Pain like she had never felt coursed through her nerves. She blamed it on the longsword lodged in her gut. The coward who had wielded the weapon fled once she had been struck. The man had barely been able to lift the sword, yet he was able to wound her. Anger boiled in her veins at the thought of a shameful death. Imagining Kenmel’s gleeful face worsened her blinding humiliation. 

Her hands pressed on the wound, the pressure slowing the bleeding. But she knew that without medical attention she would die. She surveyed the sprawling pastures of the Minastav countryside. Tucked away in a distant corner of some farmer’s field, she knew that no one would find her. She hesitated to yell for help because her mission had been botched, and she didn’t want any of the coward’s friends finding her. 

She shifted, which caused another wave of burning pain. She couldn’t tell if the sword went all the way through and couldn’t check. If she pulled it out, she was sure her intestines would follow suit. So, she was stuck. 

It had crossed her mind that she could die like this, but she hadn’t expected it to be this soon. She didn’t know if she preferred the slow bleeding out or if she wished the bumbling fool had hit something more lethal. Immediate death wouldn’t have given her time to wallow in the unfairness of it all. Her dreams of being free had been dashed in an instant. She would die chained to the service; her person immortalized into a medal celebrating her killings. It would be sent to her mother, and Neve hoped the woman wouldn’t put it in the darkness like she had with everything else. 

The tattoo on the back of her neck itched. The fresh ink full of magic that was a beacon to her every move. No corner of the world was safe. She could never run where they can’t find her. 

Sighing, Neve tipped her head back to look at the sky. Somewhere up there, shrouded by the neverending cosmos, the gods and demigods frolicked. Their home safe from the wiles of humans. She wondered what they thought of her, supposing they bothered to think of someone as insignificant as her. Nilalan didn’t. There was no doubt about that. Someone as busy as him spared no thoughts for her. Praying to him never seemed to help. While he was the patron of Zamsune, the divine progenitor was worshiped by all. In Minastav, he was always depicted as a woman, which encited much ire in her mother. The woman complained about how the Stavi got everything wrong and sullied Nilalan’s good name. Neve privately thought her mother said those things to spite her stavi-born ex-husband. 

Rustling grass had Neve slipping her hand over her reuûn'oard, the spell to activate it on the tip of her tongue. 

An old, creaky voice said, “Dear, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Slow shuffling revealed an old woman. Her head wrapped in a shawl, the weathered fabric full of holes. The shawl was embroidered with golden daffodils that swirled in nonsensical patterns. It matched her tattered dress. “I saw you lying there and thought I might help.”

“What can you do?” 

From beneath her skirts, the old woman pulled out a bottle. The unnatural sheen gave away what it was. “A wound like that will surely kill you. This will heal you.”

Neve eyed her suspiciously. She had been taught that potions were not a cure-all, so the woman’s claims were preposterous. But there was no harm in trying. She was dead either way. She asked, “Won’t the sword need to be removed first?”

“Yes, unless you wish to live with a sword in your body.”

She nodded, raising a hand to grip the hilt of the sword. Her teeth dug into her lower lip as she unsheathed the sword from her stomach. Blood flooded her mouth, her lip splitting under the pressure. The squelch of the sword gliding through her blood-slicked organs brought forth a round of nausea. Acid crawled up her throat, condensing into a ball at her vocal cords. If she opened her mouth, she was afraid that it would come spewing out.

When the sword was out, the old woman pried open Neve’s lips. She poured the potion down her throat, then closed her mouth to ensure nothing escaped. The first thing she noticed was how tasteless the potion was. The second thing was how the urge to puke grew, but she forced the liquid down. It settled in her stomach like a iron ball. There was nothing a single potion could do to seal a wound like hers, but the pain receded. 

The old woman unwrapped her shawl, revealing thin, grey hair. She covered Neve’s wound and tied the shawl tight. She asked, “Can you stand, dear?”

“Yeah.” Neve gritted her teeth and pushed herself to stand. Despite the numbing from the potion, she felt twinges of pain. Once she was upright, the old woman held out an arm for her to grab.

“What’s your name, dear?” the old woman asked.

“Usoro. What’s yours?”

“Mirel.” While not a common name in Minastav, she had heard many iterations of it around the world. Many believed that naming their child after the first magician would bring them great strength. 

“Where are we going?” Neve stumbled down the path at Mirel’s side. They had left the farmer’s, walking through the pastures that surrounded the man’s land. 

Mirel glanced up at her, “My house.”

All the instincts that were built by her service screamed at her to protest. Logically, she knew that Mirel had no ill will, but it was hard to ignore her automatic reaction. She replied, “Where is that?”

“Just over this hill.”

The aforementioned hill was a subtle slope, however her wound would make the ascent difficult. She braced herself and proceeded to struggle up the hill. Mirel tried to hide it, but she had a small smile on her face. 

Neve snapped, “This must be so amusing, huh? Laugh at the woman who had a sword in her stomach.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Mirel soothed, “This just reminds me of when I was younger.”

“Help a lot of injured people?”

“You could say that.” 

Mirel’s non-answer had suspicions brewing. She knew that Mirel was a magician, but she wondered if the old woman had ever been to Srauondaái. All the potions she had drank from magicians had been foul. Hers wasn’t. Perhaps only the greatest could produce a tasteless concoction.

Neve said, “That potion of yours was potent.”

“I’ve had years to get it right.”

The door to Mirel’s house appeared faster than she had expected. She was directed into the kitchen, while Mirel went further into the house. Holding a hand to her gash, she sat down in a kitchen chair. Mirel’s house was quaint. The walls were bare, and the furniture was scarce. There was one other chair in the kitchen that was pushed into a rickety table. From what she could see of the living room, a small couch sat surrounded by withered monkshoods in colorful vases. She suddenly worried that she had made a mistake trusting Mirel.

She couldn’t sit there without mentioning what she saw in the living room. “Those flowers are poisonous, you know.”

“I am aware,” Mirel chuckled. She returned with a roll of bandages and another potion, handing the bandages to Neve. “You’ll have to do that yourself. My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Why do you have them? You’ll get sick.” Neve unwrapped the shawl and winced at the blood that covered it. She would have preferred to clean the wound, but she wouldn’t complain about what she got. She wrapped the clean cotton around the gash before swallowing the second potion. 

“They’re gifts from friends.”

She snorted, “Not very good friends.”

“I consider them my closest companions. And, don’t worry, wolf’s bane never seemed to hurt me.”

“I don’t believe you. If you’ve handled those flowers for years, you should be dead!” Neve’s hand crept toward her reuûn'oard. 

Mirel’s eyes followed her hand. “I wouldn’t pull that out. After all, I’ve been so kind to you.”

Neve froze. She could continue to pull out the rod, but a Srauondaái-trained magician would best her with ease. “Who are you?”

“I’ve tired of talking about myself. I would like to learn more about you. Tell me, why is one of Zamsune’s spies here?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you know what I am, you know why I’m here.”

“I want to hear it from you. What poor soul has gained Zamsune’s ire on this fine day?”

“Ask the man with the missing sword.”

Mirel tilted her head. Instead of the frail woman she saw earlier, someone wizened took her place. “You won’t give up your mission? Very well. I wonder what about your country inspires such loyalty.”

“It’s a great honor to serve Zamsune.”

Mirel tapped her nails on the wood. The sound grated on Neve’s ears. “At your age, you should be in school.”

“Well, I’m not, and I can’t do anything about it!” She hated how small that made her feel. Zamsune was her judge and executioner. She would be at its mercy for the rest of her life. 

Silence reigned before Mirel said, “I once asked someone to read my future.” 

“Okay?” She tired of the conversation. Confusing women like Mirel were too much.

“The woman refused. Do you know why?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Because a vision of my future had already come to her, and she wanted it to be wrong. Little did we both know that the future she saw was already set in motion.”

“I’m going to guess that you did something horrible.” Neve sent Mirel a sharp smile, which the old woman returned with a gentle one.

“It was something unimaginable. It has taken a long time for me to understand that I wasn’t at fault.”

Neve sighed, “What is the purpose of this story?”

“When you were lying there, I saw it. That quiet sadness. I see it in all of Zamsune’s spies. You want to leave, but can’t.”

Emotion clogged her throat. “See many spies?”

“A word of advice: leave before you do something unimaginable.”

“I can’t.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She wished she could blame it on the pain.

Mirel took her shawl and ripped it down the middle. Neve leaned forward in awe as magic gathered in the woman’s hands. The purple glow danced around the fabric, fixing the holes and bringing color back to the faded print. The swirling daffodils glowed under the silent hum of Mirel’s magic. When she finished, Neve couldn’t tell that it had ever been part of the shawl. 

Mirel handed to magic-infused fabric to her. “If you wear this over your mark, they cannot find you.”

“How?” She ran her hands over the cloth. It was everything that she had been looking for. Her lips mouthed over more words, but nothing escaped her. She was rendered speechless.

“Usoro, I’ve lived a long time. You learn a thing or two.”

Looking up, she noticed how more lines appeared on Mirel’s face and her hair grew thinner. As if the woman had aged in the moments she had glanced away. “What are you?”

Mirel smiled, a secretive thing. “One day, a different seer showed up on my doorstep. She handed me that shawl and told me that I would need it. I wonder if this is what she saw.”