Opal heaved a breath and opened her eyes. The searing pain in her side and shoulder were miraculously fading, though she still felt weak and dazed. She lay back, panting, staring at the dimly-lit ceiling above her.

“Oh, Opal!” a familiar voice said. “You’ve saved her!”

Opal blinked heavily and looked for the source of the voice. “Mrs. Rammelmire? Is that you?”

Instead of finding the kindly old woman, Opal’s eyes lighted on an enormous, heavyset young man, who leaned against the wall near her, gasping for breath. Opal sat up carefully, and touched her side. Where she’d been given a gaping wound in the battle on the farm, she felt only smooth, unbroken flesh under her torn dress.

“It’s me, Opal,” said Mrs. Rammelmire’s voice. The elderly gnome hove into view in the dim light, her eyes wide. Her tiny, delicate hands touched Opal’s shoulder, where she knew she’d suffered another wound--but it was no more.

“That young man healed you,” Mrs. Rammelmire said. “I saw it! His hands glowed and your wounds closed!”

Opal turned to the large young man beside her. His skin was dark brown, his black hair wavy and thick, tied back in a haphazard braid. His ears were rounded, human-like, and his fingernails were ordinary. He bore no horns on his head. He opened his eyes--a dark brown, round pupils--and pulled his lips into a weak smile that showed teeth no different from any other human.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle for his tremendous height.

Opal rolled her shoulder. “I feel almost as good as new,” she said. She squinted at him. “You’re a knitter, aren’t you?”

He wiped sweat off his brow with a large, calloused hand. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Aothane. They told me you’re the Deyspring matriarch.”

Opal glanced at Mrs. Rammelmire, who clearly looked confused. “Please, Aothane, just call me Opal.”

“Yes ma’am,” the knitter said.

Opal looked around at the dimly-lit room they were in. It looked like the storeroom beneath a shroomhouse, though the supplies had already been emptied out, and only broken crates and torn burlap sacks remained amongst the people crowded in the room. Opal took the time to look each of them in the eye, if they would meet her gaze, and smile encouragingly. About a dozen townsfolk were crammed into the room. Aothane was the only person out of place.

“Where do you hail from, Aothane?” Opal asked.

“Hey! You done in there yet?” called a gruff voice from behind the trap door in the ceiling of the storeroom.

Aothane slowly got to his feet, though he had to crouch to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling. He knocked on the trapdoor above, and it opened for him. He looked back at Opal with an apology shining from his eyes.

“I’m from Celesdine.”

Opal frowned reflexively. Aothane looked away and hauled himself out of the trap door. It closed behind him with a thud.

“Oh, Opal,” Mrs. Rammelmire said. “What do we do? Those horrible monsters burned the whole village! Only the shroomhouses still stand!”

Opal squeezed the gnome’s tiny hand and looked to the other prisoners. “Is everyone all right? Anyone hurt?” No one answered, so she began calling out names. “Berl? Dahlia? You’re all right? Topaz?”

Dahlia and Topaz, the married women who ran the Mycoton Inn, took each other's hands and nodded to Opal. Berl, the butcher, crossed his bulky arms.

“What do they want with Mycoton?” he said. “We’ve never attracted the ire of Celesdine’s soldiers.”

Opal bowed her head and folded her hands in her lap. She and Ametrine had made the decision some thirty years ago to settle in Mycoton and start a family. And now her family had brought the wrath of King Dorr down on the simple town.

“They want my children,” Opal said.

“Horax and Terrisa?” Berl said, his face softening.

“Why?” Topaz asked. “They’ve never done a thing wrong!”

“Are they all right?” Mrs. Rammelmire asked.

Opal took a deep breath and lifted her head. “I don’t know. But they’re clever kids, and they were going to escape town with Sorrel in the mushroom tunnels.”

“That’s where everyone else was going,” Dahlia said. “Topaz and I were headed there, but...I tripped.”

“They caught us,” Topaz said. The short-haired woman punched her fist into the palm of her hand, and Opal saw now that one eye was swollen, though her dark skin did not betray the bruise in the dim lighting. “Didn’t go down without a fight.”

Dahlia looped one hand around her wife’s bicep. “But there were too many of them.”

“We all ended up in here,” Berl said. “But I think most everyone else got away, into the tunnels.”

“Where’s your wife, dear?” Mrs. Rammelmire asked.

“I killed as many as I could before they took me,” Opal said. “Ametrine should be safe in the caves with Yarrow.”

“Killed ‘em?” Topaz said, her eyebrows raised. “Good for you. Fuck ‘em.”

Opal leaned forward and criss-crossed her ankles before splaying her knees out and resting her palms on them. “We’ll all need to kill if we’re going to escape.”

“Escape?” Dahlia asked, when at the same moment her wife asked, “How?”

“Here’s a secret,” Opal said. “I’m a retired warrior with many years of military training.”

The townspeople stared at her before several began murmuring noises of ascent.

“We knew that,” Berl said. “Everyone knows.”

“You think we’ve never seen you in the yard, training that boy of yours?” Mrs. Rammelmire said. “And your wife Ametrine is like no sharpshooter anyone had ever seen. She didn’t get that way hunting rabbits.”

Opal threw back her head and laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh that came from deep inside her belly. “Oh, you! I might have known!”

“I take it,” Topaz said. “You didn’t train in Celesdine’s military.”

Opal shook her head, but before she could say anything, Berl and Topaz were smiling and exchanging nods, and even Mrs. Rammelmire was cracking her knuckles.

“We’ve always stayed out of it,” Dahlia said. “Because no one bothered Mycoton.”

“But after tonight,” Topaz said. “We’re in.”

Mrs. Rammelmire nodded. “I think I speak for all of us, eh? We’re part of the rebellion now, Opal, same as you.”

A sly smile spread over Opal’s features. “Well then,” she said. “I think it’s time we all learned how to make shanks.”

“It’s dark as pitch in this fucking forest!” Horax said, stomping along behind Terrisa. “My armor is chafing.”

“That’s what you get,” Terrisa said, “for putting it on without a shirt, or padding.”

“We can stop and you can put something on,” Sorrel suggested.

Horax huffed. “Thank you, Sorrel. See? She cares more about me than my own sister.”

The three slung down their rucksacks on the dark forest floor, and Horax started pulling things out of his.

“Does this look like a shirt to you?” he asked, holding up something that could have been made from fabric.

Terrisa rolled her eyes, not caring that Horax couldn’t actually see it. “How can I know?”

“My pack has a lantern!” Sorrel said. Terrisa heard the click of a flint starter, and the lantern flared to life. Sorrel closed the window and latched it, then held up the cheery light. “That’s much better.”

Horax began unbuckling his armor. “I was right, it was a shirt. Help me with these buckles?”

Terrisa and Sorrel each took a side and helped Horax out of his breastplate. He sighed with relief as it dropped with a dull clang to the thick redwood-needle carpet below. Terrisa hissed at the marks on his shoulders, where the main weight of his armor had rested. His top surgery scars were also an angry red. Sorrel quickly took out the burn salve from Horax’s pack and smeared it on his shoulders. Horax shuddered.

“Ow...ow...it feels good but it hurts too,” he said. “How much further do we have to go tonight?”

“It must be after midnight,” Sorrel agreed.

They both looked to Terrisa. She held up her hands.

“Why do I have to decide?”

“You’re the one who knows the way,” Horax said.

Terrisa looked from her brother, with chafe marks and sunburns, to her girlfriend, who wore slippers and a cutoff shirt revealing her midriff. Neither were in good shape to continue traveling through the dark, not after the hours they’d already put between themselves and Mycoton. She nodded.

“Let’s make camp.”

Horax exhaled in relief and Sorrel’s shoulders sagged, as if she’d finally realized how tired she was.

Terrisa put herself in charge of building the cookfire, careful to dig a small pit to conceal the flames and to use dry wood to prevent telltale smoke from rising. Sorrel found a sturdy tunic in her pack and put it on over her shirt, and cinched it beneath her ribs with the belt that held her dirk. Horax dabbed more burn salve on his chafes and burns before pulling a shirt on over himself.

The three skewered flameshrooms on sticks to roast over the fire, and boiled a little pot of water for tea. They said little, each dealing with their exhaustion in their own way.

Horax elected to take first watch, and sat up against a gigantic redwood trunk within sight of the fire. Terrisa and Sorrel hunkered down to sleep, double layering their cloaks and snuggling up to one another.

“So,” Sorrel said quietly. “You’re a fabled princess?”

Terrisa managed a half-hearted giggle. “Not a princess. But my ancestors used to advise Queen Benitoite’s ancestors. I guess that makes us part of her royal court.”

Sorrel took one of Terrisa’s hands under their cloaks. “I never knew I was in love with royalty.”

Terrisa squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry you’ve been mixed up in this.”

Sorrel looked away. “Don’t be. This is exciting, right?” But her voice betrayed her--Terrisa could hear tears creeping into Sorrel’s tone.

“Sorrel…” Terrisa said. “I’m sure Mama will take good care of your mother.”

Sorrel didn’t look up. “And...and your mum?”

Terrisa swallowed back a lump in her throat. “Yes. I’m sure Mum is fine too.”

“There were so many of them,” Sorrel whispered. “And the town was burning.”

Terrisa closed her eyes and buried her face in Sorrel’s shoulder. She felt her girlfriend shiver, then start to cry. They wrapped their arms around each other under their cloaks and held each other close, crying, but not too loudly, so as not to alert Horax. After a few moments, Terrisa pulled away and wiped the tears from her dark brown cheeks. She wiped Sorrel’s away too.

“We’ll survive this,” Sorrel whispered to her. “Our mothers will be alright, and we’ll come out the other side as heroes.” She smiled weakly. “After you teach me to fight, of course. Do you know how to throw knives?”

Terrisa snorted. “Throw them? No!”

“Well, I think I’m going to try learning it.”

Terrisa laughed and kissed Sorrel’s nose. “If that’s your deepest desire, then I support you.”

They whispered to each other of inane things for several more minutes, but sleep soon found them, and they drifted off.

Garalore draped himself along a thick branch, letting his tail wrap around it for an added safeguard. He peered through the spiny leaves of the giant redwood tree he was concealed in. Below, Horax Deyspring had taken up a watch over the small camp. He wore no armor now, just a loose shirt, and his sword lay across his knees as he polished it.

I can’t do it.

Horax’s words echoed in Garalore’s mind. He’d been unable to think of anything else--just the memory of his voice. He wanted to hear it again. He shifted on the branch to get a better look, and a dry twig broke away and tumbled to the ground. Horax leapt to his feet, sword in hand, and looked up, squinting.

“Who’s there?” he said.

Garalore froze, hardly daring to breathe. Then he slowly unwrapped his tail from the branch and allowed himself to drop. Just before he struck the forest floor, he flared his wings and caught himself, landing with hardly a sound in front of Horax.

The young man brandished his sword. “You…” he said.

Garalore held up a clawed finger to his lips. Then he drew two things from his robe and held them out to Horax in the palm of his hand. Horax hesitated, then reached out with one hand--still holding his sword in the other--and took them.

“My mothers,” he said. “Carved these brooches from petrified flameshrooms, for me and my sister.”

Garalore nodded.

Horax looked at him sharply. “How did you get them?”

“Your mothers…” Garalore began.

“They’re all right?” Horax said. He clasped a hand to his chest. “Oh, gods, I’ve been so fucking worried.”

Garalore nodded hesitantly. “They...sent the brooches.”

Horax looked down at the brooches again, then squinted at Garalore. “Didn’t you try to kill us? Aren’t you from Celesdine?”

Garalore took a nervous step back. “No, no, I missed on purpose!” True. His orders were to capture the Deyspring twins alive.

Horax’s shoulders relaxed. “You’re with the rebellion, aren’t you?”

Garalore froze, his gaze expressionless while he weighed his options, then he gave one tiny nod. “I’m Garalore.”

Gesturing to Garalore’s bandaged arm with a quiet laugh, Horax said, “Then I’m very glad I didn’t kill you, Garalore. I’m Horax.”

“I know,” Garalore said. He touched his bandage. “Thank you.”

Horax nodded. “Are you escorting us to Crookhaven?”

Garalore’s heart rose in his throat. This had already gone too far. “No--no. I can’t. I have to go back.”

“Oh,” Horax said, and Garalore almost thought he sounded disappointed. “I suppose you have to keep from breaking your cover in the enemy army.” Horax closed his fingers around the two glowing brooches. “Thank you, for bringing me news of my mothers.”

Garalore turned and crouched, spreading his wings in preparation to fly, but he turned to look back at Horax and quickly add, “Tell no one I was here.”

Horax winked and nodded, and Garalore’s heart squeezed painfully. He gasped and leapt up, flapping his wings to take him up and out of the forest. Exhilaration thrummed through his entire body.