“Magic exhaustion is a dangerous condition that results from the over-use of one’s magic. In severe cases, it can lead to physical illness, loss of magical control, and occasionally mental instability. In more dire cases, it can cause coma. Or death.”

~ Bek Trent, M.A.S.O

Scents tell the tales of the past, clinging like vaporous ghosts to bark and soil and stone. The wolf has, like all such creatures, always known of their power. An embrace becomes to her the commingling of familiar and contented odors, gentle to her dilated nostrils. A fight becomes bitter and sour, burning like acid against her nose with the musk of rage and fear, pain and adrenaline. Hunger prickles the fur along her hackles. Anguish knots the muscles of her legs and tail.

But there is so much more; the words on the air before her change with the breeze, turned like the flimsy paper pages of a book. Here is a trail laid down days ago, its potency evidence of its age, its character evidence of the weather and the time of day. Above her head is the story of a wandering beast, miles away upwind, hot beneath its heavy fur from running too far in the sun; it was chasing prey, and its scent carries the telltale tang of hunger. The heat of the air rising from below, melting into the cool air from above, whispers of the coming night. The dusty scent of the earth hints at the fading day. And not so long ago, the air sang with the scent of Silver’s magic, hot and bright and acrid in the warm air. Wild magic. Strange magic.

The wolf’s hooded silver ears flick forward against the lay of her fur. The dragons had sensed it, too, of course. Like her, they know intrinsically to fear human weapons, and stay well away from the training grounds, but that does not mean they are far. She can see them; like jeweled lizards, they sun themselves while she rests in the shade cast by two human constructs, lounging in a dry patch where grass has sprung up in the absence of constant sun and foot travel. They can see her, too, and Seijelar proves it by hissing long and low.

“Why does she fear her magic?”

The wolf snaps her jaws, the meaning clear across the distance. “All things fear a power beyond their control.”

“To fear magic is like fearing air.”

“More like water,” the wolf rumbles noisily, “it gives us life, and yet where it rages unbridled, promises only death.”

“She speaks the truth, sister,” Skourett agreed, “There is great danger in magics gone awry. You saw the twisted powers of the Zara.”

“But still no reason for fear,” the crimson beast thrums, “she must only claim mastership of this power, and it will be hers. She must dominate it.”

“Magic is no beast to be dominated so easily. Would you snap your jaws at it and expect it to comply with your wishes?” the wolf huffs.

There is no answer, and the humans are long since gone, jogging slowly away through the streets of their strange habitation. Each time she glimpses them through the buildings, the wolf’s eyes paint them in shades of prey and predator, the fast and the weak and the strong. As she awaits Silver’s return, however, new voices approach, familiar to her as the one Faei calls his pack, and the woman who the humans call princess. The wolf turns her emerald gaze to them, watching them make their way down the tightly packed dirt roads between houses and out onto the flats. Illian and Cevora.

“How can you not draw suspicion?” the woman’s soft voice carries in the open air.

“Hubris. The king believes I bring these men and women out here to ‘accidentally’ rid the kingdom of rebels. It would be an act of great loyalty if I did, considering the sway of current public opinion. In fact, he was the one who suggested it.”

“It’s unlikely that he doesn’t suspect you at all,” Cevora says.

“And what if he does? Will he jail one of the Trent brothers on mere suspicion? He would lose the support of half his army,” Illian responds.

“He must have sent some of his men on these patrols—”

“Princess,” Illian interrupts, drawing the woman to a halt several feet past the wolf, “From the day I chose to betray my srinn, I have known the dangers I face.” He gestures broadly. “We all face them. One wrong move on my part, and every person here could be slaughtered. Good people. Good soldiers. There are countless people who have already died for our cause, and don’t think for a moment that I have not regretted every one of them. They went willingly to their deaths.”

They are interrupted by the arrival of a man larger than either of them – the same one who spoke with Silver moments ago. His scent is agitated, sweat and iron and age.

“What sort o’ recruits ya’ bringin’ me now, Illian,” he demands, “Two level fives? Before today, I’d o’ thought I could name everyone in the kingdom with that kind o’ power. And ya’ could’ve warned me that the one of ‘em shouldn’t be doin’ magic at all. Near killed us all.”

Illian excuses himself from the woman, running a hand through his dark hair and glancing around the larger man’s hulking shoulders to the small group behind him. Silver has returned, transitioning with the other humans into some strange, ground-hugging gyrations.

“Which one?” he asks, and the wolf reads the concern in his voice.

“Silver, wasn’t it? Ya’ said she was sufferin’ from magic exhaustion, but not so severe as to botch the rankin’ tests. Sent the other one off to Sara like ya’ asked. Looked like he was on his last legs.”

“I honestly didn’t know their ranks, Holtson. We’ll see what Sara can do with Bek, but Silver’s recovery has been remarkably quick for the condition I met her in. She shouldn’t have had any trouble with something as minor as the ranking test,” Illian responds, already settling his hand along the hilt of his sword in what appears to be a habitual stance. “Are you willing to work with those four, regardless? I need them to be at least able to defend themselves by the time the wall is complete.”

“Ya’ leave that to me. The boy…probably at least one, two weeks he’ll have to sit things out. If what ya’ said ‘bout his condition is true, he shouldn’t be doin’ anythin’ physical.”

“I have other uses for him in the intervening weeks,” Illian agrees.

“An’ no magic fer the girl till Sara’s had a look at her as well. She’s a danger to herself and all the rest o’ us in that state. Anyhow, magic ain’t my specialty. Till she’s got a handle on arms work, she won’t be goin’ anywhere near spells.”

“As you wish, Holtson. This is your area of expertise,” Illian says.

“That it is,” the big man affirms, glancing back at the recruits and scratching at his massive chest. The wolf notices that Cevora is still waiting nearby, discreetly listening to his turbulent evaluations. “Now we’ve got Ibald, we should be in business, Illian. Startin’ to look like you got a proper army. Somethin’ fer the king to be worried about.”

“That’s the goal.”

The larger man nods slowly, still running his hand absently across his chest.

“I’ll be leaving at dawn tomorrow,” Illian says in the intervening silence. With this, the humans’ conversation lulls into useless chatter about equipment and regimens and the wolf turns away, eyes drawn to the girl as usual. If only the scents of the world could tell her what is to come.

If only.

As if spurred by her thoughts, the wind picks up, bringing with it a scent she had not expected to smell again for a long, long while. Her ears turn, eyes fixing on the princess of Alti.

The scent of dragon eggs.