Wanted.
I braced myself against the biting wind, fearing I might freeze on the moorland.
Gray clouds stroked snow-capped hills as a chalky path wove through mounds of frosted greenery.
Sticking to the trail, I hoped to stumble upon a villager or a vagrant who could point me toward the Walled City.
But my faith waned faster than the remaining light.
For nearly three days, I’d trudged onward without seeing another soul.
All I’d heard were disembodied voices in the whipping winds as my lonely mind longed for interaction.
Part of me wondered if I’d died beneath that oak tree on the first night—if I was in purgatory, condemned to endlessly roam the green for an eternity.
I shivered inside Finn’s tunic, which gaped from my frame and allowed the biting breeze to brush my bare skin.
His breeches were no better—too long, with dragging hems that collected sticky cleaver leaves and burdock seeds as I marched.
I lost count of how many times I’d tripped over them, cursing the fabric as if the breeches were to blame.
As the memory of warmth faded, and I believed I’d never feel it again, something appeared on the horizon. In the distance, I could see what looked like stone cottages. A village, I thought. I bunched up the hems of my breeches and ran.
“Hello!” I screamed, running with haste toward what I hoped was civilization.
For a moment, I could feel the heat of a bonfire and see smoke puffing out of chimney tops. I imagined myself seated beside an open hearth, eating a hot meal and drinking belly-warming ale. But as I approached, my relief turned to despair. It wasn’t a village, but a stone circle.
At its center stood a weathered sundial, but the gnomon cast no shadow. On the hilltop beyond, overgrown bramble bushes blocked out the little light winter offered. Clearly, many years had passed since anyone set foot here.
Engraved beneath the sundial was a design—a circle enclosing what looked like a six-petaled flower, surrounded by words, nearly lost to erosion, inscribed in Yfelle.
I pieced together the remaining letters and read aloud:
“Follwen’he Seolfor Wicce.” Follow the Silver Witch.
The words left my lips with an ease that shocked me—I’d never learned to read, yet I understood them perfectly. My mind turned to the vision Dog had shown me: the woman with purpled palms and a mane of sterling locks. Was she the Silver Witch? And if she was, who was she?
Overwhelmed by sorrow, I slumped onto a lump of sandstone, tears brimming in my eyes. My heart sank faster than a heavy rock hurled into a lake. Hiding my magical abilities meant I never truly understood who I was, and the burden of that uncertainty weighed on me heavier than ever.
As my thoughts turned to Avice, tears spilled down my cheeks. All of me had hoped her hatred was shallow—that if she ever discovered my witchhood, she’d look deeper and question whether magic was truly as evil as her father claimed. But I was wrong. And now, she was dead.
I wailed like a newborn, while my stomach rumbled in agonizing hunger.
After a moment of self-pity, I slapped my own cheek. “Pull yourself together,” I croaked, trying to steady my breath.
With weary legs, I stumbled to my numb feet and pressed onward. Though it felt as if I’d walked for longer than a day, the sun still lingered behind a thick wall of clouds. I crouched beside a frozen stream, its water flowing beneath a thin layer of ice.
Clenching my hand into a fist, I punched through the sheet, cracking both the ice and my knuckle. Ouch, I thought, shaking off the thumping pain. I plunged my fingers into the frigid water, cupping a handful and bringing it to my quivering lips.
“Oi!” a voice called.
I glanced skyward, wiping my freezing hands against my cloak as I scanned the moorland for the source.
A whistle rang out. My gaze shot up, catching a glimpse of movement where the sky touched a snowy peak—a waving hand, high up on a hilltop.
Laughing weakly, I waved back, doubting my own eyes and convinced it was a mirage. But as three men, all with white hair, bounded down the hillside, I realized they were as real as I.
“You, boy!” the roundest of the trio shouted, his baggy breaches swishing like a skirt as he galloped toward me.
As they drew near, I noticed that one of them was hiding a black eye and cut lip beneath the rim of a worn felt hat. My pulse quickened, fearing they were thugs.
“I’m not a boy,” I snapped, momentarily forgetting I was no longer Niamh. “I’m a man,” I corrected myself, puffing my chest like I’d seen so many men do.
All three of them chuckled.
The bruised one plucked my flat cap off my head. “Nice,” he muttered, examining the stitching.
I reached for my father’s cap as the fat man looked me up and down.
“Sorry, you’re just so small,” he said with a sarcastic smirk—his teeth browning like an apple core rotting in the sun.
Snatching my cap back, I clutched it tightly against my chest. “Not where it counts,” I retorted.
Their laughter boomed, echoing through the hills. I tightened my fists, worrying they’d pick on me because of my small stature.
The tallest of the three stepped forward, presenting his gloved hand. “I’m Bash,” he said, his smile warm and kind, stretching all the way to his storm-gray eyes.
I shook his hand, still feeling wary.
“They call me Fletcher,” declared the man with the split lip.
He tipped his hat before elbowing the round one. “This is Arthur. And you are?”
Despite all the time I’d had to prepare an alias, I hadn’t thought of one. I was preoccupied with survival and self-loathing.
“Finn,” I blurted—my brother’s name escaping my dry mouth. “Finn Smith.”
Unease flickered in my chest. I prayed I wouldn’t come to rue that name choice.
“Son of a blacksmith?” Bash asked.
I nodded stiffly.
“I’m the son of a carpenter,” he replied, showing me that gentle smile again. “I guess we’re both good with our hands.”
Arthur ran his fingers through what remained of his white hair. “If the boy’s called Smith, did you really have to ask if he was the son of a blacksmith? That’s how surnames work,” he scoffed, nudging Fletcher with his elbow as if fishing for agreement.
“You’re the son of a cunt,” Bash said with a wicked smirk. “Last time I checked your name wasn’t Arthur Cunt—or am I mistaken?”
Fletcher roared with laughter, blood trickling from his split lip as his mouth opened wide. He slapped the lapel on Bash’s long coat like he’d said something profound rather than crude.
“Shut it,” Arthur snapped, swinging a punch toward the pair but missing them both.
Bash, still chuckling at his own jest, turned to me. “We’re looking for a stone circle,” he said. “A landmark to make sure we’re trekking in the right direction.”
“I saw one, not far from here,” I replied, pointing down the path I’d just walked.
Bash sighed, obviously relieved. “We’re heading the right way.”
“Thanks for your help,” Fletcher said, giving me a hearty pat on the back.
Arthur eyed me warily one last time before the trio marched away, their white heads bobbing as they departed down the path. Fletcher’s cackles still echoed behind them as they put distance between us.
My legs twitched with slight hesitation. They might be the last people I saw again for days, and though this band of white-haired men were far from my ideal companions, I couldn’t survive another second wandering the sea of snowy green alone.
“I’m lost,” I shouted after them. “I’m trying to find the Walled City.”
“Smith, you’re in luck,” Bash called over his shoulder. “That’s where we’re heading.”
I ran in their direction as they continued through the hills.
Once I caught up, I asked, “Why are you going there?”
“We’re joining the fight,” Fletcher replied.
“Not willingly—we’ve been conscripted,” Arthur added. “I assume that’s why you’re going?”
I shook my head. He was farther from the truth than I was from home.
“I’m starting a new life.”
“Good for you,” Bash said. “The end is nigh for us.” He let out a heavy sigh. “We were traveling with a group of ten seamen from the Headlands, but someone caused a bit of trouble when we stopped over in the Middlelands. Now we’re a day behind the rest. I won’t bore you with the details, but…”
He gestured toward Fletcher. “Sticky fingers here, gets grabby after a few ales. His thieving hands found their way into the pocket of a nobleman.”
“I got accused of stealing,” Fletcher said, punching his fist into his hand as if reliving the altercation in his mind.
Bash chuckled. “You don’t like being accused of stealing, do you, cousin?”
Beneath his cap, Fletcher’s expression remained stern. “No.”
Arthur sighed, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “A brawl broke out, and it took some lengthy negotiations to persuade the Baron of Middleston to release Fletcher from the dungeons.”
Fletcher grinned, raising his hands to wiggle his ring-stacked fingers. “Was worth it,” he declared proudly, showing off his shiny loot.
* * *
It was dark by the time we found somewhere to rest. Beneath a canopy outside of an old inn, we took shelter. A flaking yellow circle was painted on the swinging signboard above the entrance, shining brighter than the cloud-wreathed crescent in the sky.
“The Full Moon,” Fletcher announced, pointing at the sign. “Let’s hope we can stay here till sunrise.”
The inn looked ancient and tired. Barren, gray branches of wisteria held the crumbling bricks together, while the purple leaves of frostbitten ivy tucked itself into the nooks.
Though the thatched roof sagged with decay, an amber glow seeped through shuttered windows, and plumes of smoke chuffed out of a sugarloaf-shaped chimney. The warmth was inviting.
Inside the shelter, a carving of a winged creature was etched into a weathered wooden plank. I ran my fingertips across the fading etchings, trying to understand what they meant.