Syrian Small pulled her hood low and stepped into River Heights. Her hand brushed the staff at her back, the old habit of reaching for wings that were no longer there. She had come for word of the man who tore them out. She would not leave without it. A crowd had gathered near the village watch. Nailed to the post was a weathered notice with her name on it. WANTED, it read, for the killing of the hunter. A second sheet beside it offered a reward. Townsfolk turned their heads as she passed. Eyes followed her green hands, her brown coat. They knew. She kept walking, slow and steady, until the buildings thinned. A ruined cabin stood at the edge of the trees. Its roof was torn open. Timbers lay split across the grass. Inside, something shrieked. Blue shapes darted through the broken window, tiny teeth flashing, wings buzzing like wasps. A body lay half in the doorway. Beside the outstretched hand rested a strange weapon — a flame thrower, its canister scorched, its nozzle cold. Syrian crouched and lifted it. Light enough. Loaded. She tested the grip. Behind her, footsteps slowed on the road. Watchers. Witnesses. The pixies poured out of the cabin in a screaming blue cloud. Syrian squeezed the trigger. Fire roared from the nozzle and swept across them. They burned and fell. She walked forward through the smoke, burning the rest where they clung to the walls. When the last one dropped, the cabin was quiet. She turned. The townsfolk stood frozen on the road, staring. One ran back toward the watch. Syrian lowered the weapon. She had saved them, and it would not matter. The bounty was up. Word was already moving. She slung the flame thrower over her shoulder and walked into the trees before the watch could come.

Syrian crouched in the trees as the watch torches flickered through the village. Her back ached where her wings had been. She reached for them out of habit and found only the strap of the flame thrower. Footsteps crunched behind her. She turned, blade half-drawn. Matthew Ashford raised one open hand. "Come," he said. "I have a place." He led her down a worn path to a stone arch set into the hillside. Heavy timber doors. A rusted lock. He opened it and waved her inside. The cellar smelled of damp earth. "They will sweep the village tonight," he said. "You sleep here. By day you move." He took her further into the brush. An old canvas carriage sat swallowed by vines, wheels broken, frame sagging. "Inside this when the sun is up," Matthew said. "They search cellars first. They never look at junk." Syrian ran her hand along the rotted wood. It would do. It would have to. She pulled paper from her coat and worked by candle. She wrote a warning in a shaky hand, smudged the ink, tore the edges. SYRIAN SPOTTED IN ANOTHER VILLAGE. She passed it to Matthew. "Nail it where the captain will see. Say a traveler brought it." He read it once. His jaw tightened. "This costs me if it breaks," he said. Then he folded it and put it inside his coat. By dawn the poster hung on the watch board. Syrian heard the boots move past her carriage and on toward the far road. She breathed out for the first time in a day. She had a cellar. She had a carriage. She had time. Somewhere out there, the man who took her wings did not yet know she was still hunting him.