Wrena’s small hovel is warm and stuffy. The light scent of tea and smoke greets them as the door opens.

  “I’m sorry it's so small,” she hums. “It’s just me now.”

  Kelo is the first to speak, his eyes alight. He touches the rough canvas that covers the modest bed, a strange ache in his chest.

  “Mother, we aren’t here for tea.” His voice feels too soft in his throat. He remembers the heat, the smoke, the dust, how they would wake up coughing during the windstorms when the canvas had ripped from the single window above the stove. The desert was cold at night, almost frigid, and he’d crawl from the cocoon of skins to anchor the blinds shut. Once the change had occurred in him, the cold didn’t touch his rotted skin.

  He takes a seat on the bed. Lark joins him, leaning back. Her arm is too close to his own. Wrena bustles about the tiny kitchen, digging odd cups from the lower cupboard.

  Kelo speaks up. “We need to get into the dome, Mother.”

  There is a clatter as she fumbles with the pot and it falls to the stovetop. She turns, brushing a strand hair from her eyes. “The dome? Son, are you-?”

  “Yes.” It is barely a whisper. “But not for me,” he says.

  She steps forward, reaching for him. “I thought you would never consult the alchemists.” A smile forms on her face and Kelo begins to feel the first tendrils of regret seep into his mind. He looks at the dirt floor, shaking his head lightly.

  Anarah speaks from the meager table in the corner, her voice clear, her eyes on him. “We are here on the orders of the King of Larynth. We need your help, but I’m afraid it is not with the intent of changing your son.” She looks softly at the older woman.

  Wrena shakes her head, dropping her arms to her sides. “I don’t understand.” She moves back to the stove, leaning heavily against the stucco countertop, her slender arms tucked against her ribs. Her lips purse.

  Nathis, who has seated himself across from his daughter, turns his body to face Kelo’s mother with a clink of armor. “We need to make it inside the dome, and we need a way to bring all the alchemists out. Kelo has informed us that you understand what is occurring inside, correct?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes narrow, a slender brow rising. Kelo can see her nails digging into her skin.

  “You know what we need to do to get in the dome, yes?” Nathis’s gray eyes are glued to hers, stony faced. No one speaks.

  Tygoh lingers in the doorway, and a shuffle of his feet awakens the silence. His dark voice fills the small space of Wrena’s hovel.

  “We have a Xelinite.”

  Wrena shoots the dark-haired man a look of promise, her gray eyes full, shirking from Kelo and back to the cavalry general. A breeze moves the curtain above the stove, sending sand through to speckle the room.

  “Where?” His mother whispers. Kelo focuses on his hands, picking idly at the ragged skin now peeling off his wrist. “Kelo,” she says. The sound of his name sends a flinch through his shoulders. Of all the things he cannot feel, he knows all eyes are on him, piercing the cloth of this cloak, seeing through his mask.

  “You will have to bring him to the dome on the day of the ceremony.” Wrena stands taller against the stove as she speaks. “The Xelinites come by ship every fortnight. The ships are unloaded and every Lynac user is paraded to the dome. The ceremonies are planned for the night after their arrival. It gives any victims the chance to volunteer for treatment.”

  “Treatment?” Kelo shouts, his knees cracking as he stands. “You mean murder,” he spits. He pins his great black eyes on those of his mother, watching the anger fill her. He hears Lark sit forward on the bed. Tygoh shifts in the doorway. “None of these people deserve what happens to them in there. The Xelinites are innocent.”

  Wrena pauses, her eyes not leaving his. “So were you,” she retorts. “The Xelinites are the reason there are children living in droves in the alleyway. They’re the reason you have no flesh on your hands, son. They’re the reason you can’t feel the sun on your back.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I don’t care,” he growls back. He can feel the others’ surprise, their eyes glued to him, but he barrels forward. “I told you I couldn’t do this.” He glares at Nathis before stepping toward Tygoh, who blocks the doorway with six feet of sinewy muscle. “Move,” Kelo barks. He hears a chuckle from Lark on the mattress behind him. Tygoh broadens his chest, taking Kelo by the shoulders.

  “We’re not here to murder the Xelinites. Look at my skin,” the general waves to his hairless chin. “Look at it. I am half Xelinite,” he says. Tygoh pauses, his cheek twitching with the bite of his teeth. “I wanted their demise. I wanted them dead. I didn’t want to look at my own skin.” Kelo ducks under the hands holding him in place. Tygoh releases his hold, his voice chasing following. “We aren’t here to cause death. Our king has a generous heart, much more so than my own. But we need you to help us. We need to get you in there.”

  Kelo looks at his feet, bare and dirty in the sand. The skin has started to flake from the sides of his soles. Where the flesh is still alive, he can feel a slight warmth from the ground below. The fury in his chest weighs down his tongue. He swallows hard and his hands begin to shake. Finally, he manages a question. “You won’t let them die?” He does not look up, but the question is aimed at the eldest man in the room. Kelo hears a shuffle, and the rough hand of General Stoles grasps the fleshy part of his arm.

  “We won’t let them die.”

  Kelo does not move, holding his arms at his side, dead in the water. The hand on his arm gives him a light squeeze as another gust of wind bursts through the canvas curtain. It is Lark’s voice that breaks his thoughts.

  “We have the Crown Mark, Kelo,” she hums. “At any point in time, we can activate it. This power was meant to protect kings. Surely it can protect the Xelinites. Nathis is a general for a reason, despite how much I hate to say it.” A chuckle follows and the general’s hand releases him. “He’s planned for these types of things. He’s the reason why we’re all here.”

  Kelo unglues himself from the floor and pads back to the mattress, lowering his body next to the young blacksmith. He nods.

  His mother speaks, her voice breaking. “You’re not going to be cured, then?”

  Nathis interjects before anyone can reply. “We will find another way.”

  “There is no other way. My son will stay a corpse for the rest of my life and yours, then, is that it? You’ll die peacefully in your king’s castle, and he’ll remain the way he is until the alchemists decide to destroy their mistake for fear of prosecution. My son will be hunted. The children in the tower will be hunted. It will no longer be their choice to save their own lives when the monarchy brings the hammer down.”

  The pause that follows his mother’s outburst is palpable. He’d known she would protest the plan the moment he heard it. It was why he had left. In her world, there was no other way but the one she knew to be true.

  “If what we came to accomplish is successful, with your help,” Nathis stresses, “then the alchemists won’t have a chance to do such a thing.”

  “What about the children?” Her mouth moves in grimaces, her teeth bared with anger. “Will you fix them?”

  Nathis sighs, shaking his head. “We will find another way.”

  “I’ve researched the complexities of alchemy.” Anarah says from the table. Her cheeks are pink with the heat. “There must be a way, but we have to keep in mind that alchemy exists on the premise of kinetic energy, that an equal and opposite reaction must occur. These alchemists use a form of phonographic writing to accomplish their magic. Similar to the Mark on our necks.” She moves her long honey-colored hair aside, turning to face the wall. The purple, veiny scar on the back of her neck is shiny with beads of sweat. Wrena lifts herself off the counter, reaching with timid fingers. She touches the area lightly, her lips parted. Anarah rearranges her hair, facing the group again. “This phonographic writing is formulated to strengthen or weaken certain forces we already possess. Those forces might be a section of the brain, like our Mark accomplishes. If we can understand what force these alchemists wanted to enhance, I’m sure I can find out how to reverse it.”

  “But we need to make it in the dome first under the pretense that we’re there for the ceremony.” A breeze sends sand spraying inside and Nathis shields his eyes, coughing. “That requires yours and your son’s cooperation, both with us and with each other.”

  Wrena sighs, wetting her lips. “What do you need me to do?”

  Tygoh clears his throat from the doorway. “You work near the docks. You see when the ships come in, where the Xelinites are led. We need you to warn us when they come in.”

  “Okay.”

  “We will have our comrade join the group as a way in.”

  “And where is this comrade?” Wrena says. She nods to Tygoh. “Is it you? I don’t see a Lynac.”

  “Drair is our scout,” Nathis interjects. “She has taken to the city for surveillance. She should return soon.”

  Wrena nods, blinking.

  “Can you do that for us?” Nathis leans forward, elbows on the table. A breath of silence follows the question.

  Wrena returns to her task of preparing tea, turning to fill the kettle from a bucket of water in the corner of the room, one ladle at a time. “I suppose I can help you.” She rummages about, locating a rusted tin of tea leaves from a small box on the ground. She opens it with some difficulty, scooping three heaps of dried tea into the kettle. She bends to reach into the box again, lifting out a handful of wooden cups. “But you must have some tea first,” she demands, turning to set the table. “I’ve never been able to use these before.” Her smile lights the room.