My blood-mother Jezben lets loose a sudden delighted peel of laughter at the sight of me, starting forward even as I do so that we come together in the midst of everything, tears streaming down our cheeks. Then I feel another pair of arms circling us—those of my blood-father, Gregor. Puka worms his way over to him, happily burnishing his antlers on the fur collar of his cloak.

Pulling away at last, my mother's eyes travel over me. "Oh Nikessa, your Akhana is beautiful! And your hair—" she falters, catching a lock in her fingers and pulling it forward. The light catches its coils, and for the first time I see it—a streak of Mire-like rainbow iridescence. "What...what happened?" Her ember goes cool where moments before it had been warm and flaring, "Are you alright?"

I feel suddenly queasy. "I'm fine, but I—there was an accident. We were attacked, and I..." I trailed off, unable to speak around the lump in my throat. Then Aunt Ula's voice issues from over my shoulder. She reaches out to touch my mother's arm.

"We have much to catch up on, Jezben."

My mother turns to embrace Ula in turn, worry knotting her brow as my father's eyes scan the rest of our group.

"Were there casualties?" He asks, bundling Puka back into my arms and turning to her.

Aunt Ula nods, expression grim.

The rest of the group from the first lift are converging on us, the other Vishkan Rhavani coming up to greet the Rhajia. My remaining parents can spare only a brief moment each to welcome me back with a hug and a few words. Most of them look much as I remember from their last yearly tour through the nations.

Fabien-Rhaj of Morovin-is her usual serious-but-sweet self, though heavy with child. Her eyes linger on my Mire-colored lock while she congratulates me on my Akhana and becoming an Heir. She passes me on to Maz, Rhaj of Ariskol. They squeeze me close, engulfing me in the volume of their sleeves and bosom, smelling of burnt sugar and almonds as they always do. Lastly Tammeck, Rhaj of Solrath, folds me into his leather-and-spice-scented embrace, the silver streak in his ink-black hair has grown since last I saw him, but otherwise he's the same.

A few moments later the Rhajia and Rhavani are already heading off across the receiving hall towards the main corridor that opens at the other end, several of the guards organizing around them. Others stay behind in positions near the entrances and along the walls. A few more stewards in topaz robes filter in as well, fingers laced and waiting.

"Dhajia," someone says from behind me. I jump, turning to find the bespectacled steward from earlier standing behind me. "You will see your parents again soon, but until then they have much to do. I am High Steward Andris, and it's time we got you settled in. Please, follow me.

"Do you require medical attention of any kind, Dhajia Nikessa?" She asks as we walk.

"No!" I blurt, much too emphatically. She eyes me.

"And what, if I might ask, were the affects of your miretouch? Beyond your hair, of course."

I gnaw my lip.

"I can sense creatures around me, as a sort of vibrating energy..." I hesitated. "And I can influence them."

She's quiet for a moment. "I see. Well, then, we'll go straight to the barracks, then."

"The...the barracks?" I turn to look at her, slowing.

"The barracks, yes," she chirps. "To assign your personal guard."

I blinked over at her. "But I already have guards."

"Heirs are always assigned a special guard, but this time is different," she smiles. "They will serve your needs better than any ordinary guardians ever could."

I have more questions, but she's already on the move again. We turn left, into a stairwell that spirals up through the mountain stone. From what I can tell, we're deep in the belly of the jutting, wedge-shaped mountain plateau I thought of earlier as a prow. I've been told its riddled with chambers and tunnels and is as much a part of the fortress as the towers, grounds, and parapets it supports.

We exit the stairwell at the third landing we come to, entering a relatively open chamber with crossed weapons, shields, and tapestries on the walls.

"I come with Dhajia Nikessa Vikalla of Vishka," she says to a man behind an iron desk who looks more like a librarian than anything else, whom she introduces as the Secretary of the Guard. He regards me, eyebrow raising.

"She's Mirefallen," he says, just a hint of incredulity in his voice. "I assume in this case we'll make an exception? Human guards?"

High Steward Andris straightens herself. "She will be treated the same as every other Heir," she insists, a sharp edge to her voice. "Besides, the Gray Guard are human. Please mind your words."

Finally, I know what poets mean when they go on about "poisoned honey." Her words drip with it.

"Very well," the man sighs, opening one of many ledgers on his narrow desk and scratching something into it with a feathered quill. "We'll have to double their dosages, then."

"So be it," says the steward brightly, honeyed fangs retracted. "Shall we?"

Closing the ledger, the secretary steps out from behind his desk and bows. "This way, if you will, Dhajia."

Thoroughly confused, I follow him across the lobby and into another corridor. Steward Andris clips along just behind me. The lanterns cast a dim, colorless light across the dark stone of the hall, and the air is hazy with rainwood incense. We walk all the way to the end of it, where a deep alcove is carved into the rock. Glaring out of it is the stony face of Fal the wolf god, guardian of all warriors. Incense billows around his likeness from the burner just below it, as though he's looking through from another world.

The secretary, the steward and I all bow compulsively as we pass this, each taking a moment to look into the rough-hewn stormstone of his eyes. Then the secretary hauls open the heavy door of a chamber to our right, ushering us inside.

The lanterns in this room are even dimmer. Surprisingly, one corner is filled with heavy quilted-leather cushions.

"Take a seat, if you will, Dhajia."

I do as he says, cocking my head up to look at my two attendants. An explanation seems forthcoming.

"As you know, the whole world has been changing since Mirefall. New times call for new ways, and we at the Stronghold have been doing our best to adapt." She pauses, punctuating her speech with a smile here and there in an automatic sort of way.

"We've taken special care to ensure that Heirs will be given the best protection possible, especially considering that there are new dangers in this world which haven't been known for many, many years. New dangers, but also new opportunities."

Did she rehearse this? Why do I get the sense, from the way her eyes flick to my hair streak, that she doesn't just mean mirebeasts when she speaks of danger?

"To that end, we will be assigning to each Heir two of the only kind of guard that is truly up to the task of their protection in these extraordinary times."

Puka sniffs, and I slip into his senses for a moment. Is that the scent of miretouch, that metallic, before-the-thunderstorm smell? No, it's a little different.

She motions to the Secretary, and he crosses the room to open a door at its other side. As he does, that familiar-but-not-familiar smell washes over me. From the chamber beyond, figures begin to emerge, still hard to make out in the low, flickering light.

I squint. Are those...antlers?