TREMELO ALSO RAN, SEARCHING for something lost. He’d set out late that afternoon, and now had already passed the divide between the campus and the Dark Woods. He had nearly reached the rocky hills that led toward the southern mountains. It was the path the Velyn had taken away from Fairmount, led by Eneas Fourclaw. Tremelo had questions for him—most of which were contained in the leather-bound book tucked safely in his traveling bag.

The Loon’s book, written in the Velyn’s language, was much like the Loon himself: it asked more riddles than it answered. The Child is both the reflection and the opposite of evil? What was he meant to understand by that? The Equinox was only a few weeks away; without knowing what to make of the strange orb in the center of the blueprint or what role Bailey would play at the Reckoning as the Child of War, Tremelo had decided to seek out assistance. Perhaps the Loon’s prophecies contained some hint that would help him. Eneas, he wagered, could give him some sort of advice—but in truth the prophecy was not the only mystery that occupied Tremelo’s mind.

He stopped to catch his breath, and Fennel, trotting alongside him, jumped ahead. The Velyn moved quickly, and they’d had several weeks’ head start. He hoped to come upon them camping over the ridge.

He fished the worn photograph of Elen Whitehill from his coat pocket, though he knew it by heart: her strawberry-blond hair, and her sharp Velyn features. She had been his first love—murdered during the Jackal’s massacre.

In the dozen or so years since her death, he’d become obsessed with finding anyone who had known her. He ached when he remembered her smile, and he wanted desperately to fuel that pain with more stories of her life. But the only people who could know of her were now miles away, doing their best not to be found.

He still remembered taking the photo. Elen hadn’t known what to do in front of a camera. She had lived her entire life in the mountains, traveling the Unreachable Road with her father, Luca. A photograph was a luxury she was unfamiliar with. She’d laughed when he arranged her furs around her, and told her to sit very, very still.

“Why do you ask the impossible?” she’d said. “Sitting still for five whole minutes! I’ll turn to stone! You couldn’t do it, I’d bet a set of claws.”

“That’s why I’m here,” his nineteen-year-old self had said from his place behind the camera. It was a pity, he thought now, that she hadn’t smiled. But then, a smile was hard to keep for five whole minutes while the image set into the film. It was almost as hard to keep a smile in one’s memory for over a decade, but somehow Tremelo had managed to do it.

His fingers grew cold. He placed the photograph back in his pocket. A few yards ahead, Fennel stood as still as a statue. She crouched, and the fur along her back stood on end. Her nose sniffed the air. Tremelo tightened his grip on his walking stick and moved toward her, climbing over a large boulder that reflected the full moon overhead. When he arrived at Fennel’s side, Tremelo could sense it too—something had happened here. The snow up ahead showed signs of a struggle: scattered footprints and what looked like a large animal dragged on its back and side. Tremelo’s heart began to pound. Fennel circled the area, her ears twitching back and forth.

There were claw marks in the nearby trees: so deep they tore through the bark and exposed the raw wood of the trunk underneath, and as wide as a grown man’s hands—even wider.

“Taleth,” Tremelo breathed. He looked again at the snow-covered ground, and saw the huge cat’s paw prints.

Fennel whimpered. Tremelo looked to the nearby slope of the southern hills, just once. Then he ran back toward the school.