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A few years ago, Bayla got the traditional tattoos of her village—four gold lines that run through her bottom lip, down her chin. The gold is bright against her tawny complexion.

They’re to symbolize dragon teeth. Bron went more modern and got a dragon in black ink on his left arm, the art running from wrist to shoulder.

The dragon is the deity they worship, the God of the North. For centuries, they would celebrate the god at the autumn equinox by building a dragon out of bent wood, fabric, and fur. Several dancers were selected and trained to dance at the festival to bring good luck for the harvest and blessings to the people.

It was seen as not only an honor, but a huge responsibility because if a dancer were to trip, it was an omen of bad luck and great shame.

When I asked them when a dancer last fumbled the dance, they grew serious and said, “The year the gods disappeared.”

The dancers have fumbled the dance every year since.

Of course, the village wasn’t to blame for the disappearance of the gods, but I’ve always been under the impression that if I tried to talk them out of this responsibility, they would take it as an affront.

So I leave it be.

I have my own theories about the gods, but I’m still working on the proof.

“The girl,” I repeat.

“Should we be worried?” Bron asks.

I don’t know. Maybe. No. Maybe.

“She has magic,” I say.

Bayla frowns. “Witch?”

As the daughter of a witch, Bayla inherited magic. She burns quartz for power. Mostly milky quartz because it’s easiest to come by. For rarer occasions, when she needs a bigger surge, she’ll burn citrine or cotterite. She will tell you she’s not as powerful as her mother, but that’s a lie. She’s more powerful. She just doesn’t use it the same way Prisma did. Bayla’s magic is more nebulous, more of a feeling than an action. She is very good at persuading people to her commands.

It’s why she’s so fucking good at leading the Cardinal Command.

“I don’t think she needed a source to burn,” I confess.

Though Bron and Bayla don’t make a sound, I can still sense their collective interest, almost like an intake of breath.

Bron heads to the cabinet near the bank of windows. On top is a collection of crystal decanters with brandy, rum, and mead. Bron selects the brandy, yanking out the stout crystal cork.

“I’ll take one,” I tell him.

He glances at his sister. “No, thank you,” she says. “I’m returning to Eisvale tonight with Lacosta. There are reports of the fighting trees growing agitated again.”

The Ancient Forest in the north has been giving the locals trouble since the war. Another one of the unfortunate Great and Terrible Curses. The trees are out for blood.

“Set up a perimeter,” I tell her. “Don’t risk yourself.”

“If I burn enough quartz,” she says, “I can usually talk them down for a few weeks.”

Talk them down, like they’re sentient. Maybe they are.

Bron hands me the glass.

“Fine. But be careful.”

Bayla clasps her hands behind her. “It’ll help quell some of the unease.”

Unease. Unrest. It’s almost like the people of Oz have sensed turmoil again. The East was getting reckless and the West was getting greedy. I always knew my relationship with the Cardinal Witches and the treaty between us was tenuous. None of it was built to last. Because ultimately, I want to rule and rule alone.

I want to be the most powerful person in Oz.