“Five guards dead and six witches escaped,” Lysander fumed. “How in the hells did this happen?”

General Heard frowned. “I received reports of a rebel ambush outside the city,” he said. “I took all my best men to hold them off—”

“As more rebels broke into the fort you left undefended,” the king said.

The general winced almost imperceptibly. Next to him stood a private, no older than sixteen, his shoulders curled inward and his arms crossed meekly in front of his body.

Wil dug into his pocket and pulled out the small leatherbound notebook he kept in his pocket. It was only about the size of his palm, with a stick of hard charcoal stuck through a small loop on the cover. He opened it and wrote on a blank page. Did you see what happened here? He held the page up for the private to read.

The private nodded. “I-I went out to take a piss,” he said. “When I came back, my mates weren’t at their posts, so I went looking for them. I found them dead in the halls, and I-I saw the prisoners leaving through the back door down by the kitchens.

“There was someone guiding them out. I couldn’t see her face too clearly, but she had white hair—but she wasn’t old. She couldn’t have been older than the Still—th-than you, sir,” the private stammered, addressing Wil. “I couldn’t see her eyes, but I’m sure she was a witch.”

“That’s not all,” the general added. “They stole records on the Artifacts from my office.”

“What?” Lysander snapped. The general stammered something, trying to placate the king.

Wil had seen an Artifact once. He’d been a boy, only five or so, a few years before he would go to the Venandi, and Natalia had taken him down to the vault below the palace. The small room was heavily guarded and entirely silver, which seemed silly to Wil because the Solis wasn’t affected by the pure metal the way witches were.

Wil remembered standing up on his tiptoes and being entranced by the pale gold glow of the small shard of stone. He’d felt the gentle warmth it emanated, the thrum-buzz and bated breath of its power. The Solis was only the size of his finger—it would have been big in his small hand, but Natalia stopped him from touching it.

“Careful, my dear,” she said, setting a hand on his arm. “This stone is very old and very powerful.”

How old is it? he signed, his little fingers a bit clumsy.

Natalia knelt to pick him up, cradling him on her hip. “Almost as old as the lands that make up Serin and the rest of the world,” she said. “There was an ancient witch who created seven stones, each filled with powerful magic. The witch used them to transform people, to make them witches like him. And for a very long time the witches used their power to rule over the world.”

Then what? he signed.

“There was a war, just a little while before you were born, and your father helped take the stones from the witches,” Natalia continued, gently tapping his nose with her finger. “We keep this one safe here in the palace, but the others are hidden all around the world to keep the witches from using them.”

That had been nineteen years ago. In all that time, the Artifacts had sat safely in their hiding places, with the witches who could wield them kept at a distance by a wall of silver. The witches of the world—the rebellion included—hadn’t had access to the stones in twenty-five years.

So what information was the general keeping safe for the crown? And why would the rebels break into his office to steal it?

Wil wrote in his notebook and held it up for the general to see. What information was taken?

Heard sighed. “The locations of the Artifacts and the places they were taken from,” he said. “Knowledge that has been kept secret to everyone but the crown since the war.”

Get me a copy of the records, if you can, Wil wrote. I need to speak to my informant and see what I can gather on this white-haired woman.

The general nodded, agreeing to follow the witch hunter’s orders. Beside him, Wil felt the king grasp his arm.

“Find that witch and those documents,” Lysander growled. “She and those godsdamned rebels cannot get their hands on the Artifacts. I want them moved, and I want her brought to justice if it’s the last thing you do.”

Dixon ran a small shop in the large market square of Ennore. It was filled with small trinkets: little carved knights astride horses and paper lanterns to be hung in rows between rooflines during festivals. There were polished metal sculptures that tinkled as the wind from the open windows jostled them, geodes cracked down the middle to reveal the glittering ore hidden inside.

The door to the shop opened and knocked against the small bell hanging in the entryway as Wil entered the space. Dixon poked his head up from behind the table on the far end of the room and gave a broad smile in greeting.

“Wil, hey,” he said, signing his friend’s name.

I’ve got a challenge for you, Wil signed. Have you ever heard of a witch with white hair?

“White hair?” Dixon repeated. “I think ye mean a geriatric, mate.”

Wil shook his head. No. Someone young—our age. Dixon frowned a little, his brows furrowing. When he didn’t respond, Wil chuckled silently. Have I stumped you for once?

Dixon smirked. “I didnae say that.” Wil raised a dark brow, and Dixon leaned forward on the table, resting his weight on his elbows. “She’s known only as the Ghost.”

Any whispers of who she really is?

Dixon shook his head. “Alas, that’s one thing I cannae tell ye,” he said. “But I can tell ye she’s an assassin and a thief. And a verrae powerful witch.”

And what do you know of the Artifacts? Wil signed.

Dixon’s eyes narrowed. “The Artifacts are hidden away,” he said. “They’ve been hidden since the war.”

The Ghost stole records of their locations from a guard fort within the city last night, he signed. I can think of only one reason she would want to know where they are.

Dixon nodded. “Aye, I think I can too.”

Wil gave a small smile and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. So let’s go catch ourselves a witch.