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“I will show you to your rooms so that you can rest after your long journey. We will have meals sent up to you.” Then the First glanced at Iryana. “My Third will be ready to meet with you as soon as you’re settled.”

Iryana inclined her head, throat too tight to put her agreement into words. She needed these people to help her. If they couldn’t… she didn’t know what she’d do.

The Grand Keepers nodded, gesturing for the First to lead the way. Grand Keeper Kresik didn’t look like he’d be able to stand much longer.

While the young pilgrims, attendants, and guards would be housed on the hall floor before the fireplace, the conclave representatives would be honored guests. Her family had cleared out rooms for them; the younger Kleesolds would be sharing beds or sleeping on someone’s floor to make space. Iryana had made the arrangements herself.

Iryana watched the rest of her clan and the guests make their way into the house, but she lingered. Breathed in every bit of fresh autumn air that she could before she’d have to force her way back inside the cramped house.

Iryana waited impatiently for the summons to meet with the conclave, pacing in the First’s study. Her grandmother read through a stack of missives on her desk, occasionally reminding Iryana to breathe. But finally, after hours of agonizing suspense, they were ready for her.

She walked into the side hall where the conclave representatives waited. Comfortable chairs had been brought in for the Grand Keepers; the simple wooden tables and chairs where the younger Kleesolds studied pushed against the wall.

This room was mostly decorated with paintings and tapestries of centuries of Kleesold history. The battles her clan had won, the invaders they’d driven out, and the people who had relied on them. Her clan had protected Istri for hundreds of years, and Iryana relied on the strength of her ancestors, which seemed to pulse in the room.

Eyes followed Iryana as the door was shut behind her, and she carefully padded to the center of the room.

She was to meet with them alone, which Iryana didn’t mind. Besides the First, the rest of the clan didn’t know the extent of what was wrong with her forgings. It was for the best, at least until they had a solution.

Iryana bowed, clutching at her ribbon striped dress. She was a clan heir and the gesture was not necessary. Even so, she bent herself over in reverence. In hope.

She was afraid of what they’d tell her. Afraid of what they wouldn’t. Desperately hoping they’d know what was happening to her, that they would be able to fix her. Dreading that they’d know no more than she.

The two Grand Keepers of Air perched on their plush chairs, wearing fresh robes and ceremonial hats. The Scholar stood behind his chair, gripping the wooden frame, and if the wrinkled robe was anything to go by, he hadn’t changed at all.

“I’m sure you can understand that this is an exciting turn,” Grand Keeper Gyerhna mused.

The aged Grand Keeper tsked at his younger counterpart. “Don’t get ahead of this. We must verify first. Show us the forgings and the tattoos,” he ordered Iryana, a challenge in his gray eyes.

“Of course, Grand Keeper.” She could grant him his apprehension, as long as he helped her.

Iryana knew they’d ask for proof, so she was prepared for it. She straightened, muscles engaged, and held out both hands. She could feel the two magics swirling inside her, where once she had only felt the gentle presence of the raw shielding magic of the unforged. Focusing on the bit of magic that was her spear, Iryana pulled it down to her right hand. As the three-bladed beast spear formed, it felt like the magic was ripping something out of her. She ignored the pain, the smooth feel of the shaft becoming corporeal as she grasped it.

Once, her metal-forgings had been so easy to summon. So natural.

Scholar Alar stared intently at the metal-forging but quickly glanced back to her, unimpressed. It was a fairly standard forging for a soldier, after all. Nothing particularly unique about it. It held a lot of well magic—clear in its bruised deep purple color—perhaps more magic than usual, but certainly not unheard of.

The Scholar and the Grand Keepers watched her left hand, leaning forward in anticipation and preparing to see something that had been deemed impossible for centuries.

The bit of water-forged magic inside her roiled, like waves thrashed about by a great storm. She wrestled it into her empty hand, wincing as the staff took form. Her muscles were instantly shaking, nausea crawling up her throat.

Eyes wide, her audience stared at that staff. It was the shadowed azure of cracks deep in river ice. The forging was simple, but the presence of Voordiza’s magic was undeniable.

“Well then,” Grand Keeper Gyerhna breathed, leaning against the back of her seat.

Grand Keeper Kresik squinted harder. “The tattoos?”

Iryana released her hold on the forgings’ forms, sagging in relief as the magic returned to her and the pressure of maintaining them lessened. But inside her, the magic roiled as if warring over territory. It never truly settled, not all the way.

Gritting her teeth, Iryana reached back to undo the ties of her dress. She turned and pulled the back of the dress down over her left shoulder, where parts of both tattoos were visible.

She gave them a moment to look. “There, now I’ve proven it,” Iryana declared with a harsh edge, turning back to them and fixing her dress.

The Grand Keepers looked at each other for a long moment, Kresik’s stare intense, but it was Gyerhna who spoke. “We have records, of course, of people trying to forge with a different magic. The magic almost always refused to bond with them, but the few times they were able to start the tattooing, they died shortly after.”

Her heart sank. Was there truly no one? The temples and the conclave had always been tight-lipped; she’d hoped they’d know something.

“A strange fluke, perhaps,” Grand Keeper Kresik rasped.