The same dream woke Rowan every night, and every night it lied to him. He sat up in the dark, copper hair stuck to his forehead, and pressed his palms to his golden eyes. Since childhood the vision had come: his own face, staring back. But the face in the dream had silver hair and green eyes. Another had black hair and eyes like polished coins. They wore his features and none of his colors. Rowan needed to find them. He could not, because the vision came in broken pieces he had never been able to read. He lit a candle and spread paper across his floor. He drew what the dream gave him. A gray hood with cut-off sleeves. A living bracelet of vines that curled and bloomed on its own. A tiny sea creature made of light, its skin marked with strange symbols. He drew until his hand cramped. The images stayed scattered, meaning nothing, pointing nowhere. Then the vision pulled at him differently. Not pictures this time. A feeling. Warmth threaded through his chest, the way a hand finds another hand in the dark. Two separate pulls, one gentle, one bold. His magic reached back on its own. He gasped and gripped the floorboards. In his mind, the silver-haired one turned toward him. The boy said nothing, but his vine bracelet unwound and pointed like a needle. The black-haired one grinned, sly and certain, and let his glowing sea creature swim a slow circle. The circle became a direction. Both pulls aimed the same way. West. Toward water. Rowan understood then. The pieces were not one riddle. They were three people, each sending part of the map. His brothers, though he had never met them. The dream had been trying to introduce them all along. He grabbed his coat before the feeling could fade. He fixed the direction in his memory: west, past the town's edge, where the land dropped toward the river. His legs shook as he crossed his room. He had spent his whole life not knowing where to look. Now he knew. Outside, cold air hit his face. He walked fast, following the warmth in his chest like a compass. It grew stronger with every step, then weaker, then stronger again as he corrected his path. Near the river, something rustled in a low tree. A small green shape dropped from the branches and landed in front of him. It was a pterodactyl, no bigger than a cat, with broad wings and huge bright eyes. It tilted its head at Rowan and did not run. His magic flared, and the creature answered it, humming against his ribs. "You feel it too," Rowan whispered. The pterodactyl climbed onto his shoulder like it had always belonged there. It faced west, the same direction the vision pulled. Rowan's hand steadied. He was no longer alone, and he finally had a road to follow.

By morning Rowan had walked far past the river's first bend. The warmth in his chest still pulled him west. The green pterodactyl rode his shoulder and hummed when he kept the right path. Then the road narrowed, and a woman stepped into it. She stopped, and Rowan felt her magic reach for him like a cold hand. She was small and old, with long silver hair and eyes the color of bruised violets. She leaned on a wooden staff wrapped in fire, water, and hidden runes. A red light burned in its head. She looked at Rowan and her face twisted with anger she did not explain. "You carry a signature," she said. "I felt it from the water. Tell me what you are before you take another step west." Rowan's hand went to the pterodactyl. "I'm no one. A traveler." "Travelers don't burn like beacons." She raised the staff. The red light flared and the ground hummed. "Where are you going? Who calls you?" Rowan knew he could not fight that staff. He also knew he could not tell her the truth. So he gave her half of it. "I'm looking Downriver." Her eyes narrowed. She stared into his face, searching for something. Then her gaze caught his eyes, and she went still. Gold. Bright gold, like nothing on a common man. Rowan saw the shock cross her face. She stepped closer, staff first. "Those eyes," she breathed. "I have seen eyes like—" Rowan turned his face away fast. He could not let her finish that thought. His magic surged, and the pterodactyl launched off his shoulder. It beat its broad wings hard in the woman's face. She swung the staff, and fire licked the air where the creature had been. In that half-second, Rowan ran. He crashed off the road, through brush, downhill toward the water. Behind him the staff cracked and lightning split a tree. He did not look back. He ran until his legs failed and the sound of her faded. He fell against a rock beside a smaller stream. The pterodactyl dropped beside him, panting. Rowan pressed his palm to his hammering chest. She had almost known him. His eyes had almost given him away. He reached into his coat. His fingers found a pair of smoked glass spectacles he had carried since boyhood, never worn. He had always thought them useless. Now he understood. He slid them on. The world dimmed to gray, but his gold eyes vanished behind dark lenses. "No one sees them now," he told the pterodactyl. The creature nudged his cheek. The warmth in Rowan's chest still tugged west, past the woman, past the fire. She was hunting the river. So was he. He stood, hidden behind glass, and turned downstream. He would reach his destination before she reached him.