Draxin Alistair was six years old the night his village burned. He crouched behind a rain barrel in the alley between the baker's house and the tanner's, small hands pressed over his mouth. Smoke rolled down the narrow lane. He had run from his mother's grip only a minute ago, chasing a wooden top into the shadow. That small disobedience was the reason he was still alive. The village he knew was a stack of weathered wooden homes, roofs leaning on roofs, ladders climbing between crooked porches. Now the top house was on fire. Orange light licked the shutters. He could see his front door from here. The yellow one. His mother had painted it last spring and let him press his palm into the wet paint. His father stood in the doorway with a kitchen knife. His mother stood behind him, calling Draxin's name into the dark. She was calling for him. He opened his mouth to answer and something in his chest stopped the sound. He did not know what. He would think about that silence for the rest of his life. The attackers came down the lane on foot. Draxin could not see their faces. He saw boots, long coats, and a pale symbol stitched at the shoulder of the nearest one — a circle broken by a single line. He pressed the shape into his memory the way his mother pressed his palm into the paint. His father swung the knife once. A coat swung back. His father folded at the knees and did not get up. His mother screamed and ran forward and a second coat caught her across the chest. She fell across the threshold of the yellow door. Draxin bit down on his own hand until he tasted blood. He did not move. He did not move. The attackers went inside his house. They came out carrying something wrapped in cloth. Draxin could not see what. One of them said a word he didn't know and the others laughed, short and tired, like men finishing a job. Then they walked past his alley. A boot passed the rain barrel close enough to touch. He held his breath until they were gone. When the lane was empty he crawled out. He went to his mother first. Her eyes were open. He said her name. She did not answer. He said his father's name. Same. He sat between them until the fire on the roof began to spread down. Then he stood up. He was six. His hands were shaking. He walked back to the alley, picked up the wooden top, and put it in his pocket. He looked once more at the broken-circle symbol burned into his memory. Then he started walking out of the village, away from the smoke, to find the men in the long coats and learn what they had taken.