red sun rises like an early warning; any

[Cordis]

She had not learned how to hurt until after Him, when she had escaped, when there had been the interloper, the dark man who’d violated her and burned alive for his transgression. That hurt had not been intentional, though, it had been a reaction, magic that had long been shackled by Him finally set loose. A reflex. She’d learned to hurt when she killed that prophetess, who told of ill fortunes and had blinded her in fury. She’d learned to hurt when she whispered that boy closer and burned him (but he had asked for her, wanted it – or so she thought, so she tells herself). (She’d hurt Spyndle, too, but that had not been purposeful, and besides, Spyndle had hurt her, too. As if that justified it. Eye for an eye, heartbreak for a heartbreak.) She tries not to think of it, the dark pleasure that can be found in burning. The first mare gives her name – Brinly – and then the second follows – Elaina. None of them are forthcoming with their hurt, all their own private Atlases’ bearing worlds on their shoulders. Cordis does not judge, but nor is she particularly sensitive to whatever wounds manifest on the others – her pain has made her all too selfish, all too focused on her own pain to remember that others bear it, too. It is Elaina who speaks again, a small slip of a confession. Cordis looks at her. For a moment she thinks about not responding, about letting silence smother whatever might come to pass between them, but her own loneliness threatens, a pallor. “I know the feeling,” she says, “this is my first time back in some time.” And what had she wanted, coming back? She doesn’t know. The sound of the river hurts her ears and her eyes dart between the two mares, trying, trying to forget. c o r d i s I’ll touch you all and make damn sure that no one touches me