The children are playing in the garden when I find them.
Three of them—refugees from the northern territories, barely old enough to understand why their parents brought them here. They’ve built a fort out of fallen branches beneath the mira trees, their laughter echoing off the sanctuary walls like something precious and fragile.
The youngest one, a girl with dark curls, looks up as I approach. Her eyes go wide—not with fear, exactly, but with the careful awareness children learn when they’ve seen too much too young.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
The question hits harder than it should. Because no, everything is not okay. The woman these children think saved them hasn’t walked these paths in weeks. Hasn’t checked on the crops, or asked about the barriers, or stopped to watch them play the way she used to.
I know why she stopped.
But they don’t.
“Everything’s fine,” I tell her, crouching down to her level. “Just making sure everyone’s settled.”
She studies my face with the intensity only children possess. “You’re not her.”
“No,” I agree. “I’m not.”
“Will she come back?”
The question lodges in my throat like broken glass. Because the real answer—that she never left, but something else is wearing her face—isn’t something I can explain to a six-year-old who’s already lost everything once.
“I don’t know,” I say instead. “But you’re safe here. I promise.”
She nods solemnly, then returns to her game. But I catch the way her shoulders stay tense, the way she glances toward the sanctuary doors like she’s waiting for someone who might never come.
She’ll walk this path again if I have anything to say about it. I will find her.
I straighten and continue my rounds.
This is what Bree used to do. Every morning, without fail. Check the perimeter. Visit the newest arrivals. Make sure the children were eating, the elderly were comfortable, the Feeders weren’t pushing themselves too hard. Small gestures that kept the sanctuary functioning as more than just a collection of refugees hiding from the world.
I’m efficient at it. Thorough. But I lack her warmth, the way she made everyone feel seen instead of managed.
Still, it needs doing. And if she’s not, if this impostor won’t, then someone has to fill the void.
The irony isn’t lost on me. For centuries, I served the Council’s interests above everything else. Played their game, followed their rules, convinced myself that survival required sacrificing pieces of my soul until nothing remained but strategy and hunger.
Now I find myself protecting the very thing they want to destroy.
A woman walks toward me from the eastern garden—Mairen, the Feeder woman who arrived first with her family. Her face brightens when she sees me, relief evident in the way her shoulders relax.
“Thane,” she says, slightly breathless. “I was hoping to catch you. The children have been asking about magic lessons. Nothing dangerous,” she adds quickly. “Just… basics. How to recognize their gifts when they emerge.”
The request is reasonable. Necessary, even. Most of the refugee children have magical parents but no formal training. They’ll need guidance as their abilities develop.
But the thought of organizing lessons, of planning for their futures, assumes we have a future to plan for.
“I’ll see what can be arranged,” I tell her. “Perhaps Theo could help. His gift is gentle enough for children.”
“Thank you.” Her smile is genuine, grateful. “It would mean so much to them. To all of us.”
I nod and turn to continue my rounds, but her voice stops me.
“Thane?” She hesitates, then forges ahead. “Is she… is everything all right with her?”
The question I’ve been dreading.
