It didn’t matter what she was dreaming of. She could be racing her brother Ricket along the shores of Windshear Cove, bare feet flying over the wet rocks, fast and free, one step ahead of the next crashing wave. She could be dreaming of sitting down to supper with her family, ready to take that first delicious bite of her mother’s spicepork pie. She could be dreaming of Vheret, and of that improbable first kiss…

The kiss she almost, almost had.

No matter what she dreamed, the dreams ended the same. That moment would come—that half-a-heartbeat where everything slowed to a stop, just like it had that one day. A flash of confusion; the feeling of nothing beneath her feet, followed by the insistent tow of the earth’s pull, tugging at her… Sometimes it pulled her away from the table, sometimes down between a hole in the rocks; sometimes it pulled her away from her father, or away from Vheret. But it always pulled her, just like it had pulled her away from the tower. She would flail and fall, down, down…

She remembered only flashes of the actual fall. The strange sight of her hair as it was tugged away from her head, black braids fluttering and twisting madly before her face. She remembered seeing pieces of the landing planks falling with her, small rotted pieces of wood spinning around her in the twilit air. She remembered the shocked faces of Ricket, Gragg, and Darcy all watching her plummet away from them on the old airship tower. Ricket reached for her and she reached for him, but she was already too far away. She remembered the world becoming a blur, remembered the rush of wind in her ears…

She never remembered hitting the ground; these suspended memories were haphazard ones even at their most vivid. She only remembered what came after, and how…

Everything was so… blue.

She always woke just before impact. Usually, that wakening was followed by a sense of relief. Just a dream.

Not this time. There was no relief, waking here.

It took a few moments in the cold dark for her to remember where she was. It was sometimes better to stay in dreams, no matter how they ended.

“Imuru,” she said, her hand brushing the iron ring. It sprung to light, miraculously, just as it had done the fifteen other times yesterday. Her fingertips lingered on the cold metal; she was still a little amazed that the ring emitted no heat.

The light proffered by the illumination ring gave no relief, for it only served to remind her of where she was. As though she could forget.

Her room back home at Windshear Cove was in fact smaller than the dungeon cell she was forced to call home now, and twice as cramped. Chayand had been made to share it with her annoying older sister Bree. She had hated it, with its small window and paltry floor space—barely enough room for one bed, much less two crammed together.

“Be thankful,” their mother always chided. “The Millersons have three children to a room, and one’s a boy besides.” The implied threat being that she might decide to move Ricket into their room if Chayand complained overmuch. Their mother would sometimes add, “I’ve oft wanted a room with a window to paint in,” which usually made Ricket turn pale and wordlessly plead for Chayand’s silence with bulging eyes. That was often enough to quiet her, but not enough to stop a frosty look or two.

What she wouldn’t give now for that cramped little room and its old window. What she wouldn’t give just for one last look out across the fields of her father’s farm, to the distant rocks of the cove, to the cry of seagulls and the smell of salt and silt.

Chayand feared those days were done. Her mother, father, goofy Ricket and even Bree…

She would never see them again. And she never got to say goodbye.

She couldn’t cry. She had cried too much already, after being taken, and was now too tired for tears. That, too, had always annoyed Bree, who was as stoic and prim as a statue. “You cry too much,” Bree once accused. “And you only ever look resentful. Why do you always have to be so mad?”

That complaint had genuinely surprised Chayand. She wore her emotions like a badge, yes, and tears did come readily to her. But they dried swiftly enough, and soon after she was fine. She also laughed easily and quickly, which Bree could hardly bring herself to do. Vheret once said she had a “bawdy” laugh, which made her laugh more. True, she had little patience for blatant stupidity, but she wasn’t a resentful person. Not like Evett the butcher, who hacked meat with his cleaver as though each carcass on his table had personally affronted him, or like Mad Bobbert, the town drunk, who just liked to yell at random people when they happened to cross his path.

Or Vheret. People called Vheret “angry”, and maybe he was. But she at least understood why. Vheret, of all people, had a right to be angry. Chayand knew that others called him names simply because he was different.

She had always had that in common with Vheret. Different. Chayand was different too, and not simply because she played with boys as much as with girls, and could run and swim faster than most, or because she could read—and liked to read—so well, or because her mind could solve puzzles faster than anyone else. (“Pick one,” Bree would complain from time to time, whenever Chayand inevitably won at something, which was always. Bree liked to add, “You can’t be good at everything,” to which Chayand would inevitably retort, “Yes I can,” and Bree would have no answer to that.)

No, when people talked about Chayand being different, they were saying it because of how she looked.

Filch had called her a “dark girl from a pale town,” and that much was true; Chayand did not look like most Paladori girls. Brown eyes weren’t quite so rare, but Chayand had darker skin—darker by shades and by far—than any other person, child or adult, at Windshear Cove. Her hair had long garnered odd attention, as it was blacker, thicker, and curlier than anyone else’s. Even as a young child she had been annoyed by people always wanting to touch her hair, or pet it—as though she were Jimmi, the town’s affable homeless dog. People usually muttered the word “resentful” when she complained about being patted too much.

Being different wasn’t a bad thing in her mind. Vheret was different, and Chayand very much liked him. But when people called other people “different,” they were usually trying to be polite in order to refrain from calling them worse things—which meant they were at least thinking them. Chayand knew what people said behind her back. Some called her a parentless bastard; a lowborn urchin who’d been left by uncaring parents to die on the wharf and, pitied by Dennith and Jaslyn Willowbrae, gallantly rescued and adopted into their family. “Probably dropped on the docks by a passing foreign cog,” some people said. “Fortunate she wasn’t left out in the cold to die. She should be more grateful.”

She was grateful. Chayand had only on rare occasion wished for a more exciting family—an adventurous one like Jeyne Farstrider’s, or a funny one like Merlo MagMallo’s—families that sprung to vivid life in the books she read and through the tales passing bards told. Just because she enjoyed dreaming of other families didn’t mean she wanted a different one. She knew the worth of a good family; she needed only to visit Vheret and his brother across the river to see how low a family could fall.

But that did not make her feel any less the outsider. Her mother’s warm embrace could soothe much, but it could not change the eyes of other people when they saw her.

Once, years past, Chayand had asked her parents, openly and curiously, who her real parents were. Her mother and father had both gone out of their way to assure her that, despite her differing appearance, she was still one of them, one of the family, but…

They still gave her no answer to that one vital question. None. They simply would not talk of it. She feared she might never know.

Some people said she looked Atlantaen. Chayand had seen a few Atlantaen ships dock at Windshear, and the skin on every man aboard—from captain to crew—ranged through every shade of brown.

Nisi had said she had a Noroubian look. Chayand had met Nisi three years back, when she found the young girl playing alone on the docks. Nisi had skin the color of dusky sand and light green eyes, and she claimed her father, a Flandren trader with yellow hair, had wed an exotic Noroubi princess; he had plucked her from her home on the Emerald Coast, far, far to the south, and had sailed away with her so that she did not have to marry an evil prince from a neighboring land. From there Nisi had sprung. At least that was Nisi’s tale. Chayand was only able to establish a short moment’s friendship with her before her father’s ship set sail, and she never saw green-eyed Nisi ever again.

Chayand remembered watching Nisi’s ship sail over the horizon, disappearing with the setting sun. She remembered thinking how very badly she wanted to sail away as well, away from Bree and her complaints, away from Windshear Cove.

What she wouldn’t give to see Bree again now. Chayand would apologize for every perceived slight and kiss her on the cheek nine times, just for all this to be a bad dream.

Chayand heard doors opening and closing in the hall, as well as voices and footsteps. The children were being roused. She turned to face the door and winced as something in her new garment pinched her beneath her arm. She tried to adjust the chest-wrap, to loosen its tight hold over her already-abundant bust. The restrictive garment was annoying; it made little sense that something should be made to hold in something and then not do it effectively. Unlike many of the boys in Windshear, Chayand was not precisely thrilled about the development of her breasts—two purportedly attractive but ultimately troublesome additions to her body that had sprung up seemingly overnight (or at least over the past summer). Chayand liked running. Having things that bounced around on her torso hampered that. It didn’t help that Bree mocked her as “chuffy-chest,” though Chayand could tell she was just jealous. Bree was fifteen, and usually tried to do whatever she could to enhance her own limited bust.

It wouldn’t include wearing anything like this. The tugo robe was too loose, and the chest-wrap was too tight, squashing her. “The tugo is made to be a loose garment,” Leftenant Hadrien had said last night. “The undergarment’s design is so you’ll not be forced to show your wares to all the others,” he added.

My wares, she thought derisively. As though she might sell her chest at the market like a hock of ham, or two loaves of bread. Filch would probably have some snide comment about whores, though maybe not in front of the Leftenant. Hadrien made Filch uneasy, but he didn’t frighten her, nor did most of the guards. Only Threll frightened her, and Malacai, and neither of them was there for last night’s systematized scrubbing. One of the guards had stared openly at Chayand as she was being washed, but she just stared back at him, unblinking, and he eventually just averted his eyes, which felt like a small victory to her.

There were few enough victories here to have. She’d take any.

Chayand shrugged the top of her tugo back on, tying the rope belt at the waist. Just in time, as the sound of keys rattling at her door heralded one of the many nameless guards. He was carrying a fresh piss-pot and changed out the old one without a word. As he left, another entered with a bowl in hand.

“Breakfast,” the guard muttered, setting the bowl just inside the door with little ceremony. He said to her, over his shoulder as he exited, “Assembly at the top of the hour. Be ready.”

Chayand had no idea what that meant. She didn’t even know what hour it was.

When the door closed and was locked again, Chayand went to the bowl. There was no spoon, but she didn’t care; she would willingly eat with her fingers. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until her stomach began growling at the very mention of breakfast. It hadn’t helped that Filch’s antics had robbed them of at least seven meals on the road.

She wasn’t hoping for much in the way of food, and in that her expectations were met. The pasty gray substance in the bowl could best be called gruel, but Chayand wasn’t even sure it measured up to gruel standards. After a few bites she set the bowl aside… though she picked it up again soon after.

She had no idea what would happen today. She might need her strength. She spooned more of the vile meal into her mouth with her fingers. They brought them here for a reason… and it was one she suspected she knew.

It has to do with what I can do. My ability. She wondered how they even knew about her blue world. She hadn’t told anyone other than Vheret.

And she wondered what the other children could do.

It wasn’t long before keys turned in her door and it was opened again. The guard looked at her and said, “Dim the ring and get your arse out of your room.”

Don’t fight them, Chayand reminded herself. She should learn what they wanted, first and foremost. By the sound of it, the others were all being ushered out into the hallway. Chayand turned off the illumination ring with a word and a touch and went out to join them.

Someone had called it “Hollow Hall”, but it wasn’t so hollow now. Children milled about, unsure which direction they should go, or if they should go anywhere at all. A few wandered toward the entry stairs, but a guard blocked their way, wordless. Other guards blocked the other end of the hall, which was now lit more brightly with torches. Unlike yesterday, all the doors that did not contain a child were closed, and she counted at least thirty cells all told, and perhaps more. The hall went on and on…

Chayand glanced about, quickly finding Vheret, Filch, and Roen. Filch had apparently failed the lice inspection—his hair had been shorn from his head completely, scrapes and bruises standing out on his scalp. The lack of hair made the little scamp look completely different, his large brown eyes even larger, though his expression still held a measure of suspicious Filch-ness. Roen looked uncomfortable, her gray eyes wary. And Vheret…

Vheret stood with shoulders hunched, old bruises still standing out on his pale skin. He was her oldest, dearest friend, and he was still hurt. She could tell just by the way he was standing. Time had mostly healed his swollen eye, and he could see out of both now, his strange lavender gaze furtive… but he was looking anywhere except at Chayand.

Does he still blame me? The one person she wanted to connect with was steadfastly refusing to. Chayand had successfully claimed one of the two rooms across from his, just so she could maybe see him, for all the good it did. The barred windows in their doors remained closed throughout the night, so they couldn’t even peer out into the hall, much less at each other.

Not that he would want to, she thought glumly. She wished that he would he see that they were in this together now. Chayand forced her gaze elsewhere.

She recognized the five children from the open cage: the blond twin sisters, Vaille and Varael; the pug-nosed girl with the auburn hair; the fat crying boy; and the thin boy with the deep-set eyes that Filch knew, Randol. The twins stayed close, and the fat boy had stopped crying at least. The pug-nosed girl’s head had been shaved like Filch’s, and her lower lip was swollen and split. Randol looked at no one and remained silent.

And there were more children besides them now. Chayand wasn’t sure which of the children had been there before them, but she was relatively certain that anyone placed in a cell further down the hall than hers was a newer addition… which meant three had been brought in overnight.

One of the new ones was huge, standing nearly six paces in height. He had thick, hunched shoulders, and a brutish-looking face; his nose was mashed, his brow was low, and his chin jutted forward; he seemed more man than child. She thought his skin had a strange greenish cast, but she couldn’t be certain in the low light. His tugo barely fit him at all.

Trying her best to stay away from the hulking boy was an equally small girl—easily the tiniest of the bunch. She had wide blue eyes and, like Vheret, hair so blond it was almost white, though perhaps a touch more golden. She was probably pretty, though it was hard to tell; her sun-blond hair was a fright and her face had been terribly bruised. A nasty purple welt covered the left side of her face, from brow to chin.

The last boy of the trio drew Chayand’s eye. He was taller than most, and very lean, with straight black hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were very dark, his face narrow, his cheekbones prominent. His skin was almost as pale as Vheret’s, making his dark eyes and hair stand out. When she looked at him, and simply looked back at her, eyes half-lidded, meeting her gaze with little emotion to show; Chayand couldn’t decide if he was exceedingly handsome or merely strange-looking.

Some of the other children were beginning to make their way over from the front, boys and girls of various sizes and shapes, though none were younger than ten. They all peered quite curiously at all the new children. One, an olive-skinned beauty with a forthright mien quietly introduced herself to the newcomers as Delena. Another, whose head had been shaved like Filch’s, and whose dark, almond eyes danced with mischief, introduced himself as Min, though he added quickly, “My friends call me Spider.” Spider seemed excited to see so many new children, and his nervous, rapid-fire speech soon drowned out anything else Delena might have had to say. The olive-skinned girl quieted, seemingly accustomed to Spider’s chatter.

Roen was apparently trying to question another small boy, though he looked reluctant to answer anything she asked; he continually glanced at the guards, as though they might lash out and strike him at any moment, even though they were more than fifteen paces away. Roen soon gave up.

One of the twins, Varael by far the more outgoing, wandering here and there and peering about curiously. She was wearing her chest-wrap over her head. Varael’s pink-streaked hair stuck out at odd angles over the top of it.

“That doesn’t go on your head,” Chayand said with a soft laugh.

“Hm?” Varael looked up at it, which made her eyes cross. “Oh.”

“I think it goes under the robe-thing.” Chayand said, helpfully.

“Yes, I know,” Varael said. “But my ears were cold. I wore it on my feet last night because my toes were cold too, but I can’t walk with it on my feet. I tried! So anyway, I decided to use it for my ears.”

“That’s fine too, but it’s supposed to be for your wares.”

“My wares?”

“Your wares.” Chayand pointed to her chest.

Varael, perhaps ten years old, looked down. “I have wares?”

“No.” Chayand grinned.

“Don’t pick on her.” Varael’s twin stepped in, shooting Chayand a look.

“I’m not.” Chayand raised her hands.

Varael agreed. “She’s not, Vaille. Let’s make friends, okay?” She said it in a way that suggested maybe Vaille wasn’t the sort who was eager to make friends. Vaille eyed Chayand with scarcely concealed distrust.

“We’re friends now,” Chayand said with a small smile. Varael beamed back happily. Quite an odd girl, but Chayand liked her already.

We’re all different here. She wondered who was gifted in what way.

Varael murmured, “I’m going to make a lot of friends this time.” She threaded her way through the crowd of children to go meet the three overnight additions, a determined look on her round face. Vaille scowled and did not follow. Chayand did.

“Hi, you’re tall,” Varael said to the tall black-haired boy. He raised an eyebrow, perhaps unsure what to make of the happy little waif. Varael then looked up at the hulking boy, and murmured, “Even taller.” The massive boy glared at her, and she added, quieter, “Mean-looking too.” She wisely moved away, but in doing so accidentally bumped into the other tiny girl with the pale blond hair.

“Hi,” Varael chirped, seemingly happy to see a girl smaller than she was. The pale-haired girl just stared back at her with wide eyes. The bruise on the side of her face looked even worse up close.

When it became clear the blue-eyed girl wasn’t going to say anything, the talkative twin leaned in and whispered confidentially, “I’m Varael.”

“H-hello,” the tiny girl finally said. She gave a little wave, her hand lifted barely higher than her hip.

“Hi,” Varael said again. She liked saying hi.

The pale-haired girl did not quite know how to respond. Her eyes were still wide, and her look said she wasn’t sure what to make of Varael and her pink-streaked locks, tied up as they were in a chest-wrap.

“I like your hair,” Varael added with a smile. “It’s very sunny. What’s your name?” She was clearly quite the curious sort.

The tiny girl blanched. “We… we don’t have names anymore,” she said, quieter. She looked more than a little nervous that so much attention was on her.

“Of course we do, silly,” Varael whispered, though it was a loud whisper. “We’re just not allowed to say them.” Varael grinned, apparently not caring what she was or was not allowed to do. The tiny girl still looked unsure, however.

Filch, never one to not join in on a conversation, leaned in and said, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Varael smiled at Filch and said, “That’s true. Hey, you look different with no hair.”

Filch rubbed his shaved pate and winced. “They said I had lice.”

Chayand snorted. “Shocking.”

Filch grinned at Chayand. “That wasn’t you I heard yowling last night, was it?”

She frowned. “No,” she said, “not me.” Chayand glanced over to the pug-nosed girl with the shaved head. She had heard the girl’s struggles in the night; she had not, apparently, been agreeable to getting bathed, and had put up a ferocious—albeit short-lived—fight. The indignant howls and violent splashes had ended abruptly. From the silence, Chayand had wondered if the girl had lost her life in the struggle, but soon after the door closed, she heard the girl sob within the room, brokenly, until she finally went to sleep.

Chayand found the girl staring back at her now.

“Gwynen,” the pug-nosed girl suddenly said.

Chayand blinked. “What?”

“I’m Gwynen. You’re Chay.” The girl offered a tentative smile. One of her teeth had been knocked out during her struggle last night.

“Chayand,” she corrected. Only Vheret called her Chay.

Gwynen shrugged. “Aye, fine,” she said. Her accent was thick. Chayand thought perhaps she was from Avalonia, or some other far-off western isle. She wondered if the girl had ever seen anyone from Atlantas before.

“What Chayand means to say is, Hello, nice t’ meet’cha,” Filch interjected. “She ain’t rude, she just skips niceties.”

Chayand gave him a glare, but then offered Gwynen an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s… I’m not used to this place.” Gwynen just nodded back, understanding of that sentiment.

Varael was still trying to discern the tiny blue-eyed girl’s name, just throwing random guesses to the walls. “Is it Kiefa? Mouritte? No, wait, Pala? How about Tanvien?”

Filch regarded at the tiny girl with what seemed a brotherly eye. “How about we call ya Shortmump? How’s that.”

“Ohh, I know!” Varael’s eyes went wide. “She can be Sunny!” She beamed. “Because of her hair.”

The tiny girl was now just staring at Varael, a little overwhelmed, and clearly unsure of what to make of the aggressively friendly girl or the suddenly vocal boy.

“Sunny…” Filch rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though he were some wise old man, then nodded. “That’ll do.”

“My… my name is Aster,” the tiny girl finally admitted, glancing at Filch and blushing shyly. “But—but I like Sunny,” she added quickly.

Varael beamed a bright and happy smile. “I’m Varael. You can call me Vara. Or if we’re making hair names, you can call me Faerieberries!” She tugged on a lock of her pink-streaked hair.

The newly-named Sunny just nodded, a smile finally tugging at the corner of her lips. Her bruise seemed to hamper the smile a little. Chayand’s heart went out to her. She wondered, not a little angrily, what sort of person would need to put their hands on such a small girl.

They were interrupted by the appearance of Leftenant Hadrien, who strode up from the far hall, arms held wide and welcoming, a friendly smile affixed to his face. Two sullen-looking guards flanked him.

“Good morrow,” Hadrien said, as though this were the dawn of a lovely day before a picnic. He was bathed, his coat pressed, hair combed back neatly. He did not seem nearly as querulous as he had when he was on the road with them, and his hands did not shake.

When no one said anything, he asked “Everyone feeling fine then?” He did not wait for an answer. “Come. It is my privilege to welcome you all to your new home. Follow, and allow yourselves to behold the wonders of the Blackstone!”

With that he turned on a heel and proceeded down the hall. The guards in the back pressed forward, and the children were all moved to follow Hadrien down the long, long hallway.

“Horror Hall,” Delena murmured to Chayand. And it certainly seemed to be.

The brown-haired girl had moved up beside her, as the procession of children continued through the bowels of the Blackstone. Chayand was grateful to have someone nearby who had walked these dark corridors before; Delena was one of five children who had been at the Blackstone prior to Chayand’s arrival, though by the pensive looks on their faces it was clear this was still relatively new to all of them.

That, or bad things happen when they leave those rooms. Chayand had the feeling she was going to find out today.

Where Hollow Hall had been a staid, torch-lit corridor of evenly segmented stone and evenly spaced doors, Horror Hall was anything but. It smelled foul, and was a darker, danker place. The corridor was both wider and taller than Hollow Hall, and the doors—heavier, thicker slabs of rusting metal—were spaced farther apart. The floor was tilted toward the center on both sides, forming a sluiceway in the middle of the hall. Slimy trails of blood, excrement, and other unsavory liquids trickled out from beneath some of the doors, and the sluiceway gathered them, spiriting the sediment in a slow, black crawl down the hall. The muck that managed to make it all the way to an iron grate—placed as a seeming afterthought in the middle of the corridor floor—trickled down into darkness.

Flies especially favored this middle portion of the hall and scattered in a filthy cloud when Leftenant Hadrien and his escort of Blackstone guards stepped past. Chayand hated flies.

The children followed obediently. Chayand quietly asked Delena what was behind the massive doors.

“Monsters,” the girl said softly. She looked nervous.

“Not all of them,” another boy behind them said. “Most are just specimens.” Two of the shorter children had moved up closer amidst the gaggle. Chayand had assumed they were both very young, but now realized both were not nearly as youthful as she thought—they were piks.

The people of Palador had different names for piks. Most folks called them midgies, dvarvs, or pechs; in polite company they were simply called “little people.” These two boys were as dissimilar as night and day, however; one pik had skin like Chayand’s, brown as the earth, with shoulders as broad as he was tall, stout and grim-faced, and baldheaded besides. He didn’t even have eyebrows. The other pik was slightly taller but slimmer, with ruddy skin and a stubborn, jutting chin. Both looked to be in their mid-teen years, unlike most of the other children.

The ruddy-cheeked pik was the one who had spoken. The brown-skinned one had a dour look about him and didn’t look at anyone. He shouldered past everyone just to be near the front and spoke not a word.

Short or no, I wouldn’t want to meet up with that one in a dark alley, Chayand thought. His arms were as thick as her thighs.

Chayand turned back to the other pik. “What’s your name?” she asked, quietly.

“Don’t have one yet,” the boy muttered. He kept his head down, wary of anyone hearing their conversation.

“I mean your old name.”

He glanced about again. Clearly this was a taboo topic, but he relented, whispering, “Hackberry.”

“The sod sort o’ name is Hackberry?” pug-nosed Gwynen asked, sniggering.

The pik boy glared at Gwynen. “The sod sorta face is yours?”

“The kind that’s way above yours, ye wee punt.”

“Above me until I break your knees,” Hackberry growled.

Gwynen, oddly, seemed to enjoy the trade in insults. She answered by grinning like a jack-o-lantern, sticking her tongue through the newly made gap in her teeth and waggled it at the boy. The pik raised a warning fist, but Gwynen’s strange cheer seemed to mollify his prickliness.

More doors were passed; the further the hall went, the larger the doors became. The last two were nearly the size of barn doors, seemingly as thick as the stone walls surrounding them. They looked monstrously heavy.

“Keep up,” one of the guards snapped. Hadrien and the others were farther on down the hall, and some of the children had fallen behind. The guard seemed about to say something else when his eyes widened. “Hey!” He pointed past Chayand and strode with purpose toward the back.

Of course it was Filch. The scrawny urchin was up on one of the doors, hanging off the window and peering in, clearly intent on seeing an actual monster. The skinny boy named Spider was right next to him on the door, egging him on.

“That’s a elf,” Spider said to Filch, oblivious to the approaching guard. Another grim-faced man was coming from the back too.

“She’s just a normal girl,” Filch replied, brow furrowed. “Big ears though. Heh.” He pressed his face against the bars to try and get a better look.

“It is a elf,” Spider insisted. “I told you. Ears are pointy. See the points?”

The guard pushed past more children, furious. “Off the door, you little snits!” he barked. Spider let go and dropped.

Filch was still looking. He hung on with one hand and thrust the other into the cell to wave at whatever was in there. “You ain’t a monster, right?” Filch called in through the window. “Can you talk?”

“Stupid piece of crot—!” The guard grabbed Filch by the back of his tugo and yanked him off the door. Filch landed flat on his back with a thud and a splat, sluiced muck spattering. The breath went out of him and he just lay there on the stone, gasping in pain.

The second guard arrived in time to give Filch a kick to his leg. “Get up,” he groused. “And don’t touch the sodded doors.”

Roen helped Filch up. He rubbed his ribs and glared at the retreating guard, but then stole a glance at the door again, probably considering jumping back up and continuing his one-sided conversation with whatever creature was inside. Roen quickly dragged him away.

At least she seems to have a good head on her shoulders, Chayand thought. She regretted not being friendlier to Roen during their shared days in the roller, though at the time being friendly to anyone hadn’t really occurred to her. Chayand had been more intent on trying to regain Vheret’s friendship.

It wasn’t my fault. It was Filch…

Chayand’s eyes sought him again, but Vheret was lurking near the back, eyes on the floor. It had been over a month’s time, and he still limped from the beating Threll gave him the day they were taken—the day both of their lives changed forever.

I just want my friend back. She could do without kisses, she told herself. She was nearly certain that ship had sailed anyway.

Leftenant Hadrien continued to lead the strange procession. The briefest explanation of Horror Hall’s purpose—the holding of monstrous specimens culled for study—was followed by another right turn into a different corridor.

“Preparation Hall” it was named, and here was, yet again, a different sort of place. This hallway was narrow, and much cleaner than Horror Hall. Hadrien pointed out various rooms to the children as they passed; laboratories and study halls were the norm here, interspersed with other unnamed nooks and closets. Some doors had barred windows and some doors with no windows at all; one door had an eight-pointed star etched into its face. An aptly named “water chamber” contained the largest stone-bound pool of water she could ever have imagined. Most of it seemed coherent, though they passed one short side hall that appeared to abruptly end for no reason; there was also an armory with an open door, weapons aplenty seen within, apparently guarded by no one.

Not one of the children made a move for the armory, however. They’re probably just waiting for one of us to try to go for it. If she’d learned anything in the roller, it was that these Blackstone people didn’t mind making examples of children.

Still they continued, passing more doors, more rooms. Preparation Hall was long. As they went, Chayand noticed Delena’s look of dread had only increased, and it was shared by Hackberry.

They entered the largest chamber yet, a massive pavilion with a domed ceiling held up by four sturdy pillars. The chamber was so large it echoed the sound of their arrival back at them. The dark floor was smooth stone and seemed somehow older than the rest of the keep. At the center of the chamber lay a circular, shallow pit thirty paces across, filled with rough-looking sand. The central pit was surrounded by eight other smaller pits, some sand-filled, some not.

A raised dais stood at the far end of the central pit. Standing upon the dais were a number of adults, though Chayand could not yet see who they were.

“Welcome to the Proving Hall,” Leftenant Hadrien announced as they entered, his arms spread wide and grand. “Become accustomed to this center room, and the smaller rooms attached, for much of your time will be spent here in training.”

They were brought to the center of the hall—seventeen disparate, nervous children, all barefoot and in matching gray tugos—and made to sit on the floor in a semicircle around the center sand pit. Chayand could now clearly see the people on the dais—the foremost being Malacai. Others strange adults gathered near, but it was the Master who commanded the nervous eyes of nearly every child.

Leftenant Hadrien ascended the dais and introduced each person with his usual ostentatious flair. The first introductory honor was given to the obese man they had seen next to Malacai outside: Lord Furmian Foed, master of the castle. He was dressed in fine furs and a quilted silk doublet, though his clothes seemed worn and threadbare. Lord Foed had a nasally voice and nervous, fat fingers. His greeting to the children—”students” he called them—was cordial, if brusque. His moustaches and beard were freshly oiled. He seemed to Chayand’s eye a little too pleased with himself.

Hadrien introduced the others. The only man Chayand recognized was Threll, the Lashmaster, purportedly here to enforce Blackstone discipline. The Leftenant introduced others unknown to her:

There was Ameth Kamul, called the Mindmaster, a mouse of a man with nervous eyes who stood close to Malacai, his shaved head bowed in continual deference; there was Jezeerah, called the Bloodmistress—the only woman amongst them—cowled and mysterious; there was Llandis, called the Shadowmaster, a narrow-faced man with long limbs, long knives, and cunning eyes; there was gray-bearded Aemos, called the Loremaster, dressed in scholarly robes and bearing a wise man’s mien; and there was Bauden Hammerhand, called the Battlemaster, a large man with scarred arms, black-bearded and fierce-looking. Bauden had a broadsword on his hip and a look that said he was not impressed with the gaggle of children seated around the sand pit.

It was Malacai who stepped forward to speak.

“Be welcome,” he said softly, though his voice carried to them easily. “Some of you have come far to be here. Others barely a day. No matter your origins, the Blackstone is now your home. On this day and moving forward, you are brothers and sisters in arms. You will live here. You will thrive here.”

Malacai extended his hand, and a green crystal the size of an egg floated forth, as though suspended on an unseen wire. The crystal flew to the center of the sand pit and hovered there.

No one made a sound. Chayand did not need to glance about to know all eyes had gone wide.

“Some of you have traveled through many parts of the world,” Malacai continued. “Most of you have not.” The crystal flared to sudden green life, glowing like a lantern. Chayand stared. She had always thought grandiose gestures were supposed to precede magical spells, but Malacai had done nothing of the sort.

From the crystal sprung a sudden sculpture the size of a large horse, carved out of green light. It took the shape of a globe; it was as though someone had taken a gigantic green map, with tall mountains and seas that you could touch, and wrapped it around a gigantic balloon. It tilted and turned slowly.

“The world you know, the world we inhabit,” the Master intoned, “is the Otherrealm. It is named so because it is the second world. The Firstrealm, from which humanity sprung, still exists, but it has become a wretched, dying thing. This world, our home, is where the future lies. And in you all.”

The green globe of light spun slowly, reflecting in the children’s eyes. Malacai’s dark gaze roamed from face to face. “The tutors I have arranged for you here will teach facts. No more, no less. There are truths to this world that none of you know. You will know them soon.”

Chayand wondered how much truth was being spoken now. Probably only truths that benefit them. She knew people could lie without saying a word.

Malacai said no more. The gray-bearded Loremaster stepped to the fore. His voice had a quaver to it when he spoke. “If you were highborn enough to have had tutors who schooled you in geography or in histories, then mark yourselves as fortunate,” the Loremaster said, gesturing, his robes swishing. “The Blackstone will continue that education, but without the insular nationalist slant you were undoubtedly subjected to.”

The green light globe shifted, and now it looked more like a recognizable map turned on its side. Four separate continents rose into view, though Chayand recognized none of them.

“The Four Leal Lands, this was once called,” the Loremaster said. As he spoke each name, the selected continent became prominent, rising like a green ghost from within the stilled image. He pointed first to the southernmost continent. “Tarundha, once called Ersetukur the Earthen Land, where the Hindi fled to die yet instead thrived, raising mountains to gird their green valleys, and where too rose the Noroubi queens, great in their influence.” Chayand blinked. Noroubi queens… Thoughts of green-eyed Nisi were banished quickly, lest they steal her attention.

The image shifted focus to the eastern continent. “Ishum-Shen, once called Girrukur the Fire Song,” the Loremaster said. “It is where the dead gods of Sumer and Khem were laid to rest, and where lay vast deserts and volcanic isles uninhabitable by all save the most desperate of men.” From there the image went to the west, highlighting a swath of land that appeared to be a simple stretch of islands. “Thalisse, once called Mulibbu the Water’s Heart, the Kingdom Beneath.” The Loremaster’s voice seemed to deepen, as though this land was of some grander importance. “Here territories were measured in tides rather than terrain. To here came the learned men of Olympos, and where too rose mighty Atlantas, brought to us from the Firstrealm.”

Atlantas! Chayand still could not say whether her dark skin was a product of Atlantaen sailors or Noroubi queens, or… anything else. There seemed a thousand different places any person could claim to be from. She wondered if the Loremaster might have a better-educated guess, but Chayand suspected the curriculum would only teach things Malacai wished them to know.

They were told their past lives were done. Chayand doubted she would ever know the answers to the questions that had always haunted her.

“And lastly…” The Loremaster gestured. The northernmost continent rose up before them all. “Caelarn, once called Imasru the Wind-Realm, where the Aesyr and Vanyr came to make war upon the Gods of Chi’n and the Yatsu-No-Kami, and fought them fiercely in the thundering sky for centuries, up until the breaking of the Great Tree.”

The Loremaster made a subtle swirling motion with his finger, and the green light-sculpture swirled as well, the seas swallowing bits of land, islands disappearing beneath waves, mountains rising up where before there were none. The continents began to come together, slowly, as though borne upon the many hands of a strange and swift-moving clock. Where the four continents once stood apart and at perfect points on the compass, they now shifted. Some were pushed together, burgeoning mountains in their collisions; other were ripped apart. The Four Leal Lands became indistinct, mashed together whilst torn asunder. Everything tilted and turned askew; the remnants of the four continents were barely continents at all, and none could claim north, south, east, or west as a singular domain.

The Loremaster was staring at the glowing, shifting picture with what seemed a strange sort of sadness. “Whatever your beliefs, know this: the gods are real,” he said, and his voice cracked. “And they care little about you or your prayers.” He took a moment of breath, and quieted. “Their wars broke the world. A thousand years have passed since the Age of Enmity, and the forging of the Cygnus Accord ended the Godswar. But their strife was enough to shatter the world and lay waste to millions of lives.”

As the image’s swirl slowed to a stop, Chayand could finally recognize some of the lands, at least in part. The continent he had called Caelarn now bore an aspect of the Caelarn she knew, though the Ten Kingdoms were not, apparently, the center of the world. Rather they were somewhere northwest of center. She was only now considering the possibility that many of these children might be from somewhere beyond the Ten Kings, and she wondered if the ones from faraway lands were just as surprised to see their home nations displayed so.

The Battlemaster, long silent, finally strode up, and the Loremaster stepped back. The black-bearded man’s voice boomed like thunder. “Your minds, spirits, bodies, and dreams are ours to mold. It is not for gods you will labor, nor for country to favor, or family for you to strive to please. Your lives are ours. You are here, as we are, in service to the Master.” His eyes were gray as a darkening storm. “We will test your flesh and frame. We will test your mind and test your might. We will ensure that each one of you is worthy of the honor of serving.” His hard eyes seemed to scour them. “You will serve, or you will die.”

There was silence. What could anyone say? But Chayand was suddenly angry. She wanted to rise and shout at him—shout at all of them—wanted to ask what right they had to demand all or any of this!

But she already knew the answer. Everything her parents had taught her about goodness, and fairness, and kindness…

The Blackstone was teaching truths already, whether any of the students knew it or not. In the face of overwhelming, ruthless power, the notions she had been raised to believe were the lies. Chayand was glad her family had not been there when she was taken. They would not have been able to comprehend—much less resist—this cruel power wielded for power’s sake.

There is no stopping this. Her mother and father would have tried to prevent them from taking her. And they would be dead. She looked at Vheret again. He was looking back at her too, with what seemed hateful eyes. Her heart felt cold.

“The first lesson is the fighting,” the Battlemaster said, quieter. “This begins today.”

“I will fight,” the large, brutish-looking boy called out. He looked eager to, and he stood up. His eyes scanned the others, perhaps seeking out anyone bold enough to challenge him.

“Everyone fights,” the Master replied. “You fight for life when you are born, and you fight until you can fight no more, for death can come for any of you, at any age.” His words were quiet, measured, and yet loud enough for all to hear. The large boy suddenly sat down, as though he’d been commanded to do so.

“You will fight when you are told to fight,” the Battlemaster barked. “When you are so bid, you will stand and step into the sands. When I tell you to begin, you will do your utmost to lay your opponent low. You will not stop until I tell you to stop. The Trial Ring will show us your worth.”

The Battlemaster said nothing more. He simply turned and bowed to Malacai. The Master’s dark eyes scanned the young faces looking back up at him…

Two of the children suddenly stood, both looking quite startled. One was Gwynen; the other was the small boy with the light-brown hair Roen had been trying to speak to earlier. After a moment, both made their way into the sand-filled ring, though the boy was already shaking. His brown eyes almost immediately filled with tears.

“As chosen,” the Battlemaster said, and his command echoed from the domed ceiling: “Begin.”

There was a moment of shared hesitation. Gwynen’s freckled face was flushed, and she stood in the sand awkwardly, clearly unsure how to proceed. The weeping boy timidly advanced on her, making a weak attempt to grab her tugo sleeve; she was older and bigger, and shoved him away. Gwynen glanced at Chayand and at other children, as though hoping someone else might take her place, but no one said or did anything.

The boy came in again, half-heartedly; a few light slaps, a few badly missed kicks. Gwynen shoved him away again, harder. The boy was still crying when he balled his fist and punched Gwynen in the cheek. It was not very hard; the blow sounded like a slap. But Gwynen’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. Color darkened her cheeks and her shaved head, and her hands became fists. She came at the boy with a grim determination. He fell back, holding up his hands in a meek effort at defense. Gwynen was taller and stronger, and three times as determined. She shoved him into the sand, and when he was down, sat on him and punched his shoulder and stomach repeatedly. He rolled into a ball, trying in vain to cover up, sobbing.

It seemed to last a lifetime before the Battlemaster called out, “Cease.” Gwynen stood up, cheeks red, huffing. She glanced, guiltily it seemed, down at the boy, who was rolling in the sand clutching his midsection and crying.

“Pile of crot,” Spider muttered to Filch. “I fought three weeks ago. Shouldn’t have t’ fight again. We gonna have t’ fight every time they bring more? There’s thirty rooms, y’know. We gonna have thirty fights?” Spider was agitated, and seemed about to say something more, but his words were already echoing, and more than a few heads turned his way. He quieted quickly.

“Next,” the Battlemaster barked.

Two more children suddenly stood up. One was the eager, brutish-looking boy. He grinned and flexed his hands…

The other was the tiny, bruised girl they had nicknamed “Sunny.” She looked confused, stumbling into the sand-filled Trial Ring, and then fearful as the hulking boy’s shadow fell across her once again.

Chayand wasn’t the only one to cry out in protest. Filch stood up, eyes wide. Roen did as well. “This is no fair contest!” Roen shouted. More voices joined hers.

“Be silent.”

Malacai’s voice rang in Chayand’s skull—and in all the others, judging by the silence that descended. It took a few moments for Chayand to blink away the dizziness, and by the time she did…

Chayand wished she hadn’t. The massive boy had already lunged toward Sunny. He slammed his thick fist into the tiny girl’s midsection. Sunny went stumbling backwards and landed hard, rolling through the sand. In three strides he was looming over her again. Sunny choked and wheezed, trying to gain back her breath. The boy reached down and grabbed her by her hair, forcing her to her feet.

“Fight back,” the huge boy growled. He cuffed Sunny across the cheek, hard, but did not release his hold on her hair. The little girl’s head jerked with the blow. He grabbed two fistful of her sun-blond hair and lifted her higher, so that her feet no longer touched the sand, and looked at the Battlemaster as though expecting a command to cease.

He received none. He dropped her back in the sand, and the smile that broke across his face was a cruel one.

The rest was horrible. Blow after blow came hard against Sunny’s slight frame. Each one, heavy fists cracking on fragile flesh and bone, seemed to echo off the domed ceiling. After three or four she stopped crying out. Most of the children couldn’t even watch. She’s dead, thought Chayand, her stomach roiling. They’re culling us down, removing the weak. She feared for her own life as much as Sunny’s; a guiltier part felt fortunate that she would probably not have to face the hulking boy. At least not yet.

Finally, the Battlemaster called a halt to it. The black-bearded man had the audacity to look disappointed. “It did not arise,” he murmured to the Master, who nodded.

“Give her time,” the cloaked Bloodmistress murmured. She had a voice like rasping sand. “It came once.”

The Battlemaster snorted, glancing to the tiny girl—a bloody, broken ragdoll tossed without care onto the sand. “Naught will come if she dies.”

The Bloodmistress shrugged. “Then there are others.”

Two guards came to carry Sunny away. Miraculously she still breathed; Chayand saw blood bubble on her lips. She should die, Chayand thought morosely. It was almost too cruel that she might live. It was a truly heartless world they had been thrust into. None of the stories she had ever read whilst safe in her father’s arms, or any of the soothing ballads sung by her mother’s lips, had prepared her for this.

“You,” the Battlemaster pointed to the hulking creature. “You are the winning boy, and have earned a name. You are Ravage. Exit the Trial Ring as Ravage and take your seat.” The hulking boy stood taller and nodded. He strode back to have a seat, Sunny’s blood still on both of his large hands. Few of the children looked Ravage’s way.

Winning man, Chayand thought darkly. He was closer to man than child, and closer to beast than anything else. She wondered if they earned names based on the amount of cruelty they caused; she wondered if she would be called anything at all until she beat someone bloody.

“You.”

The voice came straight into her head again; the Master didn’t have to give them names if he could talk into their minds. Chayand steeled herself and stood, pushing her braids out of her face to peer about and see the person she would have to fight.

Her opponent stood as well, and they looked at each other, their eyes meeting across the sand-filled pit.

She would be fighting Roen.