow strapped to her back, and even from here I can see the runes carved into the wood, running the length of the limbs like veins. The bow is massive, easily as tall as I am, and the string looks like it's made of something metallic.

  But it's not the knights themselves that makes my stomach drop.

  Its what they have hanging on their belts.

  They each have a mess of jewelry dangling from their belts. Watches, bracelets, rings on chains. They clink softly as each of them moves, a sound like wind chimes made of stolen time.

  My stomach drops.

  They're standing in a loose semicircle around the desk, and the innkeeper, the same woman who checked us in, looks small and tired and very, very done with this conversation.

  "I just sold my last room," she repeats, voice tight with the kind of patience that's about to snap like an overtightened string. "I can't give you what I don't have."

  The knight in front leans forward, planting his gauntleted hands on the desk. The wood creaks under the weight, and I can see the innkeeper flinch slightly. "Then I suggest you find a way to make a room available. We're on official business."

  His voice is deep, the kind of voice that doesn't expect to hear the word "no" and wouldn't know what to do with it if it did.

  "I don't care if you're on business for Her Grace herself, I don't have a room to give you."

  Lyra leans close, her breath warm against my ear. "Those are knights. Army knights, based on the gear. Local squads don't have armor like that."

  "The jewelry," I whisper back, unable to look away from the watches dangling from the knight's belt. "What is that?"

  "Trophies," Lyra says. "Knights usually keep monster parts. Claws, teeth, scales. Proof of kills." She pauses, "but I guess now. . ."

  She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.

  They keep human trophies now.

  "We need to be careful," Lyra continues, still whispering. "Townsfolk don't know what Yellowmen look like under the suits. Academy students don't know. But knights?" Her eyes flick to the men in the lobby. "They know. They've seen them. They've killed them."

  The knight straightens, and his voice gets louder. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Who? Got. The. Room."

  The innkeeper's jaw sets. Then, slowly, deliberately, she points.

  At Us.

  Four pairs of eyes turn in our direction.

  "Oh no," Kaela breathes.

  "Her Grace," Lyra mutters, which I'm learning is this world's equivalent of "oh shit."

  "Fuck," I add, because it seems appropriate and I'm still working with Earth vocabulary.

  Mira just sighs, like she expected this, like this is just another Tuesday in her life of constant low-level disaster.

  The knight's expression shifts from irritation to something that might be satisfaction. "Well," he says, voice carrying across the lobby with the confidence of someone who's never lost a fight. "Looks like we found our room."

  They start walking toward the stairs, boots heavy on the wooden floor, and the sound is like a countdown. Each step is deliberate, measured, the kind of walk that says we have all the time in the world and you have none.

  Four knights in magical armor, probably armed with weapons I can't even imagine, and we're four students who just wanted a place to rest.

  The math is not in our favor.

  Mira stands, stepping forward and down the stairs, putting herself between us and them. Her hand goes to her sword. Mira’s jaw tightened in a way I’d only seen once before, when I had tried to order her around.

  "The room is ours," she says, voice calm and level despite the fact that she's facing down four armored knights. "We paid for it."

  The knights stop at the base of the stairs. The leader looks up at Mira with an expression that's half amusement, half contempt. Up close, he's even more intimidating. Easily six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that comes from years of training and combat

  "And we're requisitioning it," he says, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. "Army business supersedes civilian transactions. That's the law."

  "We have authority over everyone when we're on official business," another knight adds, stepping forward. He's shorter than other one, stockier, with a face that looks like it's been punched too many times. His nose is crooked, his jaw slightly off-center, and there's a gap where a tooth should be. "And if you don't hand over that key, we'll be happy to escort you back to the academy and let your instructors sort it out."

  It's a threat. A clear, unambiguous threat.

  Mira's hand tightens on her sword hilt.

  "Mira," Lyra says quietly, urgently. "Don't."

  But Mira's not listening. Or maybe she is listening and just doesn't care. Her jaw sets in that way that means she's made a decision and nothing is going to change her mind.

  The leader knight's hand moves to his sword. "Last chance, girl. Hand over the key, or we take it."

  The other knights follow suit, hands moving to weapons in a synchronized movement.

  They draw.

  And the swords have no blades.

  Just hilts, empty space where metal should be, and for a moment it would be almost comical if not for the way the room suddenly changes. The pressure I've felt since I first woke up in this world, that constant weight of mana in the air, suddenly dissipates, like a weighted blanket being lifted from my shoulders.

  Then it slams back down, twice as heavy.

  The room darkens. Not gradually, but all at once, like someone turned down a dimmer switch on reality itself. Colors fade, lines blur together, and it becomes harder to see anything that isn't the knights and their weapons.

  Then the runes activate.

  One by one, starting at the hilts and spreading outward, the inscriptions flare to life. Bright red illumination, angry and hot. The glow intensifies, growing brighter and brighter until I have to squint against it.

  The illumination condenses, pulling inward, forming shapes. Blade shapes, extending from each hilt, transparent and flickering like they're not quite solid. Mana swords, I realize, watching the blades take form. They must draw in ignis, condense it, and shape it into something that can cut.

  The room grows darker as the swords pull more ignis from the air, funneling mana to maintain the blades. Shadows deepen in the corners, stretching and twisting. The temperature drops slightly, like the heat is being sucked away to feed the weapons. I can see my breath misting in the suddenly cold air.

  The mana blades are beautiful and terrible. They're perfectly shaped, razor-sharp edges that seem to cut the air itself just by existing.

  And then, as I watch, they catch fire.

  Four knights. Four flaming swords. And us.

  The flames throw wild shadows across the walls, making the knights look even larger, even more intimidating, like demons from a nightmare.

  Mira's sword clears its sheath with a soft ring of steel on leather.

  "Mira, no," Lyra hisses, but there's a note of desperation in her voice now.

  Mira's sword is plain metal compared to their flaming mana blades. No runes, no magic, just steel and leather and the skill of whoever wields it. It looks pathetic next to their weapons, like bringing a knife to a gunfight. Or bringing a regular sword to a magic sword fight, which is apparently the fantasy equivalent.

  The knights advance slowly, flaming swords held ready, and the heat from the blades makes the air shimmer. "Hand over the key," the knight says, and his voice is almost bored now, like this is a formality he has to go through before the inevitable conclusion. "Or we send you to the healers. Your choice."

  And then Kaela moves.

  She darts forward and snatches the key from Mira's belt before anyone can react. "Here!" she says, voice high and bright and desperately cheerful, like she's offering a gift rather than surrendering under threat. "Here, you can have it! No problem! We don't need it anyway! There are lots of other inns!"

  She holds the key out, arm extended, hand shaking slightly.

  The leader knight reaches out and takes it.

  Not gently. He grabs it from her hand hard enough that Kaela stumbles backward, off-balance, and Mira catches her before she falls. The knight's gauntleted fingers close around the key and Kaela's hand at the same time, squeezing, and I see Kaela's face twist in pain before he lets go.

  Mira's arm wraps around Kaela's shoulders, steadying her, and the look she gives the knights could melt steel. Could probably melt their fancy armor too, if looks could actually do damage.

  The knight examines the key, turning it over in his hand like he's checking to make sure it's real, then looks at Kaela with something that might be approval. "Now there's a girl who knows her civic duty," he says, and the condescension in his voice makes my teeth grind together hard enough that my jaw aches.

  The other knights chuckle, the sound low and mean, like they're sharing a private joke at our expense. One of them reaches out and pats Kaela on the head like she's a dog who just performed a trick. "Good girl."

  Kaela flinches away from the touch, pressing closer to Mira.

  Then the knights turn and head for the stairs, flaming swords still active, casting flickering shadows on the walls as they ascend. The temperature starts to rise again as they move away, the cold dissipating, but the feeling of threat lingers like smoke after a fire.

  And as the four knights walk up the stairs, I notice one less trophy on each of their belts.

  We stand there in the lobby, frozen, until the sound of their boots fades and a door slams somewhere above us. The sound echoes through the building, final and dismissive.

  Then Kaela and Lyra both round on Mira.

  "What were you thinking?" Kaela demands, "They could have hurt you! They could have hurt all of us!"

  "You should have just handed over the key immediately," Lyra adds, and she sounds more tired than angry, like this is an argument she's had before and knows she's going to lose. "It's not worth fighting over. It's just a room."

  Mira sheathes her sword slowly, the movement deliberate, controlled. "I couldn't," she says quietly.

  "Couldn't?" Lyra's tail lashes, sharp and agitated. "Mira, they had magic swords. Flaming magic swords. What were you going to do, stab them really hard with your normal sword and hope for the best? Did you see their armor? They didn't even activate it!"

  "I know what they had," Mira says, "I couldn't back down. I couldn't just... give them what they wanted because they demanded it."

  "It's a room," Lyra repeats, emphasizing each word. "Just a room. We can find another one."

  "It's not about the room," Mira says, "It's about..." She stops, jaw working, like the words are fighting their way out and losing. "It's about not being pushed around anymore."

  The innkeeper approaches quietly, carrying a tray with four mugs. Steam rises from them, curling in the air. "Here," she says, voice gentle in a way that suggests she understands more than she's saying. "On the house. You look like you could use it."

  We take the mugs and move to the sitting area in the corner of the lobby where there are a few chairs arranged around a small table. The chairs are as comfortable as they looked, worn soft by years of use.

  The drink is cider. It burns slightly going down, warming me from the inside out, chasing away the lingering cold from the knights' fire swords.

  Mira stares into her mug for a moment, watching the steam rise. Then she starts talking.

  "I grew up in a small village," she says, voice low. "A hunting village, to the south. Maybe fifty people. We lived off the forest, game, herbs, whatever we could trap or gather."

  She pauses and takes a sip of cider.

  "When the Yellowmen. . ." She glances at me, and there's something apologetic in her expression. "When the humans attacked, we had no warning. I just woke up one morning to screaming and smoke. My parents grabbed what they could carry and we ran."

  Her voice is flat, emotionless, like she's reciting facts from a history book rather than reliving trauma.

  "We ended up in the regional capital," Mira continues. "On the streets. My father tried to find work, but no one wanted to hire a refugee. Eventually my father joined the city guard," Mira says. "They were desperate for bodies. Needed the numbers to justify more funding from the army. So they took him, even though he'd never held a sword before, even though he had no training."

  She takes another sip, and I can see her throat work as she swallows.

  "They treated him like an errand boy. A punching bag. All the worst assignments, all the broken equipment, all the jobs no one else wanted. Because we were refugees. Because we didn't matter. Because he couldn't fight back without losing the only income we had."

  The cider is cooling in my hands, but I don't drink. I just hold it, feeling the warmth seep into my palms.

  "He died on a patrol," Mira says, and her voice is completely flat now, emotionless. "They ran into a. . . Yellowman. . . Human. . . patrol. They gave him a sword with a cracked blade and sent him out with two other guards who ran the moment things got dangerous. He died alone, trying to protect a city that never wanted him there."

  "My mother..." Mira pauses, and for the first time her voice wavers slightly. "My mother tried to get compensation. Tried to get them to acknowledge that he died in service. They gave her ten marks and told her to be grateful it was that much."

  Ten marks. Half of what we paid for a room for one night.

  "I came to the academy to get strong," Mira continues, "strong enough that I'd never have to be at the mercy of people like those knights. People who think their status, their armor, their position gives them the right to take whatever they want. To push around whoever they want." She looks up, meets my eyes directly. "I don't blame the humans for attacking my village. War is war. People die. But I blame the knights, the army, the system that let my father die because he wasn't worth the cost of decent equipment. That let my family suffer because we were inconvenient."

  She sets her mug down on the table.

  "So no, I couldn't just hand over the key. Because doing that would be doing what my father did. Backing down. Accepting that people with power get to decide what I'm allowed to have." She looks at me again. "I don't blame you, Fey. You didn't choose to be human any more than I chose to be a refugee. But I won't bow to people who think might makes right."

  "I didn't know," Kaela says finally. "You never talk about... about before the academy."

  "There's not much to talk about," Mira says. "It's just... What happened."

  "It's not just what happened," Lyra says quietly. "It's who you are. It's why you're here. It matters."

  Mira doesn't respond to that. Just picks up her mug again and drinks, and I can see her rebuilding her walls brick by brick.

  We finish our cider in silence, and when the mugs are empty the innkeeper takes them with a sympathetic smile that suggests she heard at least some of that conversation. "I'm sorry about the room," she says quietly. "But I know someone in town who has a spare. An old friend of mine. If you tell them I sent you, they'll let you stay free of charge. It's the least I can do."

  "Thank you," Lyra says.

  The innkeeper gives us directions and we head for the exit.

  As we reach the door, Kaela bumps her shoulder against Mira's. "For what it's worth," she says quietly, "I think your dad would be proud of you. Standing up to them like that."

  Mira doesn't respond. But her hand comes up and squeezes Kaela's shoulder.

  We step outside and the street is still crowded, still busy. For a moment everything feels almost normal. We're just four friends walking through town, looking for a place to stay. Just four students on an adventure.

  We make it maybe ten steps before the screaming starts.