It took ages for my brother, Wren, and me to convince our stubborn grandfather that we needed to leave, but now, everything is ready for our departure-the wagon is packed, the horses already hitched, the house closed up.Īll we need is the money for these medicines I’ve spent weeks brewing. My elderly grandfather, my young brother.ĭoveshire has become too dangerous for Gardnerians. Of the red tinge to the leaves, winter close on our heels.

I think of the money we need for our journey east to Verpacia. My grip tightens on the apothecary crate I’ve set down before them, tidy medicine bottles lined up in the segmented box. He looks down at the wooden counter in front of him, toying with the smooth abacus and deliberately avoiding my gaze. Her husband, Merchant Darrow, seems embarrassed, his own Keltanian flag haphazardly pinned up near his shoulder. The flag of Keltania is pinned above her ample bosom-an iron-black X on a rectangle of bloodred linen. She stands with one fist propped on a broad hip, her apple-cheeked face twisted up into a triumphant sneer, strands of her blond hair escaping her crimson kerchief. We’re not doing business with Crows, Mistress Darrow states. When they painted Heretics on our barn and set fire to it, I thought that was the worst it could get.īut they didn’t count on us having dragons of our own.

And the way my skin shimmers a faint emerald in the dark-perhaps the most undeniable sign of all-makes it impossible for me to hide what I am. My forest-green eyes and dark hair might seem unremarkable, but the black tunic and long skirt I wear, paired with a silver Erthia orb necklace, mark me as one of the First Children. It would be easier, perhaps, if my appearance didn’t set me apart so much. I endure their mocking, hateful glares and the signs of protection they make against me to ward off my perceived evil.Īs such, I’m barely tolerated here, stranded in a sea of Kelts, allowed to exist only because my aptitude for healing brews is considered useful in this tiny, remote village. I no longer cry when I’m shoved in the market or spat on in the streets. I’ve gotten used to the names they call us.

Wandfasted