“‘Well’ may be a matter of perspective,” Vhalla muttered. She felt thin and empty, filled with ghosts and specters.

“From my perspective, a girl I watched grow up is finally coming into her own.” Mohned smiled tiredly. “And your hair is shorter.”

“Oh.” Vhalla’s hand went up to the ends of her hair, caught off-guard by the sudden change in conversation. The master hadn’t seen her since she’d cut it. “It used to be a lot shorter.” It now was back almost to her shoulder blades.

“I prefer it long, if you’ll permit this old man’s opinion,” Mohned offered with a chuckle.

“As do I.” Vhalla smiled as Mohned unlocked the door to the archives.

She followed him down the center iron staircase to where she remembered the books to be, helping him draw back curtains for light.

“I had given you this task so that you would read,” Mohned explained as Vhalla pulled the books carefully from the shelf. “You mean to tell me the one time I intended for you to give into the distraction of reading, you were actually working?”

“It seems so.” Vhalla’s hands paused on the large tome. She remembered what Aldrik had said on the last day of her trial. “Aldrik went to you, when he knew I was a sorcerer.”

Mohned paused, and Vhalla inwardly cringed, realizing she forgot the prince’s title. The master let it slide. “He did.” Mohned nodded. “I’ve known the crown prince since he was a boy. His obsession with books is not unlike your own. He quickly devoured the contents of the Tower’s library from an early age, discovering the manuscript I penned on the Windwalkers.”

“He suspected I was a Windwalker before he’d met me.” She’d dreamt countless times of meeting the prince in the library, only to learn later that she was Projecting in her sleep.

“He did, and I confirmed.”

“What?” Vhalla’s hand slipped from the table in shock.

“Vhalla,” Mohned sighed and adjusted his spectacles. “You remember when you fell off the rolling ladder getting me a cartography book?”

“No . . .” She shook her head. “I fell so many times that—”

“Exactly,” the master interrupted gently.

Vhalla’s eyes went wide.

“And you were never hurt.” Mohned rested his hand on the book. “I had begun to suspect the possibility long ago. You manifested gracefully, so subtle and small that no one would know unless they knew what to look for. But I did. Knowing you came from two Eastern parents, it was all too much to just be chance.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vhalla sunk into a chair. She’d had the same thoughts about that possibility when she rode with the Knights. But to hear it from the man who’d been like her father. “Master, why didn’t you put me in the Tower?”

“Because I wanted to protect you. Vhalla, I was a boy when I first learned of the atrocities committed against Windwalkers. I knew if you were found, you would be hunted.” The master sighed heavily. “I am loathe to say that I was proven right. I thought you would be safer here, hidden in the library, kept in the palace.”

Vhalla stared at nothing, trying to piece it together. The childhood she’d thought she known was a shadow play.

“Does my father know?” Vhalla whispered.

“If he does, it is not because I told him.” Mohned rested a hand on her shoulder. “Vhalla, forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For keeping this from you.”

Vhalla raised a hand, gripping the Master’s for a brief moment. “You were only doing what you thought was best.”

She was wounded. But unlike Roan, she was used to secrets. Vhalla had grown accustomed to the forces lurking behind corners that pulled at the threads of fate, tying together the world and moving her without her knowing.

“Come to me, if you need.” The master withdrew, starting up the stairs.

“I will,” Vhalla called after him, “and thank you.”

Silence was her reply.

Vhalla stared at the motes of dust floating through the beams of sunlight that pierced the windows. She ran her fingers over the manuscript before her, remembering vividly the last time she’d touched it. She’d been disappointed then, when Sareem’s boots had appeared on the stairs instead of Aldrik’s. Now she’d give anything to see those soles stepping down the stairs again.

With a sigh, Vhalla flipped open to the first page.

The work was an old collection of stories from Cyven. From short rhymes that Vhalla knew well, to long tales that she’d never heard. It was easy to read, and Vhalla found the pages slipping by one after the next. She allowed them to lull her into a quiet comfort by reminding her of the smell of wheat or of rain on her family’s fields.

It was such a subtle trance that she’d fallen into that Vhalla didn’t notice the one thing that began appearing in every other story—more frequently in older ones. The word suddenly lit up on every page. Vhalla stood slowly, flipping the pages quickly. The next random page the word was on. Again on the one after.

It was there in the story of harvesting the first grain. It was there in the story of a farmer defending his land from raiders. It was there in the tale where a man used it to scare away the clouds themselves.