A plume of black smoke was spiraling out from the center of Frosthaven, growing progressively thicker. It was impossibly dark and dense as it pooled into the sky, as if it were somehow staining the clouds, like black oil over water.
When we reached the town square, I spotted a handful of Frosthaven residents running into the town hall, scaling the thick stone steps into the large building. Off to the side the Scribes’ wagons were torn, the tarps burst open, the edges burned and seared. Whatever was inside was colored a solid black, and from these mounds of ash, billows of black smoke continued to pour up toward the sky. Two white sheets were laid out on the ground, the outlines of bodies rising from underneath.
“My Gods,” Dreya said, her voice soft. “What do you think could have happened?”
“I can’t imagine,” I said. “Maybe—”
Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!
Dreya and I both jumped back as a man rang the Frosthaven bell four times in a row, loud and quick. The black smoke continued to rise into the sky, the street silent, the sound of excited chattering coming from inside the town hall.
“You two!” the man barked, pointing at us from his hunched-over position around the bell. I recognized him as one of the caretakers of the hall and square, his outfit a series of patched-up pieces of fabric, hair a scraggly mess. “You best get to the hall.”
“Any idea what happened?” I asked.
“Who knows?” he said, then shrugged. “But I know they’re looking for you.”
“Who is?” I asked, turning to Dreya.
“Everyone.”
The outside of the town hall was bustling with activity, townsfolk muttering and chatting to one another. We eventually reached the front of the hall, just in time for our mayor to take to the podium on the raised platform.
Slowly, the ruckus began to subside, and in its place, an awkward silence accompanied by a strange sensation that hundreds of eyes were focused on me. I turned to look back at the townsfolk. Everyone was looking at us.
“That’s the boy!” a woman from the crowd screamed. I spun around toward her voice; her face was turned in, scowling and wrinkled. “He assaulted the Scribes yesterday! This is his fault!”
The crowd muttered and whispered among themselves, shifting this way and that.
“What? No!” I exclaimed, and sputtered over my words. “What are you talking about?” I glared at the woman from across the room, and she returned my angry gaze.
“Grab him!” a deep voice shouted from the crowd.
Two large men charged through the masses and grabbed me, wresting me from Dreya. She reached out to pull me back, and one of them pushed her away, hard, sending her falling to the ground with a shriek.
“Let me go!” I pulled and pushed, trying to rip myself away from them. I shoved an elbow out, made contact with a nose and heard a sickening crunch. He let go and grasped at his face. Blood immediately pooled over his lips. I recognized the man I hit as one of the local smiths, his Ink pumping trails of liquid metal over the surface of his arms, as if his blood were silver. He glanced down at me with his teeth clenched. His eyes were focused intently, enraged, and as he grasped me even tighter, blood trickled down his face.
The men dragged me to the raised stone platform and tossed me down at the foot of our mayor. I scoured the crowd for a sign of Dreya and spotted her on the ground close to the front of the mob. She watched everything unravel, frightened, her amber eyes wide. I stood up to go to her, when a large boot pushed me back to the ground. Whoever was pushing me down held me there firmly in place.
“Damn it; let me go!” I yelled. The boot pressed down a little harder. I gasped, the wind pushing out of my lungs.
The mayor of Frosthaven, so far silent, cleared his throat, and spoke up. His voice was soft and shook while he spoke, a quiver in the back of his throat.
“I think . . . I think that’s quite enough . . . ,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but easy to make out over the silence of the crowd.
“I’ll let you know,” the voice behind the boot snarled, rough and agitated as he pushed down again, “when he’s had quite enough. When you’ve all had quite enough. The whole lot of you.”
“Yes, of course,” the mayor said, his voice still far away. “Whatever you say, Molivar.”
My heart raced.
Molivar?
The man behind the boot lifted his weight off me, but not without giving me one last little press into the ground. I scrambled to my feet. After years of hearing stories about Molivar, he lived up to my expectations. Standing at least a foot taller than I, he had half a head of long, unnaturally flat straight hair, the other side shaved clean. A thick scar ran across his left eye, from his forehead, down to his cheek, and then jutted angrily toward his chin.
“Caenum,” the mayor spoke, his tone slow and deliberate. He’d been the leader of our town since my father left, and an elder in our town for who knows how long. His hair was grayed and his frame was hidden behind a large, bulky tunic. Despite his age and physical condition, the man had a powerful, intimidating quality. However, in the face of the angry townsfolk and Molivar, that energy seemed completely and utterly sapped. His eyes, so generally full of spark, were sunken, washed, and weary.
“Caenum,” he started, slowly, each word measured. “Where were you today?”
“Dreya and I,” I began, quickly. He held up a hand, his skin pale and wrinkled.
“It’s very important to me,” he said, nodding, “that you tell the truth. Do you understand?” His eyes darted toward Molivar, his mouth turned up in a snarl, as two Citadel Guards closed in behind him, silently. Their thick maroon cloaks, flecked with gold and the runes of the Citadel, contrasted brightly against the drab colors of the surrounding square.
“I understand,” I nodded.
“Now,” he continued. “Tell me everything.”
“Dreya and I went out to the edge of the farm to collect plants,” I said, shrugging. “When we saw the flash of light we came running.”
“And that’s all?” The mayor pressed, eyes wide, tilting his head and looking at me from behind his eyelashes. “Nothing else?”
I thought of the almost kiss at the edge of the woods and felt myself flush, but quickly shook it off.
“That’s all,” I said. “Really.”
“When’s your Inking, boy?” Molivar asked, taking a step toward me. I flinched and a smirk flashed across his face. “I don’t trust the word of the Unprinted.” The word Unprinted rolled off his tongue like something he utterly despised.
“Two more days,” I said, curtly, trying my hardest not to let my eyes wander over to the smoldering mess that was the Scribes’ wagons. For all I knew, now my Inking would never happen.
“Listen, Molivar,” started the mayor, taking a step toward him. Molivar stared at the mayor, his gaze hard, face unimpressed. “I’ll send someone to talk to their families,” the mayor ventured. Molivar turned to the two Citadel Guards who were with him and nodded at them.
“My men will accompany your people,” Molivar said to the mayor, curtly.
“Excellent,” the mayor said, his voice tinted with doubt. He gave me a sideways glance, one that attempted to tell me not to worry, and then ascended the stairs of the hall.
I watched the eyes of the crowd turn toward the mayor. I joined them, standing close to Dreya. I stretched my hand out, reaching for hers.
“Citizens of Frosthaven, it seems both our town and the Scribes’ caravan, have—”
“Enough with the sugarcoating. You’ve been attacked by the Unprinted!” shouted Molivar, who climbed the stairs, brushing the mayor aside. The crowd gasped, and murmurs spread through the masses.
“We caught one of the filth as he was trying to escape,” Molivar continued. He looked up toward the town hall and snapped his fingers. Two more Citadel Guards approached after a few tense seconds, carrying a man who was bound and gagged. He was sweating profusely, and his eyes darted about furiously. His hair was bright red; the part of his face that wasn’t covered by the gag was pocked with freckles.
The townsfolk booed and hissed, and tossed whatever they had at the bound man. Molivar laughed and encouraged the crowd, egging them on. He turned and looked to me, a nefarious smile on his face.
“Boy,” Molivar said over the soft din of the crowd, amusement in his voice, “what can you tell us about the Scribe you met yesterday?”
I swallowed nervously.
“Look,” I said, clenching my hands into fists, trying to bolster up the courage. “I was curious, I walked up to the wagon, he popped up, and he threatened me. Said he’d mess with my Ink, said it would complicate my life. I know I shouldn’t have pressed or said anything, but I didn’t want my life being ruined by my Ink, you know?”
At this Molivar’s expression grew tense, his eyes narrowed.
“You want to talk about Ink ruining your life, boy?” he asked, through gritted teeth.
“No,” I said, stepping back, starting to sweat. “It’s just . . .”
“You don’t know anything about it,” Molivar snarled. “Learn to be grateful for what the Citadel chooses to give you.” With that he turned away from me quickly, his burgundy cloak billowing as he walked back to the bound man near the jeering crowd.
“The younger boy that this . . . ,” he turned and glowered at me, “child met earlier, that all of you saw here in the square, is also Unprinted, posing as an apprentice Scribe. They stole these two wagons on their way here, with plans to sack your town.”
At this, the man attempted to yell, muffled by his gag, and squirmed about furiously. The Citadel Guards hit him upside the head, leaving him to moan quietly.
The mayor shook his head at the guards and turned to Molivar. “Please, let’s be civil.”
“Quiet!” barked Molivar. He turned back to me. “Do you recognize this man?”
The weight of this question wasn’t lost on me. I saw his bruises, his sad eyes, the red stains on the bandages around his head, the dirt on his skin.
I shook my head, something not feeling quite right. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Molivar nodded and gestured to his guards, who took the man back toward the doors in the hall. The man struggled furiously, his shouting muffled as he was taken out of sight, dragged back up the stairs, his legs hitting the stone slabs with thumps that made me wince.
“The flash in the sky you all saw,” Molivar began, continuing, “was nothing but an explosion set off by the Unprinted here in the middle of town, made to distract us while they ravaged your homes. The bomb was planted in one of the hijacked wagons, the same ones before you a smoldering heap.”
A bomb. I’d never seen one up close.
“The chief investigator at the Citadel is on his way to investigate the scene and deliver this man to the Citadel for interrogation and justice.”
The crowd burst into applause. Molivar silenced them with a gesture.
“It’s not over yet. The other Unprinted is still out there, lurking in the shadows. Your town is at risk, and therefore has become a risk to the Citadel. Any town that lacks stability is seen as a threat to the citizens of the Realm as a whole. Make no mistake; we will find this man. By any means necessary. So explore every little bit of this town. The basement you no longer use, the fields you’ve left fallow. Because when the sun rises,” Molivar started to walk up the stairs toward the town hall, and then turned around, “the Guard will be here.”
“Those of you who are expecting your Inking this season, you’ll be taken to the neighboring town of Autumn’s End to meet with their Scribes in a few days. We will not leave you to become Unprinted.” He looked down at me, a fire burning in his eyes.
“We need to find this boy. And we need to find him now.”
“Caenum,” Dreya paused and stopped, turning to face me. We were only just out of town. I could still see the plumes of thick black smoke curling up toward the sky, tinting the clouds black.
“I owe you an apology,” she continued.
“An apology?” I asked. “For earlier? My legs are still bruised up, you know.”
“I’m not apologizing for that,” she said, then laughed, “and I never will.” She sighed. “I don’t know. This past year. I felt . . . older. All that grown-up business that you’re supposed to feel when you get Inked.” She looked up and down her arms, and the vines twisted and twirled.
“And part of that,” she continued, “was wanting to look after you.” She looked up and smiled.
“Look after me?” I asked and scoffed. “Dreya, you know I don’t—”
“Not like that,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s hard to explain. I’ve just, I-I’ve always been the older one in this,” she stammered and shook her head. “You and me. I just don’t want you to not need me anymore.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head.
I reached out and tilted her head back up.
“Hey,” I said.
She opened her eyes.
“I’ll always need you.” I said, watching the smile inch its way across her face, her cheeks turning red. I slid my hand along her smooth cheek, my fingertips brushing against her hair. Her eyes closed . . . and suddenly went wide.
“My pack!” she exclaimed. She turned around, frantic, and grasped at her back and sides.
“What?”
“I left my pack by the trees, at the edge of the farm!” She sounded genuinely freaked out.
“It’s okay,” I said, and grabbed her hand, “we can go there tomorrow morning, pick it up. There’s no school, we’ve got all the time in the wor—”
“No! But there was food in there. Animals will have scooped it up, taken it away someplace.”
I huffed, “Dreya come on, it’ll still—”
“Caenum . . . ,” she trailed off. I caught her eyes getting watery in the dim candlelight from the windows of her house.
I sighed. “Once I check in with Grandmother, I’ll grab her lantern and pick it up.”
“Thank you!” she said, beaming, and kissed me quickly on the cheek, before hurrying off.
My house was only a few feet away from Dreya’s. As I reached for the front door, it swung open, my grandmother standing in the doorway, concern washed over her face.
“Oh, Caenum.” She embraced me with a hug that could’ve killed me. “I was so afraid. Please don’t ever worry me like that again.” She let me go and looked out the front door, toward the city and around the general area, as though she expected someone to be watching. “The Citadel can be so cruel, and all the talk of Scribes, Magic, Conduits, and the Unprinted gets them riled up. You have to be careful.”
I took a step back. “Magic? Conduits?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard some people muttering in the crowd,” she said softly, quickly, and pulled me into the house, shutting the front door. “Rumors like that can get people in trouble.”
“It’ll be okay,” I said, and hugged her again. “Can I grab the lantern?
My grandmother arched her eyebrows. “What for?”
“Dreya left her bag out in the woods and I . . .”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s no way you’re going back out again tonight.”
“Come on,” I pleaded. “You know how much that bag means to her. And we . . .” I fumbled for the words, not wanting to tell her too much. She was my grandmother after all, and there are some details you just can’t discuss. I looked down toward the floor and glanced up at her, my head tilted, hoping she wouldn’t lose it when I told her. “See, we had this . . . this moment today.”
A beat passed; and my grandmother’s face seemed to do battle with different emotions, looking thrilled one moment, worried and concerned the next.
“You really should wait until morning but… oh, you know what, here. Take the lantern—it’s right next to the door on this peg,” she said her smile beaming. “You know how to light it—just turn the gas nozzle—now get out of here!”
Before I could reach out and take the lantern from the wall, my grandmother snatched it from its hook, shoved it into my hands, and started to push me out the door. Her movements were swift and eager, a smile on her face the entire time.
“And Caenum?” she said, before shutting the door.
“Yes?”
“Don’t screw it up!”
She closed the door. As I walked around to the back of the house and down toward the farms and meadows, I caught her silhouette in the kitchen window, dancing happily in the moonlight.
The golden light from the brass lantern guided my way through the farm, past the brambles and bushes, through the tall strands of grain, and to the edge of the wilderness.
Dreya’s pack was largely undisturbed, save for the bread, cheeses, and some snacks long gone missing, crumbs scattered about the edge of the field and into forest floor. The cowhide canteen was exactly where we left it, the wine still inside. I took a sip and spit it out immediately. Warm, the rose wine was disgusting.
The meadows started to reappear through the brush as I walked. As I moved the lantern to find the dirt road home, it flickered and went out.
“Oh, come on,” I said, and slapped the side of it. I shook it around, listening for any sign of oil. My eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, as I tried to spot my home, or Dreya’s, or even the town in the distance.
Nothing.
Despite my having walked this dirt road thousands of times, I dragged my feet along the ground slowly, making sure each step didn’t send me tumbling into the meadow.
I hooked the lantern to my belt and held out my hands to make sure I wouldn’t stumble into anything as the dead light swung back and forth from my hip.
I can do this. It isn’t much farther.
Then I tripped.
I hit the dirt road hard and swore in the darkness. I spat dirt from my mouth and rubbed at my thigh where the lantern had poked.
“Damn it,” I muttered, looking about.
Then I saw a spark of light, shimmering in the corner of my eye.
Another explosion? I squinted and looked up at the sky. Lightning? I held my palms up, and felt for a sign of rain.
A flash.
In the split second that it lasted, I caught the outline of the farm through the bushes.
A flicker and a spark. My eyes widened.
The lightning hadn’t come from the sky.
It was coming from the fields.
I squinted in the darkness.
Nothing.
“H-hello?” I whispered. My eyes darted about for the source.
A faint pulse lit the fields. I followed the only light in the darkness, thumping softly like a fading heartbeat.
“Who’s there?” I shouted.
The light was growing brighter, and it began to burst in quick, hot flashes like a bundle of fireflies nestled in the field. I picked up my pace, pushing the brambles aside.
“Dreya, if you’re out there messing with me, I’m going to be so mad.” I felt my voice grow shaky.
The pulse grew brighter and brighter, and a smell wafted through the air. It reminded me of the dried leaves and twigs as they burned in my grandmother’s fireplace. Something was on fire, or at least had been up until recently. I moved quicker now, and I pushed my way through the final row of bushes.
There, curled up on the ground, was the fake Scribe. The Unprinted. Whatever he was. But now his skin was Inked, covered with runes and lines and symbols that dictated his status as an Scribe. But this Ink was different. It glowed. He was no longer the redheaded, puckish kid I remembered from the town square. In the light of his pulsing skin, it looked as though his hair was now a solid white.
“What are you?” I whispered, watching him glow.
The boy looked up at me with sunken eyes and held out his hand. There was an apology there, hidden behind his glassy tears and terrified gaze.
“Help me.”