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Emara stumbled back to the campfires, blood staining her clothes, and the exhaustion of a near-death experience weighing on her muscles, already sore from the intensive yanaa drain. The soldiers barely looked at her as they lined up their dead and wounded, the charred body of the slain giant crumbling in the middle of the square.

Finally, someone noticed her. “There she is! Thank Odriel she’s alive.”

“That’s just bloody sunny,” said another, wrapping a bandage around a third’s head. “Someone bind her so we can address more urgent issues.”

Emara staggered over to him, putting her hands on the wounded man lying on the hard cobblestones. “If you leave my hands free, I can help.” Pushing her fatigue aside, she gripped the soldier’s hand, sending a surge of yanaa through him. The pain of his bashed head echoed back to her as she soothed the injury.

The man’s eyes brightened, and he squeezed her hand. “Thank you. You…You really are her.” He withdrew his hand, a wariness lining his haggard face. “But why would you help us?”

Emara smiled with the bitter sorrow of his question. “How has the world ended up like this, where no one’s where they want to be?” An old lesson came trickling back to her, something from the before. She couldn’t remember who said it or where, but the words were there, feeling brand new in her mind. “It’s my duty to protect and serve Okarria, and you’re of this land too.”

He didn’t answer as she rose to the next, healing broken bones, gashes, and other minor injuries. Even through her exhaustion, her yanaa welled to meet the need—she only had to endure. Heal just one more. The curious glances followed her as she moved from soldier to soldier, touching her fingers to their hand or foreheads. At last, she reached the end of the line, where the hearts stopped beating.

She touched her hand to her lips and then her heart before returning to the wagon and gathering her knees to her chest. Even with those she’d saved, there were still six who lay cold on the ground, waiting for whatever shallow grave would be scraped out for them.

Shad leapt onto the wagon beside her, curling his tail around his flanks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t I? For the last thirteen years, I’ve been a survivor, a fighter, a drifter, and one of Odriel’s Blessed—Emara Alik.” She lifted her head to the bright stars above, confusion swirling through her. Even with the flash of old memories, the name Ioni Rao was still so foreign, like someone she’d once known. “But all that time, I was supposed to be someone else. I was supposed to be the Time Heir entrusted to heal Okarria. But instead, I was a coward hiding in the shadows as the world fell apart around me.”

“You didn’t know,” Shad said.

She shook her head, consumed by the responsibility passed down from her ancestors. The responsibility she’d effectively forsaken. “That doesn’t mean I’m not to blame.”

She gazed at her fingers in the pale orange light of the campfires, and then out to the skeletal town on the edge of the lifeless desert. “Perhaps my mother was right”—her mother’s words echoed clearly in her mind: If to be an Heir is to die young, tortured at the hands of monsters, then my daughter will not be one—“and I’ll die under tooth and claw before I’m gray. But even so, I will spend every last day I have making amends for time lost.” It was the least she could do for the part she’d played to create this dark world.

“There’s no time lost, only…” Shad trailed off, the mutterings of the camp and the reek of burnt flesh wafting around them.

He stared until Emara finally returned his gaze, cocking her head at his dazed expression. “What?”

He shook his head as though waking up from a trance. “It’s nothing, just... have we had this conversation before?”

She smiled at him, the sorrow and danger of the day melting away. “I think you need to get some sleep, Shadmundar.”

“Not before you.”

“Why? You need someone to snuggle with?” she teased, opening her arms for him.

His ears flattened, and Emara could’ve sworn if he was human he would’ve blushed. “I thought now that you’re the Time Heir, you’d be less—”

“Childish,” he finished.

Emara stifled a yawn, trying to make herself more comfortable on the hard wagon bed. “I thought with 100 years of wisdom you’d know a title makes no difference. I’m still Emara.” And strangely, the thought soothed her. She was still Emara. Even if she was a little more now. She could be both. “Emara Ioni Rao.” The names rolled pleasantly off her tongue, as if they’d always belonged together.

“Well, apparently it takes more than a century to make sense of you,” Shad grumbled.

Emara shut her eyes, just for a moment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And even though Emara was, in some sense, a different person than she’d woken up as that morning, she felt more herself than she had in a long time. So though fatigue pulled at her with heavy fingers, she stayed awake as long as she could, savoring the wisps of dreamlike memories still echoing inside her.

Her father’s laugh, her mother’s smile, the three Heirs together and powerful.

Even in this wasteland of death and ruin, she clung to the already fading images, caressing them like fragile gems. If Okarria had once been a safe, wondrous world, perhaps that meant it could be so again.

And though tears came to her eyes, they were happy ones.

The next day the caravan limped along, even warier than before as they skirted the dark red sand of the Deadlands. The soldiers hardly spoke a word the whole day, but they didn’t bother to bind Emara’s hands again. Perhaps it was because the futility of such an escape had finally dawned on them all. Alone out here, any one of them wouldn’t last a single night. So their only hope for survival lay in their reluctant coalition, no matter their destination.

But of course, none of them even suspected the Shadow Heir and her Maldibor tribe stalked in their footsteps—a fact that might have dramatically changed their mindset. Even Emara had no idea of how closely the Heir followed them, until that evening on the edge of slumber, a feather-light touch brushed her arm.

Emara didn’t have to hear the voice to know the speaker. The ancient yanaa churning just inside those fingers was more than enough to jolt her to alertness. But she knew better than to make any sudden motions. Slowly, she opened her eyes, taking stock of the quiet camp around them, the watchman to the far side of their blazing bonfire, and Shad sitting atop a crate beside her, tail flicking.

“I’m awake,” she whispered.

The wagon bed creaked ever so slightly as the unseen Aza settled beside her. “Your yanaa, it’s stronger now, isn’t it? I can sense it like a storm on the horizon.”

Emara straightened, not terribly worried that one of the soldiers would overhear. After all, they were probably used to her strange, seemingly one-sided whispers with the cat, which they’d collectively decided to ignore. “Yes. I think it was your yanaa that awoke it, and some memories too. Faint though.”

Emara nodded. “I can feel it through your touch. It’s one of the ways I can heal.”

“How interesting. Do you remember your mother’s lessons on how to wield it?”

Emara sank a little at this. Even though the memories had seemed so strong at first, they’d faded to fuzzy snatches, leaving only the remnants of what anyone would remember from early childhood. “Not really.”

“I can try to teach you if you’d like,” Aza said, her voice soft and tentative. “The ways of the Dragon, Shadow, and Time Heirs’ yanaa are different, but the basics of controlling it are roughly similar.”

“Here?” Emara looked around again to the sleeping guards scattered around the fire.

“Don’t worry. It’s safe. The sentry on guard always dozes through his watch, and Makeo and the others will howl if anything else comes our way.”

Emara looked to Shad on the crate, but he said nothing as he returned her gaze. She pushed out a long breath before turning to the empty space next to her where the Shadow Heir sat. “Okay then.”

Two hands folded around hers, and once again the yanaa reached out to her in powerful waves, winding around her with the smoky, mysterious sensation. “Let’s begin with your center…” Aza started.

Emara had never been able to sense or control her yanaa without the urgent need of a wound before her, but as Aza guided her with whispered undertones, a wellspring of light churned in her core, like a hidden ocean of energy within her. The power there was dark and deep, but with a concentrated effort, she drew small streams to her fingertips.

With another gentle instruction from Aza, she dismissed them again, the strength flowing and ebbing within her all the way. The world spun around her with the heady sense of control. This was no random gift that came and went on its own terms. This was a part of her that she could manipulate and grow.

“That’s enough for now.” Aza squeezed her hand once before withdrawing. “I’ll come another night to help you practice. Yanaa is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it will get.”

“I could never thank you enough, Aza.” A gratitude that was nearly impossible to verbalize welled within Emara. No one had ever encouraged her to use her gift before, much less instructed her how, and the feeling of rightness was nearly overwhelming. Although she wanted to reach out and hug the invisible Heir, she held out an open hand instead. “Perhaps I could at least heal you before you go. I can’t imagine after the attack yesterday you escaped completely unscathed.”

“I don’t have any real injuries,” Aza replied dismissively.

“Please,” Emara insisted. “Let me help, even if it’s just a bruise. This is the only way I know how to really thank you.” She smiled. “And it counts as practice, right?”

“I doubt my scrapes are worth the effort,” Aza grumbled, but even as she said it, her hands found Emara’s once again, her fingertips cold against Emara’s palm. “Do I need to do anything?”

“No,” Emara whispered, closing her eyes as her yanaa reached out through Aza, probing for cuts and bruises. There were many, of course, but nothing serious. Blisters on her feet, a swollen right ankle…

“I forgot how much this makes me itch.” Aza chuckled.

Emara smiled as she continued, her yanaa grazing over a bruised jaw, a scraped elbow, and then… something unexpected.

Emara sucked in a soft, involuntary gasp, and Aza snatched her hand back. “What? What is it?”

“I… um…” Emara scratched at her forehead as she tried to think of the right words. She turned to Shad behind them, but he seemed to have fallen asleep at some point. With another deep breath, Emara leaned closer, her voice barely audible. “Aza, do you know you’re… with child?” For a moment, a silence as heavy as a boulder settled over them, and anxiety twisted through Emara’s gut. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry; I was just trying to—”

“It’s okay,” Aza said, the words heavy with resignation. “I know.” The wagon bed creaked as she shifted. “But please don’t tell anyone. Keo’s already suspicious, and I don’t know what to say to him.”

For a moment, Emara stilled, a hundred thoughts rattling through her brain, and not at all sure which one to pick. Still, one came bursting to the surface anyway: Aza was carrying the next Shadow Heir… and she was running headlong into the Dead King’s castle.

“Emara, please understand. I’m not far along.” Aza’s hands reached out and gripped Emara’s once again. “And this is our best chance to take down the Dead King. If we pass it up, we may not get another opportunity in our lifetime.” Her voice started to shake, tears thickening the desperate edges. “I can’t have our child growing up in a world like this. I can’t.” A soft sniff nearly shattered the silence. “Please, don’t tell.”

Emara thought of her own mother’s desperation to save her, even at the end. With a long sigh, the tension fell from her shoulders, and she moved one hand along Aza’s arm to rub her back in smooth circles. “I would never tell, Aza. It’s your choice to make.” She squeezed her hand. “But… can I be the first to say congratulations?”

Another sniff, this one accompanied by a quiet laugh. “I suppose you can.” Aza paused, fidgeting under Emara’s hand. “Is… is he okay? Healthy, I mean. Is that something you can tell?”

Now it was Emara’s turn to smile as she let her yanaa drift through Aza once more, reaching out for that tiny spark of new yanaa. “Well, it’s still very early, but she seems very healthy to me.”

Emara put her hand to her mouth. “Oh no, I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said.”

Aza laughed again, a muffled ring of cautious joy in the dark night. “No, that’s okay. I just… I still can’t really believe it… I’m going to have a girl. My nephew will be fit to burst, and Keo…” Aza shifted, her invisible arms wrapping around Emara’s shoulders. “Thank you, Emara.”

Emara returned the embrace, a tear sliding into her own smile. Because no child should have to grow up in a dead world like this… and it would be up to them to make sure they didn’t.

As they neared Austerden, the land turned from desert shrub to sprawling orchards of rotting fruit trees that had now been allowed to grow wild. Strangely though, despite the abundance of produce, no animals swooped down to enjoy the plunder, and the stench of autumn’s wasted bounty filled the air.

The soldiers’ mettle frayed a little more with each passing day as they jumped at every sound and shadow. But though her captors never spoke to her, ever since the attack, they’d treated her with a wary, almost resigned respect. As they drew closer to the Dead King’s city, a ring of the Lost circled their party like a band of predators kept at bay by some invisible shepherd. Although their presence seemed to ward off other attacks by Carceroc monsters, they did nothing to soothe anyone’s nerves.

Especially Emara’s.

Even Shad’s light chatter couldn’t relieve the dread that filled Emara when the red tips of the dead city rose above the black beaches of the coast. The Lost around them shuffled faster, panting as though excited at the proximity to their masters. Emara’s hands began to shake, her gaze glued to the many towers inside the high sea walls. In many respects, Austerden looked similar to Faveno—a port city that had been turned into a fortress. But Austerden was bigger, with four rose stone spires of an actual palace stabbing into the blue sky, each one sharp like a bloody tooth.

Shad followed her gaze, speaking in a low tone to avoid drawing attention. “Once the three Heirs each had a tower around the Crown’s in the center. They were the protectors of the city and its monarch.”

While Emara appreciated the distraction, she could no longer ignore the panic simmering beneath her skin. “The soldiers said we’ll be there tomorrow. Do you think the others are ready?” Although Aza joined them at night from time to time, training her to hone her yanaa while unseen, she’d not visited for days. And where was the army that was supposed to be ready to invade the city?

“I don’t know,” Shad said, tail whipping against the wagon. “Aza will be here tonight with news.”

And Emara wasn’t sure if she appreciated or detested the honesty. She regarded him for a second, and then the city, her panic subsiding as a realization took hold. In truth, Aza and she didn’t need the army to play their part. The army was supposed to get them out. But what if they didn’t?

She and Aza could still do what needed to be done. They just…

Emara straightened with a deep breath. “Right. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

True to Shad’s word, Aza tapped on her shoulder in the dark hours before the dawn, the soldiers spread around them snoring too loudly to overhear the mutterings of their charge. Especially with the Lost encircling them still huffing like dogs on a chain.

“Emara?” Aza whispered.

Emara’s eyes shot open, instantly alert after her restless doze, but she kept still. She wasn’t sure what would happen if the soldiers captured Aza this close to Austerden, but it wouldn’t be good. “I’m here.”

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Aza asked, her voice drifting through seemingly empty air.

“You can’t possibly think to continue with this plan without an army behind you,” Shad said, his voice quiet but sharp from where he sat at her side.

“The army is only a day behind us, Shadmundar,” Aza said. “Considering my parents moved land and sky to make that happen, I think that’s rather miraculous. Besides, the Dead King and his commanders know they’re on the way. Their attention has already been drawn.” Her voice sobered. “I think Emara and I can hold out for a day.”

“You think,” Shad hissed, his back arching. “Aza Thane, you can’t go into this with an I think. If you’re wrong, you’ll be sacrificing two Heirs for another of your half-brained plans.”

The air practically crackled between them, and the wagon creaked as Aza shifted. “Shadmundar, you don’t have to tell me of the sins I’ve committed to bring this day into being. But for Emara’s sake, we can list them. Yes, I’ve led many a friend to their death. Yes, I was the one that unleashed the body of the Dead King, and yes, I’m the one that let the necromancer escape for the sake of one man.” Aza paused, her breath ragged in the silence. “I’ve made decisions I regret, and some I do not. I even wronged you, Shadmundar, and for that I’m truly sorry. But for every mistake I’ve made, I’m willing to atone here. I truly believe this is our best chance to end this nightmare before it swallows us whole, and I’m willing to sacrifice my life for the possibility.”

Emara’s eyes shot wide. Led friends to their death? Was that true? Shadmundar and the other stories had painted her as a hero, but this sounded like an altogether different tale.

“You cannot risk your life so senselessly when Okarria needs you.” Shad’s fur rose along his spine. “Wait for the army to arrive.”

“And miss our chance? No. If I die”—Aza swallowed, her voice thick—“then another Shadow Heir will rise in my place. Hopefully one that’s stronger and smarter than me.”

“And what about Emara’s life?” Shad said. “She’s barely more than a child.”

Emara rose to her elbows, heat flushing her face. “I’m not a child, cat.”

“No one that’s lived a life like yours is,” Aza murmured, her voice low and measured. “Okarria has few children now.” The hiss of a blade sliding from its sheath cut through the night, and then a click as it slipped back into place. “Emara’s strong, and we will honor her by letting her make her choice.”

Emara’s gaze flicked to the empty air where Aza probably was, knowing Aza’s words were just as much for herself as they were for her. “I’ve already made my choice. I’m coming, no matter the cost. I owe it to those who have come before me, who sacrificed everything so I could make it this far. And to those who will come after.”

An invisible hand squeezed her boot. “Well said, Guardian Rao.”

Emara smiled into the dark, wishing she could see Aza’s face too. In a pact bound together with an ancient calling and the dream of a new world, kinship coiled around them like a well-worn blanket.

“This is madness.” Shad’s fur stood on end, his pupil blown wide in his luminescent eye. “I won’t watch you get yourselves killed.” With that, he stood and leapt from the wagon.

Emara stood, all hope of sleep lost. She tossed a glance at the fortress rising out of the sea, a sliver of dawn cresting the rough waves behind it. “Do you think we can really do this, Aza?”