1

I open my eyes and choose violence.

Because I’m on my back and a woman is on top of me. Her pale hand is wrapped around my neck. She smells sickly sweet, she smells strange, and she smells foul. The whites of her large blue eyes are yellow as straw. With that smooth skin, she looks nineteen or twenty years old. Is she a thief? Is she a murderer?

Either way, she needs to get off me. So I slap at her ear with one hand and grab her fingers with the other.

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, and she successfully dodges my swipe. She tries to reel away but falls back over me instead. She gasps, and her rancid breath hits my nose.

I gag— ugh! —then squeeze her hand.

She doesn’t wince even as I crack a bone in her smallest finger. No. She uses her free hand to dip near my neck. “Ha,” she says with a grin. “Still got it.”

I want to ask, You still got what? but my tongue droops in my mouth like a dying lily. I can’t push out one word, and definitely not four.

The thief holds up a thick gold chain that sparkles in the light. A gold moth with ruby-encrusted wings dangles from that chain. The stone on the moth’s thorax is the size of a robin’s egg and as dark as the darkest night.

The pendant’s clasp is as broken as I am, and my chest feels cold without that jeweled moth, oddly empty, like she’s taken more than an amulet from me.

The thief yanks out of my hold and this time successfully scoots away. She tries to chuckle, but tears shine in her eyes as she winces and flexes her injured hand. “You didn’t have to break every bone. One would’ve been plenty.”

I open my mouth to respond— I know you’re not talking to me like that —but the back of my head throbs, and my tongue is still stuck.

“But I’ll take this necklace as an apology,” the bandit says, scrambling to her feet. “Thanks.” She winces again as she tries to flex her tender hand, then swings a knapsack onto her shoulder and winks at me. “Tah.”

And just like that, she’s gone, a flash through the grove of trees.

Did she just…? Yeah, she did. And… “Tah?”

With fire bubbling in my belly, I push up from the bed of twigs, yellowing leaves, and gray bark to follow her—but my legs flop beneath me, and I fall back into the dry rubbish.

What is happening? Why can’t I stand?

My mind spins with dizziness and confusion. My feet were working fine just moments ago. I think. Because what was I doing moments ago before waking up with a thief on top of me? Uhh… I don’t remember.

The rapid pulsing in my gut makes me look down to see my heaving chest protected by my favorite scarlet bandeau and—

Wait . Why the hell am I looking at my favorite bandeau?

My eyes dart to the stretch of mahogany skin across my belly and then farther down. The soil speckling my toes and ankles looks sickly gray, so stark against my brown feet, pinpoints of starlight against the velvet night sky.

I should not be seeing gray dirt. I should not be seeing my toes.

Where are my boots? Why am I so cold? Where is my cloak?

I squeeze the bridge of my aching nose.

Why do I see bare hands? Where are my gloves?

Shit.

That thief wore a bloodred leather vest, a bloodred hooded cloak, black leather gloves, and black suede boots. All of it hung off her like dead skin.

Why? Because that was my bloodred leather vest, that’s why. And that was my bloodred hooded cloak, and those were my black leather gloves, and those were my suede boots that I’d finally— finally —broken in.

That thief stole my clothes. Left me wearing nothing but this bandeau and these black leather breeches.

I need my stuff, especially my amulet, and the longer I sit here, that tugging in my gut fades. Feels like something— my pendant —is pulling me to follow that bandit.

I try to yell, “Stop, thief!” but I can no longer see her—she ran into that copse of gray birches ahead. Words still won’t work in my mouth, and trying to speak makes my head spin. But I don’t need my mouth or words to catch a thief. Just my feet.

Still a bit wobbly, I push up from my nest of grass again, succeeding this time. I take a step…and then another step…and another.

Where did she go? I might not be able to see her, but I can still smell her. That distinct and unforgettable sickly sweetness means…

She’s dying.

Yeah, death stinks. She didn’t have any obvious injuries—besides the one I gave her—but there’s something wrong with her. She looked like she hasn’t eaten in several days. And her rancid breath. Some kind of sickness is eating away her insides.

That’s when I notice it: a golden amber trail twisting through those ghostly trees, swirling over pink granite boulders and clouding the air. A golden amber trail that follows the thief’s route through this forest.

I blink—am I seeing this stream of light because it’s really there or am I seeing this stream of light because I hurt my head?

I squeeze my eyes shut, take several deep breaths, and open my eyes again.

Nothing else glows, not the trees, fallen leaves, or dirt. But that gold light remains, hovering, beckoning me to follow.

Amber must be the color of death here.

But where is “here”?

I push my fingers against my temples as though I can make another memory— any memory —pop into my mind. But nothing pops out. No memories left.

I don’t remember roaming these woods. I don’t remember the events that left me so unconscious that a bandit felt comfortable enough to steal almost every piece of clothing off my body.

I’ll ponder these gaps in my memory later, hopefully with a pastry or two and a cask of rum. I guess some things, rum and cake, are more unforgettable than others. My mind pulls away from treats because I have a bigger problem right now: that cold and oddly empty sensation I felt waking up moments ago is now spreading across my chest and down to my belly.

“Cold” and “empty” are never good. “Cold” and “empty” mean danger. Even the simplest creature senses danger.

I may be near-naked, but I’m far from simple.

Yeah, I need my clothes. And my amulet.

I move faster, and my legs become steadier. Soon, I’m running, and pebbles, sharp rocks, and broken twigs stab the soles of my bare feet. Pain jolts through my heels and ankles, but I won’t stop. Some walking corpse stole my stuff. And I will reclaim what belongs to me.

As I dart between the birches, I realize that almost every tree has holes and cracks in its bark. Thin, dying branches poke the sky, and the leaves crunch beneath my feet—more brittle brown than vibrant green, more dead than alive. The jagged rocks jabbing out of the forest floor have more hope of life than these trees.

Where am I? Such a bleak landscape should be memorable, but nothing makes me say, “Ah! Now I know!”

Rain clouds race above, their shadows darkening this dying forest. Swarms of mosquitos and hungry gnats drift through the hot, dry air and prick at me. They want a snack before the storm. Of course, I understand. Who doesn’t like a delicious honeycake in heat like this? Still, these flying pests will have to catch me first.

Because I’m not stopping, not until my hands wrap around that thief’s neck and squeeze until she takes her last breath—

Spots swirl before my eyes, and then my vision blurs, and I stumble and drop to the hard-packed earth. I’m shaky, and my stomach rolls, and I want to vomit into the piles of dry leaves. My head pounds, and I touch the back of my skull. Oof! Tender. A little swollen. I pull away two fingers. Blood. Not a lot, but enough. I stare at my bloody fingers and wait for this surge of sickness to pass.

What happened to me? Did someone kick me in the head? Did the bandit kick me in the head? Was I pushed? Did I slip? Is slipping even possible in a forest this dry? And where is this forest? And why am I here?

No idea, eight times.

Am I a hunter who bumped her head and lost her way? Is someone searching for me at this very moment, near tears, looking for me to round a corner or to appear on the horizon, fighting their growing fear that I’ve either fallen off a cliff or been eaten by a bear?

Again: no idea.

I do know this: after I retrieve my pendant, my clothes, and my broken-in boots, I will break that thief’s other hand. Then I’ll… I’ll figure out the rest later once I’m fully clothed.

The nausea finally ebbs, and I lift my still-aching head and sniff.

Something reeks—and it’s not me.

Thief!

I push myself off the ground and then push out a breath. Go! I race through the forest, my legs aching but stronger now.

That floating death trail still glows, but it’s lightened from amber to cornsilk. And the pulsing…faint. The ghost trees thin, and the dirt trail becomes well-trod gravel. The scent of burning wood and the blossoming stench of decay tell me that I’m running in the right direction, that I’m almost there, that a thief will be at the end of this amber track, but I need to hurry.

Through the trees, I see buildings and smoke rising from chimneys. She must’ve run back to her town. Maybe I’ll be able to slip through this village, find the thief, grab my amulet, and sneak back into the woods without being noticed.

Sounds like a good plan.

I burst from the grove and into the light.

The smell wallops me first—that sweet rot—and I push back a gag. I skid to a stop.

A noisy settlement sprawls out before me. Clusters of stone and straw-bricked houses with shingled roofs and chimney stacks lost in smoke sit along two separate gravelly footpaths. I count about twenty smaller wood cottages built behind a church, the common house, and a few shops. In the village’s town square, a tall signpost has been jammed into the sandy earth. Atop the post sits a large wooden circle that has three paddles nailed across its top and three more nailed to the circle’s bottom, with the middle paddle bigger and thicker than all the others. Raggedy carts filled with wares surround this signpost.

Looks like today is market day. Are most of the villagers browsing at the carts?

I creep closer, ducking along the dusty path, as inconspicuous as possible. The ground beneath my feet is more dried yellow tufts than emerald-green lawn, more burrs and foxtails than blades of grass. No water has kissed this piece of land in ages. I near what has to be a tavern—it stinks of ale, old wine, and sweat—and peek around its corner for a better view of the marketplace.

Twelve carts crammed into the town square. One cart holding bolts of fabrics, each a slightly different shade of beige. Other raggedy carts showcase bushels of sad-looking wheat, sickly vegetables, and animal hides, clucking chickens, bleating stunted sheep, and blocks of knotty lumber and charcoal. Everything lies baking beneath the daystar, the already-fading tapestries dulling and the shiny trinkets melting.

The village square buzzes with haggling voices and a lively minstrel’s tune. Merchants bustle about, their hands moving quickly to arrange their meager goods into pyramids or towers. Villagers are purchasing items from these raggedy carts. They’re shepherding those scrawny sheep down the road and counting wrinkled potatoes and withered turnips.

Where is the kaleidoscope of colors? The deep reds and yellows of spices? The vibrant greens and yellows of shimmering silk?

And the people here.

Swollen and thin and brittle-boned people. People with tangled hair, yellowed teeth, or no teeth, no longer handsome, no longer pretty, no longer upright. Gnarled and twisted people. Sandy-brown or dirty-blond hair that’s cut short or pulled into a single ponytail, no parts on the left, no bangs in the front.

There are no reds or blues or yellows here, in ribbons, curtains, or flowers. No stars or birds or gems. The only jewelry: circular pendants with protrusions in the shape of boat paddles radiating from the edges, every pendant the same as the next. No one dares to stand out here.

But everyone glows amber.

With villagers this sick, and it looks like every villager is sick, should I be standing this close to them? Should I be breathing their air? Should I risk possibly catching their disease just to reclaim my clothes and pendant? Or should I let the bandit win for now, wait until death claims her—from the looks of this village, death will claim her—and then pluck my amulet from her lifeless, broken hand?

The pulsing in my gut intensifies, but that cold emptiness I’ve been fighting against has now reached my hip bones and the tips of my fingers. Should I stand here, succumbing to that instead of whatever sickness is making this village glow?

None of these choices bring me joy.

The decision is made for me when I spot her. Thief! She’s talking to the merchant selling dull-colored fabrics and holding up one of my gloves! The merchant rubs my precious glove between his grimy fingers.

No, no, no. She’s not selling my stuff.

I take a deep breath and hold it as though holding my breath will keep me safe. I take ten cautious steps, and then I lose that breath, exhaling loud enough for some villagers to hear.

And now, those villagers turn around and gape as they look up at me. Their faces show strain and stress, every eye following as I slip past.

So much for inconspicuous.

“Sweet cheese,” a man shouts, gawking at me. “She’s almost naked.”

Two young women gasp and back away.

“What is it?” a young man wonders with tears of fear in his eyes.

“Have you ever seen a girl that tall?” an old woman puzzles.

“Her hair,” a young man whispers. “It’s so…so…”

“She’s one of them.”

“They’re on their way.”

“Supreme will protect us.”

“Father Knete! Find Father Knete!”

“What nerve ,” they’re all tutting.

Yeah, well…I woke up like this. In bare feet, I’ve chased a thief and found this village, all while being tall and naked.

What nerve?

I’m all nerve.

A tawny-skinned woman with long, coiled hair stands out in this field of faces. She wears a blue-and-green shawl, and she sparkles. Her glow is not amber-colored, though. No, her light reminds me of the nightstar’s silvery halo.

Seated on a stool before her, a red-faced woman weaves a straw basket. She doesn’t see or sense me staring at her.

There she is— Thief! —cradling her injured hand as she leaves the merchant to greet a copper-haired girl wearing a sage-green dress too dramatic for this doomed village. Another burst of color, that red hair and green frock. The two young women walk arm in arm, and other than the basket weavers, they’re the only people who haven’t noticed my arrival.

Above me, the skies turn slate as the clouds from outside this town catch up like they’re following me. These clouds make the villagers look up to the sky in wonder. I glare at those clouds, hoping that the rain waits until I’ve completed my task and returned to…to…wherever I call home.

I slip from cart to cart, creeping toward the two women, skulking past stands of shriveled carrots and carts of hideous skirts and smocks. Hiding behind a cart painted with circles and paddles and filled with jewel-colored vials, I watch as the bandit marches up to another merchant, holding up my glove for his inspection.

This merchant tries to tug my glove onto his filthy hand.

No, no, no, absolutely not!

Furious, I pop up and accidentally knock over a display of vials, which break and spill liquids that smell of mint and fish.

The vendor selling these now-broken vials is a frog-faced man with boils on his neck. He shakes his plump fist at me and yells, “Cabbagehead!”

Cabbagehead? Try harder, sir. I roll my eyes and ignore his curse. I have no time for him today. I go back to following the thief.

“…just lying there,” the bandit says to her green-frocked friend, my poor glove still in her grasp, “in the middle of the forest, wearing this killer outfit. So, I said to myself, ‘Olivia, you will kick yourself for leaving all that haul on this poor girl’s corpse, especially since these clothes will bring us closer to leaving this stupid town.’ Obviously, she wasn’t dead, so stop worrying about that. I didn’t cause her to pass out, so stop worrying about that . She did hurt me, practically crushed my hand. My pinkie feels better, thank Supreme. But look at this!”

The bandit pauses long enough to grab some of the leather of my vest, gathering it beneath her breasts. “I can either take it all in, since she was bigger and taller than me, or I can make an entirely new outfit using all the fabric from the cloak. We could sell it for a hundred geld. Two hundred geld.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do things like that,” Copperhair murmurs. “Yes, these items will fetch a fine price, but it’s like you’re a grave robber.”

“I told you,” the thief says, her confidence flagging, “she wasn’t dead. I promise you.”

Copperhair sighs. “It is a nice vest. And the cloak—I absolutely love the color.”

Hearing these two talk about my possessions makes my vision shard, and I now see countless bragging thieves walking arm in arm with countless copper-haired girls. I make a choice and pounce, shoving the clearest bragging thief.

Copperhair shouts, “Olivia!”

Olivia shrieks as she flies across the square and lands with a bang against a crate of rolled rugs. She groans and writhes in pain with her eyes squeezed into slits.

In two steps, I reach her, straddle her on the dirt, and wrap my hands around her neck.

Her jaundiced blue eyes sparkle, bright with fear and surprise. She coughs, and her life-beat thumps wildly against my palms as her pulse slows.

“Hello,” I say, “it’s me again.”

Words! I finally have words. Gripping my hands around her neck has somehow loosened the strangled cords in my throat, and now, words slip between my lips like honey and smoke.

Copperhair has words, too, loud words, and she screams, “Help! Someone, stop her!” as she pounds my back.

I ignore the redhead and continue to squeeze her friend’s neck. I may not know who I am or how I got here, but I do know that I will be made whole once my boots are back on my feet and my pendant is hanging again around my neck.

But as I squeeze, something, maybe a memory, flitters in my mind. Someone, somewhere told me that I am too quick to act, too quick to judge, too impatient to make the best decisions, that I need to consider the consequences more carefully.

Okay. Fine. I’ll work on my personal growth after I handle this fucking thief.

Because at this very moment? I’m living my dream. “How does it feel, huh?” I sneer at the bandit, all my senses shaken and stirred. “How does it feel to wake up with a stranger’s hands wrapped around your neck? How does it feel to be—?”

“Stop!” a man shouts.

“Never,” I snap, my eyes still on my prize.

“You will cease this immediately,” he demands, his voice raspy and gruff.

“No, I won’t,” I say, my teeth gritted even as Olivia tries to smack away my arms.

“Stop,” the gruff-voiced man repeats, “or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” I challenge, still grinning, though, at the criminal now caught between some rocks and my hard hands.

What’s the worst this stranger can do to me?

Something cold and hard presses against my cheek.

Ah.

That .

I don’t know who I am or how I got here, but I do remember weapons of war.

They’re sharp. They’re pointy. They’re dangerous.

And I don’t have one.

Yet .