The air inside the Venandi’s keep was heavy with heat, dry enough to tickle Wil’s throat and eyes. The main concourse was all open archways and staggered columns, which only served to coat everything in a layer of dust that blew in with the breeze.

The carriage ride south from Ennore had been long and bumpy, as the roads around Nava gradually became crumbled and worn. The keep wasn’t in the ruins themselves, of course, but close enough that Wil could see the broken structures of Nava from the third level windows in the hall.

His shoes scuffed along the tiled limestone floors, dyed and arranged into geometric mosaics. He stared at the patterns as he walked next to the Master, wishing he were back home in the palace with Mother. The halls on the upper levels were teeming with boys at many ages, hurrying to their respective dormitory rooms and bumping into Wil. He kept his eyes downcast, not wanting to alert the prospective witch hunters to the presence of a half witch in their midst.

The Master stopped him in front of an open doorway. “In here,” he said. “Your clothing and articles have been sent ahead, as well as your uniform.” He gestured for Wil to enter. “Initiation is tomorrow morning,” he said, and brushed past Wil, leaving him in the hallway outside the dormitory.

Wil took a deep breath before he entered. A boy looked up from where he sat on a threadbare bed, his skinny legs hanging off the edge. His skin was tanned and his brown hair was mussed and cut short to his head, his feet bare and a little grubby.

“Hello,” the boy said. “Is it true yer a halfy?”

Wil wrapped his arms around himself, his shoulders curling inward. He nodded meekly.

The boy grinned and hopped off the bed. “That’s so class! I’ve never met a halfy!”

Wil gave the boy his best impression of his father’s scowl, though surely he looked less angry and more like he felt—frightened and more alone than he’d ever been in his life.

Wil had his notebook in his pocket, and he drew it out. He held his hand as steadily as he could as he wrote, Don’t call me that. He held the notebook out for the boy to read.

The boy gave a perplexed look. “Why do ye write instead of talking?” he asked. “Do ye not talk?”

Wil bent his head to write in the notebook again. I can’t hear. He signed it too, moving his pointer finger from his mouth to his ear in a quick arc.

The boy’s eyes widened a little. “Really? Shite.” He considered for a moment. “Well, if ye cannae hear, then I suppose I’ll haftae be yer ears, eh?”

Wil blinked. It took his mind a moment to catch up to what the boy was saying. Wil had grown up watching peoples’ mouths to read their lips, but this boy spoke so quickly—and his words looked funny. Finally Wil’s brain caught up, and he shook his head. Why would you want to do that? he wrote in his notebook.

The boy shrugged. “We’re goin’ to be here for the next ten years, ye ken? Why no’ do it all together?”

His answer surprised a small smile from Wil, and he found himself nodding. The boy grinned and stuck out his hand. Wil took it, the boy’s palm warm and confident against his.

“I’m Dixon Thorne,” he said. “It’s verrae nice to meet ye, Wil Ulric.”

She’ll come for the Solis sooner or later, Wil signed. We just have to wait her out.

Dixon nodded. The pair perched on a tiled rooftop, watching the city sleep. Behind them, the palace’s turrets loomed tall.

He couldn’t hear the chirping of the early spring insects in the night or the shuffle of Dixon’s movements next to him. But between the waxing moons in the sky and his own sharp eyes, Wil saw the city laid out before him. He picked out the small and large squares, the massive temple where citizens worshipped the gods, the nobles’ district and the slums. He could see it all clearly in the darkness—his hunting ground and his home.

Wil saw the fire before Dixon did. It started as a faint orange glow in the small square, almost obstructed by the buildings surrounding it. He gave a soft snap of his fingers, and then Dixon spotted it too.

“Oh, feck me,” he muttered.

The pair stood and raced along the rooftops toward the small square. The fire grew, and Wil caught the unmistakable stench of charred flesh and burnt hair as they drew closer.

The heat that rose up to meet them couldn’t have been natural. Sweat beaded on Wil’s forehead. Below him in the streets, people ran in the opposite direction, dragging cranky, half-asleep children from their homes. He couldn’t hear them, of course, but he imagined they were screaming.

He and Dixon slid to a stop, sending pebbles flying from the rooftop where they stood. Wil had to blink back tears as smoke pricked his eyes.

The stake was alight, dais and barracks and all. Several men were tied to the stake as it burned, and their bodies crumbled with the structure as it fell.

And standing before the fire was a woman, dressed in all black and twisting a lock of bright white hair around her finger like she was observing a boring play.

“Oh, feck me right in the arse,” Dixon grumbled. “The Ghost.”