Galen stared down at the strangers on the doorstep, the beginnings of panic fluttering at the base of his ribs. What did they want with him? How had they found him so quickly?

One glanced up, and Galen backed away from the window, his heart in his mouth. Had they seen him?

He heard voices from below: Harrald's, rising on a question, and an indistinct reply. Fear seized him, and one thought overrode all others: he had to get away.

Cracking the door of his room, he paused. The voices were clearer now, and he imagined Harrald must be standing in the open door, blocking the entrance as he confronted the unexpected visitors. He still couldn't make out words, but the tone was tense.

He slipped out into the hall and down towards the opposite end, away from the stairs. Harrald's room had a window facing the back, above the overhanging roof of the kitchen. From there, it was only a drop of ten feet to the ground. He climbed through the window, moved down to the roof's edge, and peered cautiously over the side.

It was clear.

Dangling his legs, he pushed himself off and landed in a crouch, the impact stinging the bottoms of his feet. Then he straightened and edged along the side of the house, past Harrald's forge, and towards the kitchen garden, where he grew a few herbs and vegetables. There was a small gate in the wall on that side, connecting to a narrow path between the neighboring houses, which led out to another street.

He paused at the corner, his back against the side of the house, and peered around it. He could see a portion of the street out front, but no sign of the strangers. Perhaps Harrald had let them inside.

Taking a breath and keeping in a low crouch, he scurried quickly through the patchy garden beds to the gate, slid back the latch, and winced as its rusty hinges creaked. He opened it just enough to slip through and shut it after him carefully.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He'd done it; now he just had to figure out what to do next. Behn's house, he thought—Behn's father had a huge basement for brewing ale, and he could hide there until the coast was clear.

Thus resolved, he turned and bumped into someone's chest.

With a cry of fright and surprise, he stumbled back and fell in the dusty path. The stranger looked down at him, head tilted to the side and brows raised inquiringly.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

-✵-

The stranger kept a firm hold on Galen's arm as he led him back inside. He didn't bother to struggle. A few weeks of training with Triss had done him no good when the stranger drew his long, thin sword and pointed the tip at Galen's chest, and the strength in the hand that gripped him was many times his own.

Harrald sat in his usual chair, and one of the stranger's companions sat in its match. Another stood by the door, guarding it.

The stranger gave a sharp whistle, and the final pair appeared—one descending from the second floor, and the other climbing the steps from the cellar.

"Got him," the stranger said.

"Good work, Sev." The woman coming down the stairs nodded approvingly. She was pretty, Galen thought, but she also had a sharp, military aspect, and her voice carried cold, no-nonsense authority. "Your instincts are sound, as usual."

"Galen!" Harrald got to his feet as they entered and took a step forward. One of the other strangers blocked his way.

The man holding him raised his free hand. "Peace. He's unharmed."

Harrald ignored him, waiting for Galen to speak for himself.

Galen pulled free of the stranger's hold and nodded. "I'm all right, father," he said, rubbing his arm.

Turning to the stranger, Harrald said, "Who are you people? What do you want with Gale?"

The stranger bowed. "Forgive the intrusion, master. My name is Sevhalim. These are my fellow seekers: Rea, Iksthanis, Oberik, and Zenír. We are tasked with discovering the p'yrha and returning him to Jana Val."

Harrald shook his head. "You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid. I'm only an old man of the Guard."

The stranger, Sevhalim, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed again. "Perhaps we will be more comfortable if we sit?"

Reluctantly, Harrald nodded and returned to his chair, gesturing for Galen to take the low stool at his side. Sevhalim took the remaining chair, and the other four grabbed the rough, handmade benches from around the table. The woman, whom the stranger had called Rea, stood by the door, hand on the hilt of her sword.

Once they were settled, Sevhalim reached inside the breast of his uniform jacket and pulled out something that dangled from a chain.

"My pendant!" Galen reached for it, and to his surprise, Sevhalim leaned forward and handed it over.

"The crescent moon is the sign of the p'yrha," he said, addressing Galen. "Not particularly unique, in itself; however, combined with your appearance and your story of being 'found with it,' I couldn't ignore it as mere coincidence. We'd given up on finding the p'yrha alive long ago, and to stumble upon such a promising possibility in the middle of nowhere was quite unexpected. I would have taken you with me, then, but I had other matters to attend."

Harrald raised his hand. "Hold up. What's this "peer-ha" thing you keep talking about?"

Sevhalim settled back in his seat, a thoughtful frown on his lips, as if considering how much and what to say.

He looked as Galen remembered—masculine beauty and elegant strength on equal display in his face and form.

"Do you know of Jana Val?" he asked.

Harrald shifted in his seat. He, too, appeared to be considering what to say.

"I've heard of it," he said. "Some sort of monastery, up in the mountains north of the capital at Tal P'Nir, isn't it?"

Sevhalim smiled. "That's one way to describe it. Jana Val is where the most eminent mages in Sakkara study and dwell. They devote themselves to understanding the forces that shape this world, and bind them to their will."

"Sounds dangerous," Harrald said.

Sevhalim nodded. "It is. Perhaps you've heard the saying 'magic demands its price?'"

"Close enough," Harrald agreed.

"Well, the masters at Jana Val believe the price is exacted to maintain balance—to keep order from descending into chaos. Magic demands to be used, and those who use it must pay a price. Unfortunately, the ledger is always a little skewed: small variances add up over time until a debt is owed. That's where the p'ryha come in."

"That's a Pyrran word, isn't it?" Galen asked, daring to speak at last.

Sevhalim turned his strange gaze on him, his eyes a dark lead color at the moment. "Yes. How much do you know of Sakkaran history?"

Galen cast his mind over what he'd read in the exceedingly dull History of Sakkara, and shook his head. "Only a little. I know the realms were united long ago; then they split, and chaos reined, until the first Queen of Sakkara brought them all together again."

"Close enough for a rough understanding," Sevhalim said, smiling wryly. "And what of Pyrr?"

Galen swallowed. It felt like he was back in school, standing for a test. "Pyrrans are among the most gifted races, magically speaking. They often train as mages."

"Indeed. And do you know why they are so gifted?"

Galen shook his head.

"Just as Thrynis is the patron god of Thryn, so each of the seven realms has its deity. Pyrr is unique, though. He's the most human of the gods, and all Pyrrans are said to be descended from him, distantly. They say he walks the Wild Green—walks our world—when the stars align, and the maiden moon lies on her back. When that happens, the mages at Jana Val send, uh... 'emissaries,' if you will... to meet him. Sometimes, in a nine-month, a child is born. That child is a p'yrha, or at least more likely to be so. The p'yrha are uniquely gifted. They alone can restore balance and bring the ledger to zero, if you will."

"And you think Galen is one of these... p'yrha?" Harrald asked skeptically, though he added the aspirate and slight tongue roll to the pronunciation, this time.

Sevhalim shrugged. "Unclear. However, his appearance, the pendant, and the unknown circumstances of his birth make it my duty to find out. The balance has tipped, you know."

"That's just a rumor," Galen said, his chest tightening with anger. "The Temple—"

"Are a bunch of self-serving, dogmatic, narrow-minded idiots—yes," Sevhalim interrupted in his level tone. "I agree. However, the core truth remains: the balance of the world has tipped. It is not the fault of magic or of those who wield it; but only magic, and those who wield it can restore the balance before it tips too far. There are forces at work, Galen—on every side. Some are well-intentioned; some are not. But all are absorbed in their own concerns, and too blinded by self-interest to see the bigger picture. Thryn is not in danger; neither is Edraxis, or Abbara, or Pyrr, or any of the other realms. Rather, our world is in danger. These tremors that you feel are only the beginning. Something much worse is at hand."

A chill crawled up Galen's spine on centipede legs, and he shivered. "What do you expect me to do about it?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sevhalim said. "The first step is to take you to Jana Val, and determine if you are the p'yrha. The rest is for the masters to decide."

"And if he refuses?" Harrald asked.

Sevhalim raised his dark brows. "I'm afraid it's not a choice," he said, and set his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Ah," Harrald nodded. "Well, in that case."

Reaching behind him, he grabbed a glass oil lamp off a shelf and hurled it at Sevhalim's head.

The man dodged, and the makeshift missile shattered harmlessly on the stone floor, but in the time it took Sevhalim to duck, Harrald overturned the side table and his chair, and hauled Galen to his feet.

"Gale, run!" he yelled, giving him a shove. "GO!"

Galen didn't need to be told twice. He leaped clear of the overturned table and dashed for the back door, shoved it open and flew out onto the street, leaving angry shouts in his wake.

He might not be a fighter, but he was sure as hells fast, and he could run the streets of Dern blindfolded. He sprinted for Behn's house and prayed the other boy was home.