In the dream, there was nothing to hold on to. Indescribable colors burst around her, shifting formlessly. They seemed to writhe about, lunging out to snap at her. Eventually, they did become things she could understand. The colors and shapes coalesced into a volcano, the lava slithering down the slopes, hardening into a rock that was full of blinking eyes that stared at her. The rock turned from dark gray to yellow, and it became a slime mold, marching across a log, only when it approached, it stopped and all the yellow mush rose up like hairs and turned toward her. Then, the stalks grew up, turning brown and green as it became a colossal tree, bursting high above the canopy, though the rough brown of the bark and smooth greens of the leaves slid all around the tree, as if it could not understand that the green should stay on the leaves and the brown on the trunk and branches. It was all mixed together, and then white blossoms erupted across the branches, except each petal was a bloodied wing.

A heartbeat, or maybe it was a drumbeat, rose around here, and as it pulsed, the world trembled. The forest around her became full of miniature volcanoes, oversized flowers, and rainbow colored mushrooms except the caps were made of storm clouds that billowed and darkened as they expanded. As they did, the clouds and leaves and stones trembled with the increasing volume of the pulsing sound, the whole world trembling and expanding, rising to reach for the heavens. She woke with a single word in her mind; no, it wasn’t a word, but a command:

GROW.

She shot straight up out of bed, breathing hard, body covered in slick sweat, but feeling more awake than she had in years. It felt like she had overslept, but when she looked, the alarm candle was still burning. From the looks of it, she was up a full hour early.

There was a lingering afterimage in her mind, as if the strange forest where stormclouds, mountains and flowers were all the same size had been in the form of something greater, and it had been watching her.

A shiver ran through her. She headed off to the shower. She still found the devices fascinating; they still used public bathhouses out east in her village. Mirian intended to take her time and relax in the shower, but found it was impossible. She dressed quietly so as not to wake Lily, ate a breakfast of cheap porridge in the dorm kitchen, then headed out. She ended up sweet-talking the man in charge of the spellforge to let her in early and got straight to work on her spellrod.

She finished assembling it and used her force polish spell to round off the corners. She smiled, looking at the hefty scepter. It wasn’t just functional; it looked good. The metal rings she could dial back and forth had a satisfying *click *when their glyphs aligned, and the button that engaged it for battle spells was hidden under a small leather safety cap. She brought it out to the spell range and practiced using it, though not the combat function. Technically, she didn’t have her combat certification since she had never had the time or inclination to take those classes. Combat practice would have to wait until she could sneak out to the woods—somewhere beyond the Mage’s Grove where no one was going to run into her—and try cutting some shrubs to pieces.

The word *grow *kept tumbling about in her mind. Wasn’t that what she was doing? Somehow, it didn’t seem sufficient. She’d been useless when the Akanans had attacked. Would she be any less useless now? What she needed to do, she realized, was start learning more about the fields she’d neglected pursuing her artifice focus. Combat. Illusion. Divination. She needed to become stronger. The powerlessness she had felt, crawling away from that horrible woman who had cut her to pieces—she never wanted to feel that again.

She ended up heading into Bainrose, and spent most of the day just reading about magical combat theory. Mirian had always considered the subject less intellectual. In a sense, it was—you didn’t need to memorize so damn much about alchemistry, for example—but it also was complex in its own way. One had to consider all the different types of energy someone might use and have a plan both to block their spells and overcome their defenses. If they used a force barrier, attack them with lightning. If they had a grounding spell, send an inferno their way.

What it came down to was a single mage or sorcerer acting alone was usually going to get overwhelmed, much like how a single warrior facing down a group almost always lost. Mana capacity and spell strength played less of a part than she’d thought; it mostly came down to attention. You could only ever *really *pay attention to one thing at a time, so even if you could perform a perfect defense against one mage, the other could figure out what you weren’t defended against and use that. Magebreaker bullets could be defeated, it turned out, but it was yet another dimension of attack, and putting up the kind of magnetic barrier needed to stop a bullet was magnitudes harder than what was needed to stop steel-tipped spellpiercer arrows.

There was another aspect she hadn’t even heard about, but as she read and reflected back on the attack, it seemed obvious. The Akanans were using auramancers.

Auramancers took advantage of the natural resilience of a soul to magical incursions. Necromancers could damage or manipulate souls, but any other magic withered as it approached. Auramancers practiced extending the power of their own soul to a larger region—often several meters—and therefore gave a form of spell resistance to whoever was nearby. A spell in the target area might fizzle, while others just lost their intensity. This did make casting spells *out *of the area just as hard, but it was the perfect defense for a group of soldiers armed with rifles.

It was also a ridiculous amount of work to be able to manipulate your soul like that, and consumed basically all of a person’s auric mana. Torrviol didn’t teach it, she knew. Apparently some of the war colleges and monasteries did. The solution the book said countered it was, quote, “necromancy,” which was obviously not going to happen. Necromancy was illegal, teaching it was illegal, and most of the books about how to do it had been destroyed in the Unification Wars.

By the end of her research, she was convinced of one thing: the best thing to do would be to run. There was no way they could prepare to fight an army that had practiced magical combat. Mirian started planning the escape route. The obvious path was to go south through Torrviol and take the daily train from the station. The key was to do it *before *the shooting started.

The problem was how to convince people. Lily might come. But she couldn’t just leave everyone else behind. She didn’t know most of them well, but she knew them; they’d been her fellow students for six years. And her professors. Selesia. Hell, even Valen didn’t deserve that. Maybe Professor Eld did, though.

But with the days ticking down, she still hadn’t the slightest idea if she’d changed anything. She suspected she hadn’t.

Her next meeting with Nicolus and Xipuatl was on the 20th of Solem, Secondday. Mirian resolved that she would just have to say a bunch of stuff that was absolutely crazy sounding but true. There was also another person she could talk to who might be able to pull some strings.

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***

Seventhday, she went early to the temple. Priest Krier—she’d finally learned his name—gave the same sermon on Xylatarvia’s message of peace and her gift of the knowledge of the arcane glyphs. She got caught up on the part of the story where the boat Xylatarvia traveled on was made of vines. Why would someone be traveling through the stars on a boat made of vines? It was ridiculous. These days, people at least knew the atmosphere thinned up the higher up you went, so at a certain point it had to end. And certainly, they’d known for centuries there wasn’t any water up there, so why would it be a ship? Yeah, yeah, they were Gods, they could do whatever they wanted, but it seemed like it was a bit deceptive to imply that the universe out there was anything like the ocean.

Mirian waited patiently for the priest to talk to a few other people, then she went to talk to him.

“Holy one, I need some advice.”

“Of course,” he said, in that sage tone of his, though something about his posture said he was in a hurry to be done with talking to people.

She’d thought about how to phrase this. “What do the holy texts say about visions of the future?”

“The High Prophets of the Ominian were the first to see beyond, but each of the others saw glimpses of the future as well. To the Gods, time is spread out like a grand book, and through their passionate faith in the divine, the Gods shared a glimpse of it with them.”

Mirian had to stop herself from rudely exclaiming that obviously she knew *that *already, every child knew that. “I mean, holy one, what if one knew a part of the future, but wasn’t a prophet. Is that anywhere in the texts?”

“If one has been shown the future, one is a prophet. But it is only the most devout who are given this gift, and the Gods have not seen fit to do this in many hundreds of years.”

“Okay, but what if you weren’t particularly devout and definitely weren’t a prophet, but you knew the future anyways. And, hypothetically, what if that future involved Akana Praediar attacking the Torrviol and massacring thousands of people. And even though you’d tried to warn the military and the governor, no one took you seriously because you didn’t have any proof. Hypothetically.”

This made Priest Krier raise an eyebrow. “Are you having visions, dear?”

She sighed. “More of an experience. Is, uh, is the statue of Yiaverunan in the rotunda of the Kiroscent Dome blessed in any way? I mean, is there a holy relic in it, or…?”

Mirian could see he didn’t believe her. Fair enough, she probably wouldn’t believe herself either if she didn’t know. It was all such horseshit. If the Gods had seen fit to send her back, could they at least have warned her? Told her to take notes on special events she could use to confirm her predictions? Maybe let her take a notebook with her when she went back?

“We all have nightmares from time to time…” Krier started saying in what was probably the most condescending tone ever achieved by mankind, beating out even Valen by a wide margin.

She realized, though, that there was something she could predict. Or at least, she was pretty sure. Platus died soon. In five days, she remembered. She could try to save his life and figure out what he knew that made the Akanan spies kill him, or she could just… let it happen. If she told everyone, they might tell him and change it. But if she only told a few people….

She couldn’t do that, could she? Platus was a real dick, but she couldn’t just let him die. But how many lives might it save?

Mirian swallowed hard. “I can tell you don’t believe me, so I’m going to give you a sealed envelope with a prediction. I’ll drop it by the temple tomorrow. Hide it somewhere, then open it on the evening of the 23rd.”

“Of course,” the priest said sweetly.

It wouldn’t do to think ill of a holy man, so Mirian tried not to think about him on her walk home. As soon as she got back, though, she started drafting the letter. It predicted two things: Platus’s death in an explosion in the Alchemistry Building at around 5:50 in the morning, and the Akanan invasion on the 28th. She used her autoscribe spell to copy the contents five more times. Then, she considered who to give it to.

In the end, she decided on Xipuatl, Professor Viridian, Professor Torres, and the priest. The last two she would try to get delivered to the Archmage and mayor of Torrviol through the Courier’s office. It was a shitty plan, she knew, but it was all she had.

Secondday after classes, at the end of the study session, she gave Xipuatl the letter.

“Do I get one?” Nicolus asked.

“He can tell you after he opens it. Don’t open it until after 6:00 on the 23rd. It’ll look callous and stupid before then.”

“What is this about?” Xipuatl asked.

Mirian sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s a prediction. The only real prediction I can make at this point, because too much has changed otherwise. I can’t even guarantee it’ll come true, only that it happened last time. Hopefully, it saves a lot of lives.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Nicolus also gave her a funny look, but he didn’t say anything. “Well, see you in class tomorrow,” he said. “Chapters 15 through 17 for the meeting Fourthday, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mirian said. “See you then.”

She felt terrible about it. There was a good chance she could save Platus. But if one death could prevent thousands? It had to be worth it. She just wished there was a way she could think of to do both.

Thirdday, she delivered the other letters to her professors, and made them swear not to open it until the time she’d written. Obviously, they also thought she was a few glyphs short of a spell, but she kept telling herself it would all be worth it.

And if the attack didn’t happen? She could just blow it off as a prank. Or something.

Then on Fourthday, she arrived at Bainrose to find Xipuatl standing outside the study room looking confused. “Where’s Nicolus?” he asked. “He’s not really one to be late, that knight of his keeps him honest.”

“Ah, shit!” Mirian said, maybe a bit too loud, because several people in the library turned to look at her. “I forgot. How the hell did I forget that? He’s gone. We won’t see him again until… augh! I didn’t even ask him why he leaves, either!”

“Mirian,” Xipuatl said slowly. “Are you okay?”

“The opposite,” Mirian bemoaned. “Right, well, it’ll all make sense tomorrow. Or rather, it’ll make less sense, but maybe some good will come of it. Nicolus isn’t going to show, so we should just go home.”

“How do you know? We should wait around a little,” he said.

“Nah, I know. I’d just forgotten. I’m a prophet, you see. The world’s worst prophet. Remember the letter, and the time I said.” And she left.

At 5:40 the next day, Mirian sat on the bench in the plaza feeling wretched. Her stomach was all twisted in knots. She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, and she kept looking toward the Alchemistry building and feeling worse and worse.

She looked across the plaza to the clock tower, swallowing hard as the clock ticked to 5:50.

When it was 5:53, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was past the time, wasn’t it? Hells, maybe something good had happened. Maybe she’d done more than she realized. Maybe someone had opened their letter early and told Platus, and he’d realized the danger he was in. Maybe—

The sound of the explosion startled her, echoing loudly across the plaza. People screamed, and fire billowed from the Alchemistry building again. Mirian dry heaved, then pulled herself together and walked to class.

She wasn’t sure why she bothered going to Artifice Design. Mirian couldn’t focus, and she felt sick. After class, she went up to Professor Torres. “Remember the letter?” she said.

“No,” Professor Torres said. “I’ve been busy and… oh, hmm. I do. I think it’s in my office. I’ll look at it later.”

“Thanks,” she said, and left.

After rationalizing why she should just go home, she went to Enchantments anyways. There was no point moping about. Better to just keep going. She’d have to live with what she’d done. Anyways, she knew her third class would be canceled. She could meet Xipuatl outside and talk to him. Then people might finally start to believe her.

Then something different happened. Three guards marched into the classroom, orange tabards and armor feeling very out of place in the classroom. Each had their hand on a revolver. When Mirian looked back, two more were blocking the two exits in the lecture hall. Professor Eld went white and looked frightened as they approached him. They said something in hushed tones, and even though the lecture hall had gone totally silent, Mirian couldn’t hear. But she knew what they were saying.

Professor Eld pointed right at her.

There was no point running. Mirian stood up, heart pounding.

“Mirian Castrella?” one of the guards asked.

“Yes,” Mirian said, voice far steadier than it had any right to be.

“You’re under arrest for murder. Come with us.”