Claire slammed the storage door shut and kept running down the stairs, dashing into the atrium in front of the dining hall. Two men were deep in conversation on her left, while a woman carried a tureen of something on her right. The woman’s eyes caught hers, brows furrowing. Claire didn’t have much time. Already, confused shouts drifted out of the dining hall. Hair whipped in her face as Claire shoved past the Dorran servitor. The tureen she carried toppled and spilt across the floor. At the same time, the door to the dining hall flew open.

“Stop!” Gwenivere shouted as Claire raced for the stairs to the upper levels of the Manor on the other side of the atrium.

Claire picked up speed, risking a glance over her shoulder and seeing the long-limbed Dream Mage – apparently recovered from her ordeal – hot on her heels. At least Claire had one advantage over Gwenivere: she’d had time to get to know the maze that was the Dorran home.

She dashed up three flights of stairs to the royal rooms, then skirted sideways down a corridor, dodging past people as she skidded around corner after corner, left, right and left again. Her breath came out short and sharp and her sides ached, but she could no longer hear feet racing behind her. Gripping the edge of a wall for support, she took in her surroundings. Another few turns and she’d be at her room. She set off at a more sedate pace, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

Within ten minutes, she was outside her bedroom. At first, she moved cautiously, afraid Lord Dorran had sent someone to wait for her, but there was no one inside. She kicked her embroidered slippers off, sliding on the tougher outdoor boots she wore during training with Maen, and pulled a long-sleeved shirt over her head, lacing the ties at the front hastily. After a moment’s thought, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and pulled a warm cloak from the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, flinging it over her shoulders to protect against the cold. There. That will have to do.

Pressing her advantage, Claire hurried to the closest Manor exit, going downstairs and out via the kitchens, stopping only to grab an apple for her horse, Shera. Luckily, supplies had been brought to the Manor that afternoon from a Dorran party who’d been sent to the village, so she was able to slip outside easily with all the people coming and going as they finished unloading the carts and preparing for a grand dinner in Eidan’s honour. Still, her nerves shredded as her ears pricked for a familiar shout of recognition that never came.

Adopting a confident stride, she headed for the stables. When she arrived, Shera nuzzled her palm and then crunched on the apple as Claire saddled her up. When Claire was finished, she noticed a leather saddlebag stashed in a corner. She flicked back the flap and was relieved to find a flask of something sweet and alcoholic and some old bread, hard cheese, and nuts. No doubt it was a handler’s supper. Well, need’s must, she thought. Claire hitched the bag onto the saddle and walked Shera outside.

Mounting up, she smiled confidently at the people passing by. Marcus had told her once that if you did the wrong thing with confidence, no one would question you. At the thought of Marcus, she shivered with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

As she approached the gate, one of the men on sentry duty turned and smiled, recognising her. “Lady Claire,” he said, as friendly as usual. “Please make your ride a short one. The doors shut soon, and you’ll be forced to sleep the night among the poppies.” He laughed at his own joke but Claire said nothing, merely nudging Shera past him. As she passed through the gate, she heard him speak to the other guard, “She’s turning as sulky as her brother. There’s no need for her to be rude; I’m her cousin, you know? Only a distant one, but still.”

Claire heard the other man mutter a reply but couldn’t make out what he said. It was clear, though, that she’d offended them. But there was no time to turn back and try to justify her haste to them, as her grandfather or Rael and the guards could figure out what had happened at any moment and follow on horseback. She only hoped she hadn’t made the men suspect she was up to something. Luckily, at that moment a farmer came in with a cart and she heard the guards greet him; at least now they wouldn’t be likely to watch her ride off. She headed downhill, moving at a moderately brisk pace, not willing to make Shera gallop in case the guards were still watching. She followed the road she’d taken on her arrival with Rael, and once she reached Dorran Village, she began to gallop through the rolling farmland, the land greener than anything she saw back home in drought-ridden Shale, even as long afternoon shadows touched the landscape.

The road seemed to go on forever, and once she was out of sight of the Manor, she allowed Shera to slow first to a canter, then later to a brisk walk; the last thing she wanted to do was wind her mount in case she needed to speed up again to escape from pursuers.

An hour passed. She’d ridden far enough away from Dorran territory to risk approaching settled land to find shelter for the night. Sunset was casting muted oranges and pinks across the sky as the landscape was getting harsher, the grass sparse and dry, the trees thin-leaved, indicating she was close to the Riftlands. Stone and hard, dry dirt passed underfoot. She remembered from the journey with Rael that there should be another village just over the approaching hill. As she rode closer, the sky changed to a strange orange-red colour, a hint of ashy black to the cloud line.

Claire pulled Shera’s reins in a bit. Best to take this slow. As the mare crested the hill, Claire’s heart sank. Smoke billowed in columns from thatched cottages that had collapsed in on themselves, the grass around them black. Crops stank as they smouldered. Farmers lay face down in their own fields. Her eyes watered, but she made herself ride through the carnage as tiny salamanders winked into existence, sitting on her shoulders and looking solemn as they pointed their short, webbed toes at the horrendous scene, their eyes wide and sad.

Near the shell of a cottage, still radiating heat, a farmer clutched a pitchfork, his shirt torn and bloody from a knife wound. He was dead. So was his wife a few metres ahead. What had happened here? Tears pricked Claire’s eyes. What was she going to do? If she went back the way she’d came she’d run into her grandfather and his guards, but this was the last village. Beyond it, there was nothing but the camp of exiles and the Riftlands. She had to get to Kelnariat and Marcus, but the only way she knew of to get to them was back the way she’d come. My mind is going in circles, she thought as she rode past the dead woman. There was nothing for it, she had to throw in her lot with the exiles. Sure, they had nothing, but they were unlikely to be friends with Dorran House either, which was the main thing, and they might be able to help her find her way to Kelnariat. As she urged Shera to ride on, she glanced at the salamanders. Surely they’d stop her if she was making the wrong decision, but they did nothing, She took that as permission to keep going.

The path went upwards, she remembered, and then descended into a dip. The valley where she had first seen the exiles when she’d arrived in Kelnarium sat at its foot. She rode on for another fifteen minutes as night fell properly, scanning the horizon for evidence of the people who had destroyed the farming settlement, but she was alone other than the elemental creatures.

As she rode, the air grew dirtier and dirtier. Ash fell on her arm, still alight. Shera’s nostrils flared in fear and it took all of Claire’s energy to direct her onward. The smoke grew thicker and greasier, and underneath it was the smell of flesh burning. Shera whinnied in terror. Claire leapt from her back and coaxed her forward by the bridle.

She crested the slope, crying out in despair as the gully came into view. The bustling camp she had seen with Rael was destroyed, its remnants scattering in ashes on the wind. The animal-hide tents that remained sat charred and blackened, the lean-tos collapsed in on themselves and still alight. Belongings lay in haphazard clusters. Flaming pits marked the perimeter of the camp, creating a kind of trench around it and allowing Claire to see the terrible destruction wrought, even in the dark.

Shera reared with a whinny as smoke flared. “Come on,” Claire begged, trying to tug the frantic horse forward. With a great swing of her head, Shera wrenched her bridle out of Claire’s grip, then galloped back the way they’d come, saddlebags and all. Holding back tears, Claire watched Shera vanish into the haze. At least I still have the salamanders, she thought, but even as she moved her fingers to stroke one, all of them vanished. She was alone. Desperately, she turned back to the sight of the camp. She needed help. Without supplies she’d starve. With no other option available, she walked down the hill towards the camp, stopping at its edge.

It’s so quiet, she thought, shuddering. Her stomach churned at the smell and she clenched her fists against the urge to be sick. Has anyone survived?

As if on cue, the air filled with the sound of someone screaming. Maybe that’s why the salamanders had left her. They’d known a non-Dorran was nearby.

Claire took a cautious step forward. “Where are you?” she called.

The person cried out and Claire ran to her left, following the voice. One of the flaming pits flared up as Claire tried to skirt its perimeter. As if by sinister magic, its fiery tip reached out across the blackened ground towards Claire’s feet. Attempting to calm her terror, she took one step back and closed her eyes, then counted three even breaths as she tried to remember what Maen had taught her. Grasp for the fire and take hold of it. Teach it to do your bidding. She tried to relax, easier said than done in a real-life emergency, then did as Maen had instructed, feeling the flame’s energy and directing it left instead of towards her. She knew she’d succeeded when the air in front of her cooled, leaving her fingers prickling.

The screams sounded again, closer now.

“I’m coming,” Claire shouted, running forward and diverting or extinguishing flames as she went, trying to locate the source of the screams.

In front of her was a deep, long pit. Running to its edge, she nearly gagged when the stench coming from within it struck her. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand and strained to see through the haze but when she did, she turned and threw up. The pit contained piles of dead bodies with staring eyes and covered in blisters and sores. How could anyone do this to somebody else? She remembered Eidan talking about bandits with magic wreaking destruction near Kelnariat’s capital and the furtive way her grandfather had looked, like he knew something about it. If Dorran House had done this, they were monsters.

From inside the pit came another cry, weaker this time. Claire made herself turn back to the pyre, knuckling sore lids. There. It wasn’t a trick of the uncertain light or her eyes streaming and blinding her. She had seen the bodies shift.

The wind changed, carrying the smell of scorching skin away from Claire, allowing her to focus. Claire pulled her scarf over her face so that she could still breathe. Pull yourself together. There’s someone buried here that you alone can save.

“Put your hand in the air,” she managed to say. “I can’t see you.”

The only response was the sound of exhausted crying, which set Claire’s teeth on edge. “I can’t help you unless you show me where you are.” She cringed at her own brutality, but her first aid course had taught her you had to sound confident and in control in an emergency.

She gagged as the entire pile of bodies closest to her twitched and fell back into place in a wave. “Oh, my God. You’re not ... you’re all the way under ...”

In horrified silence, Claire scanned the surrounding landscape for something that whoever was trapped could hold onto while Claire dragged them out. She scouted around and found the remains of a tree. With a great deal of exertion, she pulled a broken branch away from its trunk, which she dragged back to the pit.

“I’m so sorry,” she shouted to the pile. “I’ll have to jab until I find you.” She lay on her stomach and edged forward on the dry and cracked earth, feeling like a scavenger as she poked at the pile of bodies, clumsily moving limbs aside to try and see what they might be concealing. At last, two soot-blackened hands reached out and held tight, eyes wide with desperation. Under the dirty face, Claire saw the girl was her own age.

“I’m going to get you out. What’s your name?”

“Lotte,” the girl croaked.

“Hold on tight, Lotte.” Claire wrenched the branch backwards. Splinters lodged in both hands, but Lotte’s head was free. Claire pulled back further, with Lotte gradually emerging, shoving and kicking at the corpses trapping her until she was free. Finally, Lotte had a foothold on the side of the pit.

Sudden heat seared Claire’s back. No! While helping Lotte, Claire had let her magic subside and the fire had come up behind her. Flames rose hot as Lotte screamed, losing her handhold. With a curse, Claire closed her eyes, her mind slamming into a plume of fire too strong to divert. She’d have to use all her remaining energy to put it out. She imagined a waterfall near the dam in Shale after a lot of rainfall, the sound of splashing against rocks, the feel of cool spray on cheeks and smiled. Her mind connected with the blaze as she pinched it out, making her arm sting all the way past her elbow.

Opening her eyes, Claire reached for Lotte with the branch. With a wild cry, the girl extended blistered fingers and caught at its end. Coughing, lungs longing for clean air, Claire helped Lotte crawl to safety beyond the perimeter of the camp, away from the fires.

Lotte retched and choked, gasping and struggling to breathe, before falling to her knees, then onto her side with her eyes closed, her chest barely rising and falling.

Claire tried to ask if she was OK, but her own voice was a mere croak. Her body ached as a terrible lethargy stole over her and she too collapsed, entirely spent.