Un­less they harm oth­ers, the Great Pro­tec­tor Lee had pro­claimed, they must be pro­tected.

But El­lie, Rose, and Lau­ren had harmed no­body.

Tim­o­thy

“No,” Tim­o­thy had told her. (he should know.) (should­n’t he?) (he told him­self so.)

He could boast many years of ex­pe­ri­ence, but not that many, but more than peo­ple thought. He could claim a good knowl­edge of him­self, but still he ap­proved more on good days than bad— but then, that had been a good day.

Most women dreamed of be­ing Pro­tec­tors—of watch­ing over the Pro­tec­torate and all who dwelled within its Great Pro­tec­tions, whether they have great Power or small; of Pro­tect­ing them from out­siders who would at­tack them; of Pro­tect­ing them from each other.

But few had suf­fi­cient Power to be a Pro­tec­tor. For every ten women who trained to be a Pro­tec­tor, rarely more than one would make the cut. (it was­n’t that boys could­n’t be Pro­tec­tors, tim­o­thy him­self—but that was dif­fer­ent and it mat­tered less in re­cent years any­way.)

It was Tim­o­th­y’s job to eval­u­ate the stu­dents, and to de­cide who made the cut. The rest would go home and pro­vide for their fam­i­lies—they were, in a way, lucky. Their train­ing would let them find pres­ti­gious oc­cu­pa­tions: from Power con­struc­tion to pre­shap­ing to spe­cial re­search, they could do most any­thing they de­sired. The boys would flock to them.

“No,” Tim­o­thy had told El­lie. She did not make the cut. She had spo­ken freely with him. She even let slip some of what she could do. She cer­tainly had Power. But she could never be a Pro­tec­tor.

“No,” he had told her, and she had seemed to wilt. Tim­o­thy was ac­cus­tomed to it.

Tim­o­thy had heard that El­lie was close to Esor and Lau­ren, and cer­tainly Lau­ren and even Esor could wield Power ef­fec­tively enough. Tim­o­thy still sus­pected that Lau­ren had been re­spon­si­ble for the ex­plo­sion two years back. (per­haps El­lie had helped.) But even with Lau­ren’s guid­ance, El­lie would never be what she needed to be. Not that El­lie did not have other qual­i­ties.

He looked out his win­dows—shaped from Power rather than glass (it had taken a lot from him.) Be­low stretched the Pro­tec­torate. The sun, mid-morn­ing, shone off the dewy leaves of the green vines scal­ing the an­cient struc­tures reach­ing for the sky. It was Bold. Beau­ti­ful. Safe.

“A Sink if I ever saw one,” Tim­o­thy had told Dorel, a hazy af­ter­noon a few weeks back (just hours af­ter he had re­jected her.) (just hours be­fore she died.)

Tim­o­thy was amazed to call Dorel a friend: Dorel was one of the two Great Pro­tec­tors. He even hon­ored Tim­o­thy with his pres­ence twice weekly for tea (when he was­n’t too busy.)

Tim­o­thy did­n’t know pre­cisely what a Sink was. Few did. But they’d all heard the sto­ries, and he was rea­son­ably cer­tain El­lie was one.

Dorel’s eyes had gleamed (tim­o­th­y’s heart had warmed.)

Tim­o­thy was­n’t sure El­lie had meant to let it slip; she had been des­per­ate for him to change his mind and al­low her to be­come a Pro­tec­tor. She had­n’t wanted any­one but her friends to know. They’d use her, she had thought. But Dorel would­n’t use her (tim­o­thy knew Dorel). He was The Keeper. He cared for peo­ple. Al­ways warm. Al­ways wel­com­ing. Al­ways there. (al­ways.)

Dorel was never far, even when he was. Out the win­dows Tim­o­thy could al­ways see him, tow­er­ing over the Pro­tec­torate, faith­fully stand­ing tall with his sis­ter Lee, The Met­tle (the other Great Pro­tec­tor.) Tim­o­thy could al­ways feel his un­fail­ing Power rooted in the stone fig­ures—per­haps the fig­ures weren’t even stone, but Power it­self—watch­ing over the Pro­tec­torate with a warm, lov­ing ca­ress.

Dorel had missed a few teas (but tim­o­thy had been fine.) Things had been busy (al­ways busy.) But to­day, he had come. That was enough. (enough.)

“Only left her arm?” Tim­o­thy had asked. Dorel had sim­ply nod­ded. “She was the Huntress’s first, then?”

“A mo­ment of chaos,” Dorel had agreed, “and then she was gone, El­lie’s re­mains with her. Only her arm left be­hind. Her right one, I be­lieve.”

Dorel had glanced at Tim­o­thy, his face un­read­able. (sad?) (not con­cerned.)

Had Lau­ren been there in the West­ern Hall with El­lie, or even had Esor, things would’ve been dif­fer­ent. The Huntress would not have taken her. Tim­o­thy was cer­tain. In­stead, El­lie had been alone in the west­ern hall. (she had to have been.) (tim­o­thy was cer­tain.) (tim­o­thy did­n’t ask.)

This ‘Huntress’ had at­tacked her, one who would never have seen it com­ing.

Tim­o­thy thought he had been sav­ing her. She would not have lasted a day as a Pro­tec­tor. Not with­out sight. Not with­out the abil­ity to use Power to re­place it.

Lau­ren and Esor would’ve made bet­ter part­ners, any­way; they’d cer­tainly be bet­ter to­gether than Lau­ren and El­lie (tim­o­thy had heard the ru­mors about the two.) (he did not ap­prove.) But Tim­o­thy had judged El­lie upon her own mer­its.

El­lie would have been bet­ter off back home with her fa­ther (she’d have been missed, surely.) She’d have been able to use her Power to help her fa­ther around the house. And one day, any man would’ve been happy to be hers, in spite of her im­ped­i­ment. It was a pity she would­n’t have been able to work. But, while not tra­di­tional, she could be the one to stay at home.

Even had Tim­o­thy said “Yes,” El­lie would have been alone (she would have.) She would’ve still been in that hall (alone.) The Huntress still would have taken her (the Huntress was strong.)

“Twelve in twelve days?” Tim­o­thy had asked. Dorel had only nod­ded. Af­ter El­lie, the Huntress had ram­paged, killing Pro­tec­tor af­ter Pro­tec­tor. She had left be­hind only head­less bod­ies, their right arms torn off, aban­doned alone in wrecked build­ings. It should­n’t be pos­si­ble. (the Pro­tec­torate was safe.)

Tim­o­thy turned from the win­dows. Per­haps an­other cup of tea? He picked up Dorel’s (half-empty.) Dorel had left in a hurry. Things were busy (busy.) He had gone, come back five sec­onds later for one last good bye, then gone again with a fi­nal long­ing look farewell.

Per­haps if Tim­o­thy carved out some of the Pro­tec­tions around his home, Dorel could shave a few min­utes over fly­ing: he could just fade in and out. Tim­o­thy would have to keep the area clear; would­n’t do for Dorel to fade into a stray tree branch— not that Dorel’s Power would­n’t be able to shove a tree branch away, of course. Tim­o­thy was sure he could do it. Not many had the Power to al­ter the Great Pro­tec­tions (even in such mi­nus­cule ways), but a good grasp of the­ory could of­ten equal great Power. (it had got­ten Tim­o­thy this far.)

But even if Tim­o­thy al­tered the pro­tec­tions, busy would still be busy. (Dorel would still be Dorel.)

Tim­o­thy sat upon his couch (Dorel had been there, lean­ing against him), a fresh cup in his hands, the warm steam fil­ter­ing through his nose… He could al­most imag—

Bang!

Wooden spears, wall gone Crash! Teacup, floor, steamy liq­uid seep­ing into tile—

Dust, Rub­ble

It cleared and (she was a ru­mor.) (noth­ing mor

The Huntress stood.

(She was­n’t The Huntress.) (the Huntress was tall and mena

She stepped for­wards. The floor shook with each step.

Tim­o­thy ran Down the hall To­wards the bed­room (he was just pow­er­ful enough for a wand but he should­n’t need one in his own hom

Smash! Bed­room door gone In­stead her, stand­ing Big­ger

he scram­bled away To the front

Bang! Shards of table (the pain was tim­o­th­y’s imag­i­nat

Crash! his counter

Crunch! (The Pro­tec­tions would keep him sa

The Huntress raised her sword. It was al­most as large as she (was­n’t she smaller?)

tim­o­thy raised his hand. Breathe; let it ebb, flow fee­bly

into wisps of Power

(the Power would save him.) (barely power.)

eas­ily bat­ted away with blunt swings, be­com­ing

Power,

slam­ming into lungs air­land­cough (had­n’t he been in the livi

She stepped through what re­mained of his liv­ing room. With each step she grew. Her tie blew be­hind her with her long blonde hair. Her face—fa­mil­iar—was cal­cu­lated rage.

She took a small step back to coun­ter­bal­ance her­self as she stopped be­fore him.

Her hand His throat (his toes no longer on the groun

“For every lie you tell,” she growled, “I will cut off a fin­ger.”

fly­air­grass­breathe (he could run, hide in the fores

She ap­proached him again, her feet tread­ing softly through the grass.

“For every truth,” she whis­pered, her voice lyri­cal and sweet, “I’ll cut off a toe.”

“The Pro­tec­tions—” he gasped

Her hand grabbed his. She pulled it into the air, him along with it (he was so heavy.)

Her sword tore (so slowly.)

Bloody fin­ger on ground Screams and—

“Who did you tell?” she com­manded.

“i don’t un­der­stand!” he ex­claimed (he did­n’t he did­n’t he did

She tilted her head. Stared into him.

“No, no please—”

His hand was in the air again. She pulled it to­wards her. Tugged at his pinky. Then his pointer. Fi­nally, she se­lected his thumb.

Her sword pulled (again so slow

Tim­o­thy looked into her eyes: Pain and

“You’re— you’re him!” he re­al­ized.

Rage Sword clat­tered on floor Hands around his wrist Twist­ing

Bone splat­tered across Tim­o­th­y’s face (the pain hit a mo­ment late

“You— you said Fin­gers,” he gasped.

Her face calm again, her sword flew to her hand. Tim­o­thy felt the world shift.

His hair was touch­ing the ground. A bloody mess was inches from his eyes (was it his hand?)

his shoe hit the ground

his toe next

(he had told the truth.)

(she had said fin­gers for lies.) (not hands.)

Her face swung into view. A small smile danced upon her lips, twisted del­i­cately around thoughts she daren’t think (Tim­o­thy did not know the feel­ing) (but tim­o­thy could see it in her)

“Who did you tell?”

(tim­o­thy daren’t think of it.)

El­lie and Lau­ren

Lau­ren was sure El­lie would make the cut. But they would­n’t re­ally know un­til their eval­u­a­tions, and those were still a year off. What­ever the case, El­lie was not go­ing back. She’d leave the Pro­tec­torate first.

“It won’t come to that,” Lau­ren in­sisted.

“Stop mov­ing,” said El­lie. She’d take any ex­cuse to touch Lau­ren—not that she needed any—but trac­ing was one of her fa­vorites. El­lie could al­most see the Power as she stroked it gen­tly into in­tri­cate de­signs upon Lau­ren’s back. Rose had taught her, and had gifted her the pen, and it suited her per­fectly.

“I’d man­age, out there,” El­lie said.

El­lie only de­tected the slight­est bit of doubt as Lau­ren hes­i­tated. “I know,” said Lau­ren, “but you won’t have to. We’ll be—“

“Stay still!”

“Even if they did­n’t ac­cept you, which is ridicu­lous, you’re cer­tainly Pow­er­ful enough to— even if they don’t,” Lau­ren said. “We will be with you. Rose and I.”

El­lie put the pen down on the bed, a few inches to her right, its tip still hum­ming.

“Yes but what if they take you and Rose but not me? I can’t ex­actly tag along to the Pro­tec­to­rum if I’m not a Pro­tec­tor, can I?” asked El­lie. “I’m just say­ing, I could—“

“In what world would they take me and not you?” asked Lau­ren.

El­lie flicked her hand, and heard the pen re­turn to its spot on the desk.

“Here,” she said, pat­ting on the bed be­side her. She felt her­self sink and tilt as Lau­ren sat.

“We’d go with you, El­lie,” said Lau­ren. “If they did­n’t ac­cept you—which they will—and you could­n’t come with us—which would­n’t hap­pen—then, we’d go with you, El­lie.”

El­lie felt Lau­ren’s arm wrap be­hind her, and leaned into it, rest­ing her head on Lau­ren’s shoul­der.

“You won’t be alone,” said Lau­ren.

“Alone’s bet­ter than go­ing back.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t be alone,” said Lau­ren.

El­lie felt Lau­ren’s arm pull her close. She put her own arm around Lau­ren, and gripped her tightly.

“I won’t.”

Rose

They called her ‘Esor,’ and they called her ‘him.’ She called her­self ‘Rose.’ It was con­ve­nient. She was­n’t the tallest, her blonde hair was very short, and she looked rather— but she did­n’t like to think about it.

“He went that way,” she heard from around the way. They must have heard her. She hur­ried her pace.

She had planned to give them a rose. It was­n’t a ro­man­tic flower—not a daisy, cer­tainly, even if she had wanted to. It was only a rose. She had sculpted it from Power. It had co­a­lesced gen­tly into form, wrap­ping del­i­cately around it­self. In the evenings it would shine gen­tly. It was as beau­ti­ful of a rose as Rose could man­age, but Rose was­n’t all that good.

Rose had seen them there by the wa­ter. She did­n’t mean to stare. She walked that way of­ten, and they were of­ten there. Some­times they’d be talk­ing, just sit­ting in the grass; some­times, they’d be walk­ing by the wa­ter, feet tread­ing through the sand; other times, Rose would see them prac­tic­ing their lanc­ing, shoot­ing blue, red, and yel­low jets of Power at rocks and boul­ders, eas­ily smash­ing them apart.

The shorter one was Lau­ren. She was­n’t re­ally that short; rather, her friend El­lie re­ally was that tall. Rose rather liked their heights. She also liked their hair. Lau­ren’s was long and black, and would bounce and shim­mer in the sun as she moved. El­lie’s was red, just brush­ing her shoul­ders, and was al­ways neat.

Lau­ren would al­ways try to make El­lie laugh. And oc­ca­sion­ally, El­lie would, and the sound of it would tickle the lap­ping waves.

Rose had found them beau­ti­ful, and had re­al­ized she wanted to tell them so. She knew what they were. Too many did. They were to­gether. But it did­n’t mat­ter, Rose did­n’t think, so long as to­gether they were happy. Rose wished she had some­one to be happy with, too. And, while Rose did­n’t want to ad­mit it, Rose wished she was happy with El­lie and Lau­ren.

So, Rose had made them the rose, and Rose had ap­proached them. But as Rose neared, she saw them sit­ting in the muddy grass, watch­ing the waves, talk­ing about var­i­ous the­o­ries of Power—Rose did­n’t know much the­ory, she had al­ways ig­nored it, she had al­ways pos­sessed enough Power with­out such rig­or­ous study, and—

And Rose rec­og­nized: they were al­ready happy. To­gether.

So, Rose turned away, rose still in her hand. A rose would not have been wanted.

They must have seen or heard her.

“Wait,” called Lau­ren.

“Lau­ren, if you’re go­ing to pull me along, watch where you’re go­ing!” ad­mon­ished the El­lie.

“Oh,” said Lau­ren. “Sorry, I for­got— I mean… Oh, there you are.”

As Rose let her­self come to a stop, she felt hear heart rise, and she felt her heart fall. That fan­tas­ti­cal part of her was scream­ing out—they no­ticed her!—but the darker part was cow­er­ing, pound­ing at her chest, des­per­ately scream­ing at her to run.

“She thought you were in­ter­est­ing,” said El­lie.

“El­lie, it was­n’t like that—“

“I be­lieve it was to do with the way you, you know,” said El­lie, wav­ing her hand around. “In our classes, I mean. She may have de­vel­oped a crush. You must par­don her.”

A crush? For a split-sec­ond, she wanted to smile, but— They weren’t se­ri­ous. Peo­ple of­ten weren’t, with Rose.

They would­n’t truly think ‘Es­or’ ca­pa­ble of wield­ing a wand, barely into ‘his’ first year study­ing to be a Pro­tec­tor. El­lie and Lau­ren, like the rest of Rose’s class­mates, like all her teach­ers, would only see ‘him’ reach­ing for some­thing she could never be.

Rose was­n’t cer­tain they were wrong, no mat­ter how dearly she dreamed they were. In her dreams, she’d sum­mon her Power, she’d send it ca­reen­ing away—not into her teach­ers and class­mates, she would­n’t hurt them; they had done much to her, but not any­thing like that.

In those dreams, Rose would make some show of it; she’d show she was strong, she’d prove that she was more than—

“You use a wand, right?” asked Lau­ren.

“If I don’t have enough Power for a wand,” Rose said, tersely, “That is my con­cern.”

“That’s not—“ Lau­ren be­gan, but her eyes shifted to the left. Rose’s eyes fol­lowed.

There be­side her was the rose she had brought for them. It hov­ered, now the size of a full staff. It glowed and hummed. Power begged to es­cape it.

Rose’s eyes shifted back to the pair. Some­thing lit up in Lau­ren’s eyes. El­lie took a small breath.

Rose’s arms had not left her sides. She was­n’t sure she could move them if she tried. She was­n’t sure what she was do­ing, ex­cept she knew she should­n’t have been do­ing it.

But she could­n’t stop her­self. That itch to prove her­self could not this time be sti­fled. She had wanted more from El­lie and Lau­ren. they had been mocked by stu­dent and teacher, just as Rose had, for what they were, and for El­lie’s blind­ness. Rose was more than they thought, she was—

A crack­ling white beam of Power es­caped the thorny staff. It leaped out across the wa­ter, cleared straight through the Great Pro­tec­tions, to the rub­ble-laden is­land a mile away—

White— it blinds! Lau­ren shielded her eyes, it was­n’t enough—

“Cover your ears,” Lau­ren called to El­lie, and cov­ered her own.

Lau­ren waited— five… four… three… two…

Bang! Lungs, air es­caped, and Lau­ren stum­bled—

“El­lie!” she yelled, her voice lost in the wave. Wa­ter crashed upon them, and a big­ger wave was com­ing…

When it had cleared, Rose had gone.

In her dreams, she had shown them, for what­ever that had meant. But her dreams had never told her what would fol­low: would they fear her? Would they tell oth­ers? Who would they tell?

Rose had to leave. But El­lie and Lau­ren would be found. And it would­n’t mat­ter what they told to who, be­cause no­body would be­lieve, not that ‘Es­or’ had—

But Lau­ren and El­lie would be fine, would­n’t they? They were ex­pected to be Pow­er­ful, in spite of their re­la­tion­ship, they were still women on their way to be­ing Pro­tec­tors… But they were only in their first year, just like Rose, and first year stu­dents should­n’t be able to do that.

Lau­ren and El­lie would be found, and they would be blamed. They would be feared, or worse. But they’d de­serve it, would­n’t they? They were just like the rest. But like the rest, they only be­lieved what they be­lieved be­cause that’s what they al­ways knew; it was hardly their fault—

Rose had to go back.

“Come with me,” she told them. “Quickly.”

Al­ready Rose could hear oth­ers ap­proach­ing. They were al­most cer­tainly Pro­tec­tors—the Pro­tec­tions would have screamed at them as the beam of Power blasted through, and even if they did­n’t, the Pro­tec­tors would surely have no­ticed as the ex­plo­sion shook the whole Pro­tec­torate. Blow­ing up the is­land had prob­a­bly bro­ken sev­eral rules.

A lance of Power leaped to­wards them, but El­lie bat­ted it away. Rose’s eye­brows rose: not many could feel Power well enough to know where it was (El­lie, of course, could not see it).

“Run, Esor,” said El­lie. “We’ll tell them it was us, that Lau­ren and I did it to­gether—“

Rose felt that darker, cow­er­ing part of her­self fall away. Hear heart rose, and be­fore it could re­turn—

“Call me Rose,” she said. “And I think you both are beau­ti­ful.”

She grabbed their arms.

Bang!

They were gone.

Emily

“Emily! I’m just say­ing— Emily!” yelled Al­ice.

Emily kept walk­ing.

Emi­ly’s mother had used a wand. It had been care­fully carved from wood har­vested from out­side the Pro­tec­torate. Very ex­pen­sive. Wands had been rar­i­ties.

Now, any­one with enough Power to use one could make their own any time they wanted. In­stead of wood, they were made from Power it­self. They were there when needed. They were gone when not.

Emily wanted a wand. A real wand. Wood, del­i­cately carved into gen­tle curves wrapped around a smile, ready to ac­cept as Emi­ly’s Power en­tered it.

She knew it was silly. Point­less. Wands of Power worked more ef­fi­ciently than wands of wood, any­way. But she wanted one any­way, no mat­ter what Al­ice said.

Would her mother have parted with her wand? Emily could hardly re­mem­ber her with­out it. Even in death, it had been with her, shoved through her eye socket by her mur­derer (who Emily would one day see to the death of).

Her fa­ther had­n’t had much Power. Her mother had loved him any­way. She had been a Pro­tec­tor, and had brought home enough for them all. She’d give him al­ready-shaped Power, and her wand, and he could wield it, al­most be­liev­ing it was his own.

He had tried, in her ab­sence, but had­n’t lasted long. He had­n’t even had enough Power to lift. He had al­most enough to send mes­sages through the chan­nels, but was not quick enough to tran­scribe and record.

“I’m… I know I’m not…” He had tried to tell Emily he was sorry. He had thought maybe this time, things would be dif­fer­ent. He had just in­ter­viewed with Dorel, the Keeper. Per­haps, he had thought, if Dorel could­n’t of­fer a job, he could still help? He was the Keeper. He cared for all.

But for all his car­ing, he could not help Emi­ly’s fa­ther.

“I love you, Emily,” her fa­ther had told her. “And… You’ll be al­right, okay? Dorel said… Well. I love you, honey. Please, be… Be good.”

He left that evening. Walked out of the Pro­tec­torate. Out of the Pro­tec­tions. He was al­most cer­tainly dead. If he had­n’t been killed by out­siders, the free Power out­side the Great Pro­tec­tions would have bro­ken him: his own Power would not be strong enough to keep him to­gether for long.

Dorel had taken Emily in.

If they had just given her fa­ther a chance… A cheap wand, some pre­shaped Power—they weren’t that ex­pen­sive. If she had just been a cou­ple of years older… She would have worked, even just a bit, just enough to get her fa­ther the wand, the Power. Emily knew he could have man­aged. Been pro­duc­tive. Use­ful. He would have pro­vided for them both.

Emily found her­self in Al­ice’s room. The walls were cov­ered with posters and paint­ings. Emily had made many of them. Al­ice had in­sisted upon hang­ing them, as if they were de­cent, real art.

She was an­gry, and she was ashamed, and she hated Al­ice, and she hated her­self.

It should­n’t bother her. But she wanted Al­ice to un­der­stand. They were friends. Nearly in­sep­a­ra­ble.

Emily had her own room down the hall. But was it re­ally her room, when she was never there? She wanted to run to some­where, any­where, some­place just hers…

A knock on the door shook her.

It was Al­ice.

“May I come in?” she asked.

Emily stepped aside.

“I’m sorry,” said Al­ice. “I did­n’t un­der­stand… I still don’t un­der­stand why it’s im­por­tant to you. But I want to! And ei­ther way, I can tell…”

She held out a wooden box. About a foot long, an­gu­lar and dark, bold but strong.

Emily took it. It was heavy.

She sat upon the bed.

Opened the box.

In­side was a wand. It was wood, wo­ven about it­self— Was it carved from mul­ti­ple pieces?

“It… I thought it seemed like you,” said Al­ice. She must have spent a for­tune—prob­a­bly all she had.

Emily lifted it from the box, her hands cradling it with rev­er­ence. It hummed in her grasp, curves around a smile; it begged her Power to en­ter, to leap from it, into beauty or into death— what­ever she willed.

“Is… is it? Do you like it?”

Emily looked up at Al­ice—her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Im­pure thoughts crossed her mind. She shoved them away. She was­n’t like that.

She pulled her eyes from Al­ice. It was all she could do to nod.

She stiff­ened as Al­ice wrapped arms around her.

“Th— Thanks,” she said. She let her­self re­lax into Al­ice’s arms.

She was­n’t like that. And she knew Al­ice was­n’t.

But friends could still hug.

Lau­ren and Rose

“What if you wrapped some­thing solid around the Power, to keep it from un­rav­el­ing un­til im­pact?” asked Lau­ren.

They hun­dreds of miles out­side the Pro­tec­tions. Rose could hardly prac­tice close by. It was­n’t safe, but Lau­ren could hardly let Rose do it alone.

“I don’t know if I feel com­fort­able mak­ing some­thing like that so close to us,” said Rose.

“What if you let it form fur­ther away? Can you con­trol it at a dis­tance?”

“With that much, it would have to be feet away, maybe inches, un­less…”

Rose’s lip twitched up­wards. “Watch this,” she said.

The air be­fore her shook. A bunch of Power, crack­ling white, or­bited around a tiny point, shrink­ing and dis­ap­pear­ing into it.

Rose mo­tioned her head west. In the dis­tance, Lau­ren could see a light. But it had to be a hun­dred miles away or more. And it was grow­ing brighter.

“Just a bit more, then…” mut­tered Rose. “Oh. Uh…”

“Uh?” asked Lau­ren. “What do you mean, ‘Uh?’ Do you mean ‘Uh, I just made a hole from here to there, and shoved a ridicu­lous amount of Power through it, and only now I re­al­ize, oh, hey, I should have asked Lau­ren first! She’d tell me how it might be tricky to close the hole while si­mul­ta­ne­ously con­trol­ling Power on the other side of it, and also—“

“Yes, yes,” said Rose. “Look, I think I can do it, but you might want to—“

“As I was say­ing ear­lier, if you wrap some­thing around the Power, it could hold it to­gether for a bit. Per­haps long enough to close the hole?”

Rose nod­ded. The light in the dis­tance—bright, even in the day­light—blinked away.

“Ready?” asked Rose.

Lau­ren nod­ded.

“I… I love you,” said Rose.

She closed the hole.

“It’ll prob­a­bly hold for about two—“

Every­thing turned white.

Lau­ren got Power wrapped around the both of them just in time. Still, they felt them­selves flung through the air as dirt and trees and plants were ripped from the ground.

“Don’t tell El­lie,” said Lau­ren.

Rose laid be­neath Lau­ren, wrapped in her arms. It was al­most ro­man­tic, even cov­ered in dirt at the edges of waste­land.

“She’d want me to use it on the Pro­tec­torate,” said Rose.

“She might. But she’d never ask it,” said Lau­ren.

Rose let her head fall to the side, but Lau­ren lifted it back up. “That,” she ges­tured her head to­wards the newly-cre­ated waste­land, “is not why she loves you. It’s not why ei­ther of us love you.”

She dipped her head closer to Rose’s. Their lips were al­most touch­ing.

“I love you, Rose.”

Dorel

Dorel of­ten knew what he wanted, and Dorel al­ways knew what he had to do to get it. But Dorel did­n’t al­ways like it.

It was barely a room, up on the twen­ti­eth floor of one of the old build­ings, but of course Lily had in­vited him into her home—any­body would: he was Dorel the Keeper, one of the two Great Pro­tec­tors.

Lily was due to have a child in a few weeks, she told him. Per­haps it was the child Dorel was there for. Or, per­haps, it was Lily her­self. He did not know. He only knew what he had to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Lily tilted her head, un­sure what he was sorry for. “It will be worth it, in the end, for every­one. I promise…”

He glanced to­wards what passed for a kitchen. Lily was a Pro­tec­tor. Surely she could af­ford more? But on the counter there was a knife. It was all Dorel needed.

The knife flew to his hand. Lily’s eyes widened. She put it to­gether much faster than Dorel had ex­pected.

She be­gan send­ing lance af­ter lance of Power at him, the air quiv­er­ing dan­ger­ously with each one. But as they raced to­wards him, they each dis­si­pated.

Lily backed her­self against the win­dow. Power swelled be­fore her, a bub­ble of crack­ling pur­ple light, be­fore, with a loud bang, it shat­tered. The shock­wave passed smoothly through both her and Dorel.

Dorel sup­posed she thought it would trig­ger the Pro­tec­tions. Nor­mally, she would be right. The Pro­tec­tions should leap to her aid, and sum­mon Pro­tec­tors to help her. But Dorel had helped cre­ate the Pro­tec­tions. They would not pro­tect her tonight.

She looked down at him. Her arm snapped out. Her hand cir­cled Dorel’s throat, and squeezed…

But Dorel’s Power lashed out. It shat­tered the bones in her arm. Her skin ripped and shred­ded as her arm rup­tured, the pieces falling to the ground in a messy splat­ter.

A small sound es­caped her, barely a grunt. Her eyes darted left and right, search­ing for some­thing, any­thing. She knew there was nowhere left to—

Crack! She smashed her head against the win­dow— but the win­dow was not made from glass. It was made from Power. The back­lash ig­nored her and leapt straight for Dorel.

With a blink, the Power evap­o­rated. But by then, Lily was al­ready top­pling, back­wards, out…

His Power caught her mid-top­ple. She hung pre­car­i­ously out the win­dow. Her Power banged against his des­per­ately. If he would just let go, she could fly away—she had enough Power to fly, cer­tainly. But Dorel was nearly as strong as his sis­ter, Lee, the other Great Pro­tec­tor. His Power re­mained un­shaken.

He opened his hand. The knife left it. It flew over to Lily. She tried to move her head away. Still, it rested it­self upon her neck.

Dorel took a breath.

It would be worth it, he told him­self. Some­day, Lee would fall, and there would be no­body to take her place. Not “Lily.” Not her child. Not any of those be­fore them. Not Dorel him­self.

The knife sliced slowly through Lily’s neck.

It should have been quick.

It was her Power that slowed it, he was sure.

It must be re­sist­ing him.

Her blood poured down her neck. It clung to her. As it kept flow­ing, it could­n’t stay. The stream of red fell, glint­ing gen­tly in the yel­low lights of the Pro­tec­torate, down to the street so many sto­ries down.

As the last of her blood dripped from her, he felt her Power go, and some­thing threat­ened to steal his lungs away.

He let her body fall. The wind rus­tled her cloth­ing. Her hair rose, hid­ing her blank face from him.

She would not be the last, he was sure. There had to be one or two more, still.

Be­cause Dorel had taken in chil­dren, over the years. And Dorel knew they would be next. He had thought, if he could make them happy enough, it would be okay. He had al­ways known what he would have to do, but it al­ways had seemed such a long way off.

He did­n’t know how it would hap­pen. But he knew it would have to. And he knew it would be soon.

“A Sink if I ever saw one,” Tim­o­thy said. Dorel could see the un­cer­tainty on Tim­o­th­y’s face. The se­cret had not been his to tell, but he had told it any­way.

Dorel care­fully raised his eye­brows, and a smile cov­ered the guilt on Tim­o­th­y’s face.

But Dorel’s heart fell. The chain of events un­folded be­fore him and he knew ex­actly how it would all hap­pen, and ex­actly what he would have to do.

Every­thing hinged upon El­lie.

Dorel had no­ticed El­lie. He had been sure he’d get that lit­tle nudge, that lit­tle in­stinct to take her in, away from her fa­ther. And if not that, surely she should’ve had to die. Any­one that strong had to be ei­ther dead or his.

When she lost her sight, he had thought per­haps that was why he had never felt in­clined to take ac­tion. Per­haps the loss of vi­sion would so weaken her that she’d never be able to as­cend. But it quickly be­came ap­par­ent to Dorel that the lack of sight did lit­tle to limit her.

And her friends—Lau­ren and Rose—were eas­ily as strong as she. Dorel had never felt any in­cli­na­tion to take ei­ther in: Lau­ren’s par­ents were de­cent, and Rose’s tried to be. But nor had he felt any in­cli­na­tion to take ei­ther out.

Now Dorel knew why. The pieces fell to­gether.

This was the last time they’d all be to­gether. He wanted to draw it out. His chil­dren were all grown, now. All Pro­tec­tors, or about to be. Half sat on the mar­ble floors. The rest packed them­selves onto the fluffy couches.

“They’re all over each other,” said Emily. “Esor calls him­self ‘Rose,’ and, I mean, es­pe­cially if they be­come Pro­tec­tors— if peo­ple see them, and think that’s right…“

Emily glanced at Al­ice, scrunched in be­side her, then away. Al­ice con­tin­ued star­ing at her feet. The two had grown up to­gether, al­most like sis­ters, but never quite. If they had been brought up dif­fer­ently—had Dorel not raised them the way he had—per­haps they would let them­selves…

“Well, yes, I— yes, agree, some­thing ought def­i­nitely be done about them, but— But, it’s worse than that, I think,” he said. The words tum­bled out much more awk­wardly than he had re­hearsed. “I have learned…”

He paused for them to an­tic­i­pate what he was about to re­veal. Was he try­ing too hard? Should he just tell them straight out? What would they be­lieve? “I have learned: ‘El­lie,’ the blind one… It ap­pears she is a Sink.”

The room fell silent.

Sinks were myth, of course. El­lie was most cer­tainly not one. Dorel should know: Sinks were a myth of his own de­sign, in­vented for his bed­time sto­ries: Sinks would come in the night, he would tell his chil­dren, and steal away your Power. They’d leave you empty, help­less, un­hole, and alone…

He had told his chil­dren sto­ries of Sinks every night. He had never re­al­ized why. He had taught them many things never re­al­iz­ing why. But now, all the pieces fell into place. All of it had cen­tered around El­lie, and her two friends. It did not mat­ter if El­lie was a Sink. It only mat­tered that she be­lieved she was, and that her friends be­lieved, and Tim­o­thy, and now, Dorel’s chil­dren. His chil­dren would not hes­i­tate when their time came.

He had wanted to teach them com­pas­sion, and he had. As the Keeper, em­pa­thy was his re­spon­si­bil­ity. He had passed that on. But there were al­ways ways around em­pa­thy. Per­haps his chil­dren would apol­o­gize be­fore they struck, shak­ing their heads sadly. Maybe they’d tell them­selves they had to do it, for the good of all; that in the end, it would be worth it.

“No­body can do any­thing,” said Al­ice. “The Pro­tec­tions would find them, maybe even stop them, un­less…”

Dorel made him­self smile softly, with just the right amount of sad­ness. “Un­less the Pro­tec­tions ex­pe­ri­enced some… ‘in­ter­rup­tions?’ Per­haps in the West­ern Hall at, say… ten past nine, to­mor­row evening?”

His chil­dren glanced at each other, but Dorel cleared his throat. “Please take care. I…”

His voice caught as the vi­sions of what would oc­cur flashed through his mind. His eyes held on Al­ice for a mo­ment: she would be the first to die, there, in that hall.

“I hate to lose you.”

Dorel had­n’t thought he was truly close to any­one—not even his chil­dren. Yet he had gone to them all, and watched as the Huntress took their fin­gers, their toes, their arms, their heads. He had wanted to pro­tect them, but…

He had even vis­ited Tim­o­thy for one last tea.

Now, Dorel sat alone in his quar­ters. The many couches would be for­ever empty.

Every­thing was al­most ex­actly as planned.

He was go­ing to die.

And when Lee tried to avenge him, so would she, and so would Lau­ren, and so would Rose. With his chil­dren gone, there would be al­most no­body who could re­place her.

Al­most.

Bang! Glass shards Knives against his face and ar—

She stood in the wall, where once there had been glass. Ce­ment and metal twisted about her. The wind strove to pull her out, down to the ground thou­sands of feet be­low.

She re­mained steady.

The Huntress.

She was here for him.

It was just ac­cord­ing to plan.

But El­lie was sup­posed to die.

Rose and El­lie

“But El­lie, if they knew,” in­sisted Rose.

“It’s just, if Power was be­ing lobbed at you—“

“I can take care of my­self,” said Rose. She set down her pen and brushed fif­teen min­utes of trac­ing off El­lie’s back.

“You’ve got to let the pen flow with the Power, like you’re only guid­ing it,” said El­lie. Rose had taught her—it was just a thing she had re­al­ized she could do, and she had re­al­ized El­lie prob­a­bly could, too, and soon, El­lie had eclipsed Rose.

At first, it had been only an art: beau­ti­ful and pure, an es­cape to some­thing fun­da­men­tal. But as they learned to lay their first Pro­tec­tions, El­lie re­al­ized those Pro­tec­tions could be wo­ven into the trac­ing as well.

“You’re telling me,” Rose grum­bled. But she rested the pen against El­lie’s back again, and tried again.

“If they knew,” said Rose, “they would­n’t let you stay. They would­n’t want to let you live.”

“Then I would leave,” said El­lie. “Or I’d fight them all. I could take them…” She could hear Rose’s toes grip the sheets ir­ri­ta­bly.

“You know we’d go with—“

“Don’t,” said El­lie.

Rose could see El­lie’s breath catch a bit. She let her hand gen­tly brush El­lie’s back.

“That’s what you’ve been do­ing, is­n’t it?” asked El­lie.

“What?”

“Prepar­ing. You and Lau­ren. Go­ing. Com­ing back cov­ered in dirt, all ‘Don’t ask.’ They’re not go­ing to ac­cept me, are they? You’re go­ing to—“

“We’ve not been— I’ve not been prac­tic­ing be­cause of you,” said Rose. The pen creaked in her hand as she gripped it. “If they knew the Power… Or even just how I make holes from here to there…”

“They would­n’t let you stay,” said El­lie, softly. “They would­n’t want to let you live.”

“I know I’ll have to go, some­day,” said Rose. “I just… I thought, maybe, if I’m strong enough, I could make some­where else, and maybe you and Lau­ren would want to…”

“You know we’d go with—“

“You can’t promise that,” said Rose. “I know you can’t. You and Lau­ren have only known me— what, a bit over a year?”

“Closer to two,” said El­lie.

She felt Rose rise from the bed. The pen made a small clat­ter as she placed it on the night­stand.

El­lie lifted her­self up. She closed the dis­tance be­tween them, and when she found Rose’s arms, she gripped them tightly.

“Do not tell us what we can promise,” El­lie said.

Rose pulled against El­lie’s grip, and then, fell into it, slid­ing into El­lie’s arms.

“Let’s go,” said El­lie. “Let’s go find Lau­ren and leave, right now.”

Rose found her­self laugh­ing, if it was laugh­ing, it could just as eas­ily have been cry­ing. El­lie held her tightly.

“We need to be­come Pro­tec­tors. Learn to raise more Pro­tec­tions,” said Rose, fi­nally. El­lie did­n’t dis­agree. “And Lau­ren still thinks we can change things. Make things bet­ter. For every­one.”

“I know,” said El­lie.

A gen­tle breeze en­tered through the win­dow. El­lie had been study­ing it when she ac­ci­den­tally stole its Power. She’d fig­ure out how to recre­ate it, even­tu­ally—hope­fully be­fore next rain­fall.

“What do you think is up with Emily?” asked Rose.

“Emily?”

“Yeah,” said Rose. “Brash voice in our Ebb and Flow stud­ies? Think she hates you? Or think she’s into you?”

A soft laugh es­caped El­lie’s best at­tempts at keep­ing it in. “Oh that Emily!” she said. “Def­i­nite­ly hates me.”

“Is that why she looks at you when she thinks no­body’s watch­ing?” asked Rose, her nose tick­ling El­lie’s.

“Well, I’m taken,” said El­lie, pulling on Rose’s lips with her own. “Twice over.” She kissed Rose again. Their tongues twisted gen­tly to­gether, as El­lie pulled Rose back down onto the bed.

“She’s def­i­nite­ly into Al­ice, though,” said El­lie, later.

Rose chuck­led. “Def­i­nitely.”

Their arms were still mess­ily tan­gled around each oth­ers’ bod­ies, wrapped up in the sheets and blan­kets.

“Take me,” said El­lie. “When you prac­tice. We should all do that to­gether.”

“I—“

“I’m not say­ing you have to take me with you any­time you do any­thing with Lau­ren. I know I need my own time with her, just like I need it with you, but— but we should all be prepar­ing. To­gether.”

“I— Yeah. We will,” said Rose. “We just… We did­n’t want…”

“I know,” said El­lie. “I love you, too.”

Lau­ren

They’d never change it all, Lau­ren knew. But that would­n’t stop her from dream­ing of the day they did.

They’d have that house atop the cliff. Beau­ti­ful. Peace­ful. Maybe not that house. Maybe dif­fer­ent. But it would still beau­ti­ful.

The wind would breeze from the day to the night, drift­ing and sur­round­ing them in the Pro­tec­torate’s warm em­brace. The em­brace would be warm: as Pro­tec­tors, they would make it so. And if they could­n’t? “Fuck them all,” they’d say, and they would leave and build some­thing new of their own.

They’d have a house, and El­lie would know just where to find every­thing. The couch three feet from the counter; the cof­fee table two feet from the couch; her cof­fee al­ways promptly wait­ing for her in the cor­ner, if she did­n’t in­sist on mak­ing it her­self. Lau­ren would see to it, or Rose would—they could take turns, or do it to­gether, or what­ever El­lie wanted.

By then, Lau­ren was cer­tain, they’d be able to lace it all with Power: the table, the cof­fee cup, even the floor–and El­lie would be able to see it all.

“Calm breath­ing,” said Jimmy, their in­struc­tor. “Try to re­main fo­cused.”

Lau­ren tried to clear her mind. It was, as al­ways, im­pos­si­ble. If she had Rose or El­lie’s Power, she would­n’t need to bother.

One day, they’d out­grow her, she knew— but that’s a mark.

Lau­ren sighed, opened her eyes, and pulled out her note­book.

“Miss Lau­ren?” asked Jimmy. He did not re­ally hope for a re­sponse. It was­n’t that he did­n’t care. It was just that Lau­ren… was Lau­ren.

“Sorry,” she mut­tered, her cheeks heat­ing. But she flipped to the right page, and added to the tally.

She closed the note­book. Put it away. Closed her eyes once more.

Her in­struc­tor found her odd, she knew. Oth­ers did, too, if not for her be­hav­ior, then for her re­la­tion­ships. It was fine. She was fine. Some­times, though, with Rose and El­lie, she thought she might not be so wrong. Maybe…

“Feel it ebb and flow with your breath­ing, like the sea, ris­ing, falling…”

Maybe one day, they’d live by the sea. El­lie could weave Pro­tec­tions just for them. Rose could go for food, and when she came back, sculpt beau­ti­ful pieces that she’d set free into the world, or sketch in­tri­cate de­signs. Lau­ren would keep the gar­den and the house, and maybe even help El­lie dress Rose—Rose would al­ways protest with a shy smile she could­n’t hide.

But change was hap­pen­ing in the Pro­tec­torate. The Great Pro­tec­tor Lee her­self had said that All should be pro­tected, re­gard­less of any odd­i­ties about them, un­less they harm oth­ers. And while that was­n’t di­rect, it was close, and Lau­ren had felt her­self smile.

“Per­fect, Miss Lau­ren,” her in­struc­tor said.

Per­fect? If only her eval­u­a­tor would feel the same. But she could­n’t see how he would. She had just twenty min­utes left un­til her fu­ture was de­cided, and she had heard the de­cider would be Tim­o­thy him­self, the very dis­cov­erer of the The­ory of Ebb and Flow. He even had fre­quent teas with the Great Pro­tec­tor Dorel the Keeper. She doubted he’d se­lect her to be a Pro­tec­tor with El­lie and Rose. But she could dream.

El­lie had mas­tered the tech­nique be­fore she had known what it was. And Rose should never have been ca­pa­ble, not with Power like hers, but she too had per­fected it. Even Lee was said to strug­gle with it, though she could be for­given: Lau­ren as­sumed Lee had even more Power than Rose. Lee had more Power than any­one.

It had been enough! Tim­o­thy had said yes!

Later, when Lau­ren ran into Rose rather lit­er­ally, Lau­ren did­n’t want to let go. When they ran into El­lie in the West­ern Hall, rather more fig­u­ra­tively, she could barely re­sist grab­bing her in an em­brace.

When El­lie told them that Tim­o­thy had re­jected her, Lau­ren could not hold her­self back. It was­n’t sup­posed to be like this. Rose and El­lie were meant to be Pro­tec­tors to­gether, and Lau­ren with them. How could—

“You had a mark to­day,” said Rose, look­ing over the note­book. She wanted to dis­tract Lau­ren, and cer­tainly wanted to dis­tract El­lie.

Lau­ren looked down. She knew she should­n’t feel shame, but that only made it worse.

“Shh…” said Rose. The hall was clear. El­lie moved her hand to Lau­ren’s face.

“We love you,” said El­lie. “You are good, okay?” She smiled gen­tly, and it warmed Lau­ren’s heart. “And we’ll fig­ure this out. I can stay with you any­way, right? We’ll be fine.” She was ask­ing as much as telling, Lau­ren knew. But she cer­tainly was­n’t go­ing back to her fa­ther. Rose and Lau­ren would see to that.

Rose wrapped her arms around the both of them, and snug­gled her head against Lau­ren’s.

They ex­tri­cated them­selves from each other as some­one ran up to them.

It was Al­ice.

She kept look­ing be­hind her. She tried to keep her cool, but her face be­lied her de­sire to turn away.

“They’re—“ She looked back…

“Al­ice?”

“They’re go­ing to—“

Al­ice’s body ex­ploded.

Her bones shat­tered, ripped through her mus­cles, tore her apart.

What re­mained of her fell to the ground. Be­hind her, wand out­stretched, frozen, was Emily.

Her out­stretched arm dropped to her side. Her wand fell from her hand.

It smashed against the tiles, too hard. Shat­tered.

Rose reached for El­lie and Lau­ren.

She did not see the lance rac­ing to­wards their backs.

Lau­ren felt El­lie jerk her­self away.

She turned, just in time to see it all.

El­lie did not scream as the pur­ple lance of Power ripped her arm away. She only fell.

Her head banged against the tiles, too hard.

Lau­ren had seen the pur­ple lance. It would have ended her and Rose.

She had seen El­lie jump in its way.

This was­n’t sup­posed to hap­pen. They were all sup­posed to be­come Pro­tec­tors. They were sup­posed to change it all.

Lau­ren threw her wand, and with it, a wave of Power that flung their at­tack­ers down the hall.

An­other shove sent her own lance, black twist­ing around green.

It hit the one who had stolen El­lie’s arm.

It ripped her apart, dress­ing the hall­way in her flesh and bone.

Be­fore Lau­ren could hit the rest, Rose grabbed her.

And then, the three of them were atop the hill, there with the lit­tle house. Every­thing was so quiet and peace­ful in the late af­ter­noon.

Rose felt El­lie stir. “Lau­ren,” Rose said, softly. “Could you… She’s los­ing— It’s burn­ing through…”

In­tri­cate pat­terns traced upon El­lie’s back were glow­ing brightly in pur­ple, burn­ing through the cloth cov­er­ing her, and burn­ing into her skin. The lance should have torn her apart ut­terly. In­stead, she was…

Lau­ren shook her­self. Forced a calm breath. Let the Power flow from her. Cra­dled El­lie. Lifted her.

“Out,” said Rose, her deep com­mand­ing voice car­ry­ing into the house. She let her Power flame, only a lit­tle. “Now.”

An older cou­ple ran out, leav­ing the door open be­hind them.

Rose stepped in. Lau­ren fol­lowed, with El­lie.

The door shut.

Lee

Power had been un­leashed upon the world, and there had been noth­ing to pro­tect the peo­ple from the Power and from them­selves. And, as it quickly be­came ap­par­ent that some held more Power than oth­ers, there had been lit­tle to pro­tect the peo­ple from each other, ex­cept for Power it­self, in the hands of those who meant well.

Lee and Dorel had meant well.

Where they had built the Pro­tec­torate, there had once been a city, but all that had re­mained of that city had been rub­ble and a hand­ful of build­ings, some very tall, most with holes smashed through them. Be­ings of great Power must have fought in a grand bat­tle, us­ing the build­ings as clubs in their at­tempts to de­stroy each other. Per­haps these be­ings had per­ished in their bat­tle. Or, per­haps, they had both lived, and had put aside their sib­ling ri­valry to build some­thing new from the city’s re­mains.

Peo­ple would band to­gether, for safety, re­sources, or ego. But no group had wanted Lee and Dorel—or rather, no group had wanted Dorel.

The Pro­tec­torate’s first Pro­tec­tions were laid af­ter the first at­tack. It had been a large band, per­haps fifty strong, all greatly Pow­ered, with a leader as strong as them all to­gether.

Lee and Dorel had been hav­ing a lunch, such that it had been; they had en­joyed eat­ing, and per­haps had not yet re­al­ized they did not re­quire it. They had for­aged from a nearby field, and sat upon chairs at a table they had found in­side their fa­vorite room in their fa­vorite de­serted build­ing—one they would one day call their Pro­tec­to­rum, over­look­ing what would one day be their Pro­tec­torate.

They would fly up—a hun­dred flights of stairs was a hun­dred too many—and watch over the land, un­sure what to do with it, eat­ing, some­times talk­ing, some­times play­ing with Power.

When the band jumped up, Dorel stood, alarmed. Lee took no no­tice. She con­tin­ued eat­ing her ap­ple, el­e­gantly with fork and knife.

“Sit,” Lee told him. “They are of no con­cern.”

The band called them­selves The Fire, and the name was apt: they were known for burn­ing the build­ings they came upon af­ter seiz­ing all they could find in­side. If they found peo­ple, they’d slowly burn them, too, tak­ing hours—for the fun of it or to spread fear, or both, Lee was never sure.

A rocket of flame blew out the re­main­ing glass.

The del­i­cate plates rat­tled. Lee ig­nored it, con­tin­u­ing to eat. “Sit,” she re­it­er­ated.

Dorel al­ways liked to worry.

“You know what is go­ing to hap­pen,” she re­minded him. “They are of no con­cern.”

They both al­ways knew what would hap­pen, but only Dorel knew. He could pre­dict it all, likely and un­likely, if he tried. Lee did not share his gift, but it did not mat­ter. She also knew, be­cause she would make it hap­pen.

The Fire en­tered from all the en­trances, foot­steps of flame trail­ing be­hind them.

To­gether, a hand­ful of them—per­haps the ex­pend­able ones—sent jets of flame at Dorel and Lee—Dorel still had­n’t sat.

Lee did what she al­ways did: ex­tin­guish the Power leap­ing at her, and twist the necks of all re­spon­si­ble.

But the sec­ond wave of Power came in, all of it di­rected to­wards Dorel, all ugly and wretched in its de­sire not to kill, but sim­ply cre­ate pain.

Dorel had known, of course, and had known what Lee would do in re­turn.

Lee stood, and gripped all the Power. She shoved it vi­o­lently back at those who had sent it, mul­ti­ply­ing it ten­fold. She twisted into it her own Power, forc­ing them to be still, no mat­ter their pain, si­lenc­ing their screams of agony.

Their bod­ies were the first Pro­tec­tions: ever­liv­ing pil­lars of pain, sur­round­ing what would be­come the Pro­tec­torate, a warn­ing few tested.

Lee won­dered if Dorel thought the cre­ation of The Pro­tec­torate had been worth the pain that she had in­flicted upon their at­tack­ers. She had tried many times to ask him, and he would never an­swer, but his non-an­swer was never as good as a “no.”

It had taken a decade be­fore he had con­vinced her to let them pass on, to snap their necks and be done with them—and even then, she had left stat­ues in their wake, still watch­ing, still warn­ing.

Per­haps, she thought, the bat­tle be­tween them had never truly ended. She still wanted to get from him a—

The Pro­tec­to­rum shook. It was the din­ing area—just where that first at­tack oc­curred.

She heard loud crashes, and hur­ried her pace. The doors opened be­fore her; the walls she had once lay­ered with Power now bent them­selves apart be­fore her, crunch­ing and moan­ing. Then, she saw:

Lee had never thought The Huntress a con­cern. She would wear her­self out, or at­tack the wrong Pro­tec­tor.

Dorel was cer­tainly the wrong Pro­tec­tor to at­tack.

But The Huntress should­n’t have been able to punch through the Pro­tec­tions. Should­n’t have been able to ap­pear in­side their Power-laden wall and blast it apart. Should­n’t have—

Dorel was not fair­ing well. He was stronger than this, he—

Spears of Power formed around Lee, dan­ger­ous and itch­ing to maim, and shot at The Huntress. A swing of The Huntress’s sword sent the spears ca­reen­ing back at Lee, all strength­ened ten­fold with The Huntress’s own Power.

Lee knew she should have sim­ply moved out of the way, but she re­fused. In­stead, she sent all the Power back once more, again mul­ti­plied ten­fold—two could play at that, and Lee’s Power was Great. The spears all crack­led bright white,

Dorel would be fine, if per­haps coated in blood.

The spears hit The Huntress with a loud clang. But when the light cleared, she was still there.

The Huntress stepped in­side, out of what re­mained of the wall. She grew with every fall of her feet.

Her hand shot out. Grabbed Dorel by the hair. She glanced at Lee, then her sword flashed up be­fore Lee could even—

The Huntress kicked Dorel’s body as it fell, fling­ing it at Lee, into her arms. Lee thought she could feel the Power leav­ing him—she never told him, but it was nearly as great as her own. She wanted to take it, save it, keep it, but it slipped from her…

Lee felt the shock­wave of Power pass through her as The Huntress van­ished, Dorel’s head with her.

She gen­tly laid Dorel’s head­less body on the blood-stained mar­ble floor.

This should not have hap­pened. Dorel should have seen it. And it should­n’t have mat­tered what he saw, Lee should have been able to stop it.

The trail of Power The Huntress had left be­hind had not yet faded.

Lee adopted her calm coun­te­nance, but it was be­lied by the ten­sion in her every mus­cle, and the flex­ing of her fin­gers, reach­ing for some­thing to tear and break.

Lee knew what was go­ing to hap­pen.

She would make it so.

El­lie, Rose, and Lau­ren

“That’s… fright­en­ing,” El­lie said. She made her­self breathe, un­curled her toes, and un­clenched her hands. Was it ex­cite­ment or fear twist­ing her stom­ach around?

Even she could see the crater in front of them: the Power was bright as day, still re­ver­ber­at­ing in the ground, still ra­di­at­ing into the sky. Would it ever die? Even now, it threat­ened to break them, if not for their own con­sid­er­able Power keep­ing them to­gether.

Lau­ren smiled in pride. “We think she can make it a bit stronger if she—“

“On a bad day,” El­lie in­ter­rupted, “I would love to un­leash this to the Pro­tec­torate.”

She could hear Lau­ren look at Rose.

It would all be gone. Just… gone. In an in­stant it would van­ish.

There had not been a day so bad, yet. But El­lie could feel it com­ing.

Lau­ren still had hope. When they be­came Pro­tec­tors, she said, they could change things. But El­lie was never as op­ti­mistic. If there was change, it was too slow.

“I might. But you would­n’t, Rose. Not even af­ter every­thing,” said El­lie. “And Lau­ren, you def­i­nitely would­n’t.”

“But Rose is so strong—“

Rose touched El­lie’s arm gen­tly. “You’re right, though,” she said.

“No, no,” El­lie said. “I don’t mean— I’m just cu­ri­ous what you’re plan­ning, that’s all.”

She did­n’t want to barge into Rose’s and Lau­ren’s prac­tic­ing and tell them what they should be do­ing. Why had she made them take her? She fought to keep her small smile on her face, fought not to curl in­wards. Her own in­se­cu­ri­ties weren’t theirs—

She felt Rose’s arm wrap around her, then Lau­ren’s.

“Ac­tu­ally, El­lie,” said Lau­ren. “We could use some help with that. But it can wait un­til to­mor­row. Rose? Take us home?”

With a bang, they were gone.

El­lie

El­lie did not scream as the pur­ple lance of Power ripped her arm away. She only fell. Her head banged against the tiles, and the sounds be­came faded.

She heard a yell. Felt a wave of Power. Thuds sounded across the room. She felt vi­bra­tions in the floor.

The air shook as it was pierced by a tremen­dous lance of Power. A brief scream, a hor­ri­ble rip­ping sound, a splat­ter— and then, a warm, salty, metal­lic mist.

Rose’s hand gripped her arm.

A loud bang, and it was all quiet. The air was crisp and clean. A soft breeze brushed across her. She could hear the leaves rus­tle, but it was dis­tant, and slowly be­com­ing moreso…

“Lau­ren,” Rose said, her voice far away, “Could you… She’s los­ing…”

A warm em­brace sur­rounded her, and she let her­self go.

El­lie stirred. She felt Lau­ren’s hand brush through her hair.

She tried to say some­thing, but Lau­ren shushed her. She tried to reach for Lau­ren, but her arm did not an­swer. She was­n’t in her own bed. The sounds were all wrong. Every­thing was—

“It’ll be okay, it’ll all be okay,” whis­pered Lau­ren. “There’ll be a way, Rose will find a way.“

A door creaked open, and heavy foot­steps en­tered, soft­en­ing as they ap­proached.

Some­thing thud­ded mess­ily onto a table.

El­lie felt Lau­ren squeeze her hand. “Him?” she asked, her voice not quite be­liev­ing.

Rose shuf­fled. Did she nod?

“Put him by the rest,” Lau­ren com­manded. “Wait, Rose— Let me take the—”

Rose handed Lau­ren some­thing. It must have been a sword, for it was then sheathed, and placed some­where next to the bed.

What­ever had been set upon the table was lifted off it.

“Was it only Dorel, or also Lee?” Lau­ren asked.

“I don’t…” El­lie said. It was so much harder than usual. “What—“

“Shh,” in­sisted Lau­ren. “You’ll be okay, we’ll get—“

El­lie felt her face twitch in frus­tra­tion. A flash of Power flowed through her, and she forced her­self to speak. “Lau­ren. What hap­pened?”

Lau­ren took a breath in, but could­n’t bring her­self to say it—

“Now, Lau­ren.”

“We were at­tacked,” she said. “Three weeks ago. You were… hurt.”

El­lie could feel Lau­ren’s Power brush­ing over her right shoul­der, and could feel her own Power do the same— but there was noth­ing there.

She felt her breath leave her.

“Shh, El­lie, we’ll fig­ure it out, we’ll find a—“

“You and Rose?” she asked. She could­n’t think about her­self. The never-would-bes would swal­low her whole, they had when she was younger, she re­mem­bered, it was all the same, it was all gone—

Rose. Lau­ren.

They were still here.

She could hear Rose across the room, near the warmth—a fire­place?—ar­rang­ing things upon the mantle­piece.

“We’re fine, El­lie,” said Lau­ren. “We’re find­ing the ones who did this. They will—“

“They will meet the sword,” Rose in­ter­rupted, her voice harder than El­lie had ever heard it. “Af­ter they talk.”

“Good,” said El­lie. She heard a hard edge in her voice, mir­ror­ing Rose’s. “Who have you…” El­lie trailed off as some­thing fa­mil­iar echoed in the back of her mind, mem­o­ries just out of reach.

“Who have you found?” she heard her­self ask.

Rose’s hand gripped El­lie’s. “We found who you asked us to,” she said, softly.

She re­mem­bered some­thing, but could­n’t re­call what it was. Why could­n’t she—

“El­lie, you’ll be okay, it’ll just be tem­po­rary, we’ll—“

“Who have you fond?” com­manded El­lie. She could­n’t think about how she could­n’t think, but it was com­ing to­gether, it was just there—

The crack­ling of the fire nearly masked the al­most im­per­cep­ti­ble wind that brushed over her.

“My brother,” said a new voice, oddly fa­mil­iar, oddly cold. “His head now adorns your mantle­piece. A tro­phy from your Huntress.”

Lee. The Great Pro­tec­tor. The Met­tle.

El­lie felt Rose’s hand grow in her own, from small and soft to large and heavy—still soft—be­fore it dis­en­tan­gled it­self.

The sword flew from its scab­bard, the scab­bard clat­ter­ing to the ground. It sliced through the air, and its hilt hit Rose’s hand.

“Huntress,” said Lee.

A shock­wave slammed into El­lie, rock­ing the bed. But there was no sound of im­pact.

Three more shock­waves hit in quick suc­ces­sion, and again, no im­pact.

El­lie tried to pool her own Power, but it would­n’t leave her shoul­der, scream­ing for her, try­ing to reach her hand. She could hear it, yelling out for her—

The sword swung through the air, im­pact­ing with an ugly crunch. Rose roared as she banged away at Lee again and again, each hit only warp­ing the sword.

The sword clat­tered to the ground.

And Rose’s fu­ri­ous Power fell away.

Was Rose—?

El­lie let out a breath as she felt Rose’s Power again, lanc­ing through the air, joined by Lau­ren’s, crash­ing against Lee’s from both sides.

The clang al­most deaf­ened her, but over it, she felt a pulse of Power shove Rose and Lau­ren through the air…

But while they flew, they sent their own spikes of Power back.

One clanged against Power.

The other squelched through some­thing fleshy.

A wave of fu­ri­ous heat as­saulted El­lie as she heard Lau­ren and Rose right them­selves.

She heard Rose take a heavy step for­ward, and Lau­ren be­gin to charge, only for them both to stop sud­denly, frozen, ut­terly silent.

Lau­ren’s own Power fee­bly bat­ted at the Power twist­ing around her—El­lie could al­most see it. But the Power would­n’t budge. It held Lau­ren still, even her lungs, and was slowly reach­ing for her heart.

Rose’s Power, though, en­tan­gled it­self with the Power sur­round­ing her, and pulled. Lee’s Power pulled back. Rose’s Power tried to loosen Lee’s grip on Lau­ren, but it could­n’t quite make it. Lau­ren strug­gled for breath, as did Lee, as did Rose…

El­lie jerked her­self up, and her right shoul­der for­wards. Waves of pain hit her, but the Power flew out, and she forced it around Lee’s and Rose’s, and as she fell back, it jerked harshly.

Lee stum­bled, her Power with­draw­ing. Lau­ren fell to the floor.

Rose stepped for­ward. The sword flew to her hand.

A lance of Power es­caped Lee.

El­lie tried to catch it. Her Power did not an­swer.

Rose fell.

El­lie could hear the blood flow.

Lau­ren gasped and scram­bled for Rose, her own Power crack­ling chaotic around her.

A lance of Power; a pierc­ing sound; a thud against the wall…

Power washed over El­lie as Lee turned to face her.

El­lie forced her own Power through her body, and made her­self stand.

She reached out her hand.

Lee’s met it, warm, bloody, a hole through it from where Rose’s Power had pierced it.

El­lie felt up the arm, up to Lee’s face.

“It had to be,” said Lee.

El­lie felt Lee’s cheek­bones, her nose, her mouth…

She gasped, mo­men­tar­ily with­draw­ing her hand, as she felt Rose’s and Lau­ren’s Power be­gin to drift away.

Her own Power tried to shove it back into their bod­ies, tried to keep it there, but there was so much, and it would­n’t stay—

And she felt Lee’s Power, al­most as great as Rose’s had been, and…

El­lie grabbed it all, and tore it away. Rose and Lau­ren’s Power wove into her own, fill­ing her with all that was left of them.

Lee’s Power she tore to shreds, be­fore con­sum­ing it all, from the small con­ve­niences in Lee’s home to The Great Pro­tec­tions them­selves. And with them Lee fell, emit­ting a soft gasp, to her knees.

El­lie reached for Lee’s head. Grabbed. Twisted.

She held Lee’s head there for a mo­ment, feel­ing her weight. When she let go, Lee dropped away, land­ing with only a small thump.

El­lie crawled to where Lau­ren and Rose had fallen. They were still warm, but their skin was too still.

She thought, maybe if she co­erced some Power into them, she could fix them, but noth­ing took, noth­ing held. They may as well have been wood or glass or stone.

Her hand gripped Lau­ren’s, but Lau­ren did­n’t grip back. She pulled on Rose’s nose, but no cute lit­tle laugh an­swered.

She em­braced them both, but no arms cir­cled around her own.

“Please,” she begged. “Please?”

Only the gen­tle evening breeze an­swered, qui­etly cool­ing the wet­ness upon her cheeks.

As the evening breeze turned to dawn, she tore her­self away.

Opened the door. Stepped out­side. Reached the cliff.

Sat.

The Pro­tec­torate be­low drifted up to her ears, no longer Pro­tected. Would the peo­ple at­tack each other; would they be at­tacked by out­siders? Would the free Power eat at them, dis­turb their bod­ies un­til they per­ished?

Enough Power coursed through El­lie to raise Pro­tec­tions far greater than had ever cov­ered the Pro­tec­torate. The peo­ple could be safe. She could pro­tect them.

And enough Power coursed through El­lie to de­stroy it all, in fire or wa­ter or in noth­ing­ness it­self. It would all be gone. Just… gone.

She sat on the cliff.

There with their Power. There, wrapped in what re­mained of them.

There, with them, yet still,

There,

Alone.