Spectra: Spectra Trilogy, #1

By Reina Laaman

Pass through the portal into a brilliant fantasy adventure series of supernatural color, forbidden romance, and a race to save the worlds. Perfect for fans of Laini Taylor and Holly Black.

The River runs through the galaxy like a road, connecting all the planets.

In the solar system of Spectra, a young emperor fights to rekindle an ancient alliance that can stop a dark cycle of history.

And on a colorless planet, a willful schoolgirl catches sights and sounds from other worlds when she paints.

More than anything, Sabel wants those places to be real—until the night an arrogant boy walks through her painting. She learns that she is a Riveter, one who can create portals and see visions in the River between worlds. Her uninvited guest warns her not to make any more portals, or she will incite dangerous enemies.

Sabel refuses to stay in the dark, a choice that sends her running for her life, with more questions than before. Why was her planet cut off from the rest? And what made the Riveters so rare? The answers await in Spectra, a world where men and women wield all the colors of the rainbow. But the truth goes deeper than Sabel ever wanted to see, revealing her deepest fear—that she may never truly belong anywhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: King & Priest Publishers
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959931010

Book preview

Prologue

Ideron came to the River to dream. Not because he needed a nap, although that would’ve been nice. Dreaming was part of his job description, and the River between worlds was the best place to do it.

The River connected the whole galaxy together, running like a cosmic road from planet to planet. Its currents were made of the supernatural power of the atmos—light and time and truth all bundled together. No one had ever been able to find the end of it, or so Ideron heard. He had never tried to find the source of the River himself, mostly because he had more pressing matters at hand. Like making sure his planets weren’t blown to pieces. That was also part of his job description and the main reason he came here.

Every planet had its own riverbank, a physical strip of reality that lay just beyond the atmosphere, accessible to anyone wherever there were portals. Passing through the portal brought him to an open place beneath a sparkling dome of stars.

The sky was twilight blue here, and though the River sometimes looked different depending on the planet and other factors, it always stretched from left to right as far as one could see. The water, if he could call it that, looked more like bright, thick mist flowing in rapids with a soft whooshing noise. The opposite bank was visible far across the width of it, lined with the slender figures of river trees thrusting into the horizon. Their trunks were long and silvery, as though they had soaked starlight into their bark.

This place had become a familiar haven. Everyone assumed Ideron loved to be around people as much as people loved to be around him, and he did. Just not all the time. Since he had become emperor, all the time had become quite common.

After checking the area for any other visitors, Ideron sprawled on his back, settling his spine into the rich, spongy soil of the riverbank. There wasn’t much to see in this in-between place—or everything to see, depending on who was looking. The River itself carried visions of past, present, and future, for those with the ability to access them.

Ideron could, but only through dreams. For him, the currents never revealed anything beyond his jurisdiction, which meant he saw nothing outside the seven planets of Spectra. Yesterday, his dream had shown him a few of his own councilors discussing his whereabouts in real time. About as helpful as an upside-down umbrella. The day before that, he had witnessed his inaugural address from several years ago. Nostalgic, but hardly the information he was looking for.

He had important people to spy on, and he was going to find a way around these limitations. Spectra had powerful enemies throughout the galaxy, and whether or not everyone believed it, another gravitas cycle was coming.

Ideron glanced once more at the portal to make sure no Spectrans were in pursuit of their young, determined emperor. From this side, the portal appeared as nothing more than a vague shimmer in the air. No one was coming.

Ideron closed his eyes.

The dreams came fast.

He saw the girl again, the one with black hair and pale skin and guarded face. She had the appearance of a fighter or a dancer, someone well trained in movement. Ideron had gathered only a few dreams of her, but all of them came with a dull yearning in his chest. He did not like to admit that she was his favorite dream. He was a Specter, after all, and the emperor at that. But something about her made him feel at rest, despite the tension that clung to her limbs and the keen iciness in her eyes. He had never seen her in the waking world.

She looked hazy this time. It was hard to place her in a specific location or time period. He knew Spectra like his own name but didn’t recognize any terrain in the background. Slowly, a world took shape around the girl, as though the River were pushing very hard to form the picture. It was not one of his own lands.

It was Claeria.

The revelation was so shocking that it almost startled Ideron from his sleep. Claeria was their neighbor, one of the four planets that surrounded Spectra like the corners of a box. For hundreds of years—almost since the last gravitas cycle—it had been a closed planet, locked in an atmosphere block that cut it off from the River. Its citizens were completely ignorant of the galaxy beyond, except for a few escapees and perhaps the governmental elite.

Ideron was almost sure of the location because of one distinguishing factor: there was no color on Claeria. Thanks to the block, the world was a blend of light and dark and dismal grays that mirrored its bloody civil wars.

All this time he’d been catching secret glimpses of a Claerian girl. It made no sense. His previous dreams showed her on Spectra, and he always thought he would meet her here one day.

Her surroundings were still hazy, but he could see a meadow devoid of color and a pile of rocks that had once been part of a grand building. Then the dream, which had felt stuck in some time before or ahead, suddenly sprang into motion.

The girl was fighting for her life among the ruins. Ideron flinched in his sleep. She was defending herself against five others, fair-haired men and women working together, who looked like they might be relatives. But the girl was alone. He heard gasps of pain, saw spatters of blood land on the stones. Not red, but dark, colorless blood in a gray, colorless world. If those attackers meant to kill her, there was no way she would survive.

The scene pulled away from him and became a new dream.

The girl stood on the riverbank. It was very much like the place where his body lay now, but the River was low and dark, and the trees had died long ago. She wore that same guarded expression, keen and poised, only a pinprick of fear shining through. But her posture said nothing of fear. She was very well trained indeed, giving off no sign of what she might do next.

She spoke to someone on the riverbank, but Ideron couldn’t hear the words, until his perspective expanded, and he saw the whole scene. She was speaking to him. His own image in the dream was harder to make out, just a blur of blond hair and a sense of posture that matched with hers, well trained and self-assured, although more open.

She spoke with a crisp Claerian accent, only one simple sentence. I will go with you.

In the waking world, Ideron’s eyes opened. He was sitting up, his body already moving, though still half under the influence of river sight. Without a backward glance, he pushed through the gauzy portal into his own world, emerging in the pavilion of cool white stone. It was built solely to house the portal. Bright sunlight shone through the pillars and trees rustled just outside.

Ideron had a bit of a trek back to the palace. If he’d known the River was going to give him an important dream about the future, he would have taken a glider. But with the spectrum coming to his aid, he would very much relish a light jog. He seldom had his own time to think.

The pavilion stood in the countryside outside the city limits. From the forested hilltop, Ideron gazed down at the capital, shimmering white in the sunlight. He shouldn’t get his hopes up too much, but if the girl was who he thought she was, everything was about to change.

He circuited a few strands of the spectrum through his veins—orange to make him fast, red to strengthen his strides, and yellow to give him energy along the road.

He ran.

Ideron never forgot a dream when he needed it, but he replayed this one over and over. He had never heard the girl’s voice before. He didn’t let up his pace, even as he crossed the bridge over the great reservoir, wound through streets he could map out blind, and took the palace steps two at a time. Only as he reached the threshold did he let the spectrum flow cease, strolling into the palace with almost steady breathing.

Three palace guards clad in red greeted him by name. Ideron nodded and smiled. He knew their names too, except for the young one, who might be an initiate. He made a note to find her later and introduce himself properly. Any other day, he would have done it now, but there wasn’t time. It was risky to come here first, but the council had every right to know before their emperor disappeared for a few days.

Gauging time according to the River was a tricky thing. The girl could be finding her way through Claeria’s single portal to freedom even now, and he couldn’t afford to miss her. Many of the River’s representations of the future were distant or universal, but when Ideron caught a glimpse of himself, he paid careful attention. According to his limited experience, river sight was meant to encourage, guide, or inform people. Sometimes the dreams presented events from the future as instructions, and these events were often certainties, unless one willfully ignored them or missed the window.

Ideron’s brisk pace through the halls kept other palace residents at bay. Normally, he’d enjoy several detours of questions and conversations, but today he made it to the imperial wing without stopping. He passed by his own office and stepped into an open conference chamber. There was a keyplate inside next to the door. Ideron drew his signal, impatiently enough that it didn’t recognize him. He scribbled it again, his finger tracing a brief trail of light on the dark glass, followed by Elli’s signal and the room number.

Her signal would flash on the keyplates throughout the palace, followed by the room number, paging her here. He could have appended his own signal again to inform her who called, but decided that the summons would remain anonymous. She would come anyway.

Ideron paced the length of the room, his fingers creating faint billows of color as he drummed them against his pant leg. He was certain the River had shown him a moment in the future. It could be the next few moments, or the next few days, but he doubted it would be much longer.

This had better be good.

Ellira stood in the doorway, a sword on her hip and one hand resting on the hilt. She had obviously come from the training compound, which was not a short trip. Ideron had a few close friends at the palace, but he trusted Elli more than anybody. It didn’t mean she was always easy to get along with.

I’m going to the Claerian riverbank, Ideron said. It wasn’t like him to cut to the chase. Normally, there was banter, even in the direst of times.

Alright, and I’m taking a trip to the moon, Elli said, but she stepped into the room and hit the keyplate. The door slid shut. What’s this about?

For years, the Specter council held to the same policy concerning Claeria. It wasn’t their place to interfere with the gravitas block, even if they did figure out how to remove it. If Claeria opened up, yet didn’t welcome an alliance with Spectra, they would be vulnerable to invasion by any number of more advanced planets. Ideron understood this stance for now, but he had asked the Specter scholars to keep an eye out for a way to break the gravitas block, any scrap of detail that might be hidden in their archives.

Ideron told her about his dream.

Elli stared him dead in the face, her expression stolid. She was nearly as tall as he, her eyes a clear blue that could make you shrink if you looked at her the wrong way. You think she’s a Riveter.

I don’t know. The dream had given Ideron no reason to believe she was. But the moment he learned she was Claerian, hope began building at an alarming rate. Riveters had originated from Claeria, before they went extinct. He heard a twinge of hope in Elli’s voice too, but she was better at hiding it.

I think she needs our help. Ideron stopped and gave Elli an ironic smile. Perhaps the help is a mutual thing. Either way, I’m leaving now.

You’re not going to clear it with the council first?

There isn’t time.

He didn’t have to say more. Elli would take care of it.

Ideron packed enough things for a few days, strapped on his sword, and headed back toward the portal and the River between worlds.

If ever the galaxy needed a Riveter, it was now.

1

Claeria was called the Eyes of the Galaxy. What they saw across space, across time protected worlds from destruction.

History of the Corner Planets

Sabel sat as if she were the subject of a portrait, back upright and face serene, as her intestines coiled with fear. The driver and bodyguard blocked most of her view through the front window. She caught the scent of their own fear hanging in the air, like leather and greased firearms, masculine and testy.

At least they knew what to expect: ambush, being followed, gunshots that could disable the vehicle. They had already passed abandoned automobiles with broken windows and bribed their way through two government roadblocks. These were everyday possibilities on country roads. But Sabel’s fear lay in her destination and had no precedent.

Donahue had summoned her.

The rain pattered on, unconcerned, tapping a cryptic message on the automobile’s metal roof. Sabel curled her fingers around the handle of her paintbrush. All day she had watched passing miles of wet meadows and dark, dripping woods and tried to prepare herself to meet the father she had never known.

She had only ever thought of him by his clan name, Donahue. Mostly he was not mentioned. Sabel had no gauge for what he was like, other than Mother’s esteemed portraits and Grandmother’s venom. She didn’t trust either of them. Mother had been in love with him for some reason, and Grandmother hated all Donahues with the bloody passion of the clan feuds.

There was a possibility he might prove useful in Sabel’s quest for answers, but she had to account for the other extreme—that he would be hard to live with, stamping out any curiosity. She could not afford the painful luxury of hope.

Before she was ready, the gates of his estate reared up before them, and the driver pulled to a stop beside the gatehouse. Nothing was moving outside but the little footsteps of rain on the roof. The bodyguard shifted, making the springs of his seat creak.

A pair of bulletproof shutters opened, and guards looked out—at her. She wondered if she resembled Donahue enough to pass their inspection. Without a word of questioning, they triggered the gate, and the automobile sputtered past the walls.

As if someone flipped a switch, the clouds broke open—and she caught sight of one of those things in the sky. Mother had called them rainbows. It was nothing more than a striated band of light shining above the clouds, but it reminded Sabel of the one person who had spoken of other worlds, who told fantastical tales of Emperor Silverhand and people who wielded rays of light.

Sabel didn’t know how much of it was true, but she believed in more than civil war and the propaganda taught at school. Sometimes those stories felt like her only clue to the secret she had carried since childhood, since her mother’s death.

She had seen blue.

There must be something more beyond all of this, and no matter what Donahue was like, she was going to find answers.

The rainbow cut out of sight as they drove through tall pines and hardwoods. Some also grew on the other side of Donahue’s wall in a thick fringe that was almost a forest. Sabel felt a tug in that direction, as though a thread tied to her organs had suddenly jerked.

What’s in those woods? she asked. No one had spoken for hours.

That’s no-man’s-land, miss, the driver muttered.

No one has claimed the territory? Sabel leaned forward in her seat. In that case, the land would be as dangerous as a war zone. Gangs would go there to settle scores or try to establish dominance in the region.

No one’s been able to stake a claim over that way, he replied. All the clans think they’ve got some right to the place.

And so close to Donahue’s walls, Sabel said.

No one would dare cross to this side. He sounded amused. He thought she was scared.

Sabel bristled but let him think what he wanted. She had bigger concerns at hand. Whatever lay beyond those trees had physically pulled at her. She only felt that way when she was painting, and never so strongly as this.

The automobile rolled into mildly overgrown grounds, and the manor rose up before them, shrouded in pale mist the spring rain left behind. The driver opened her door, and Sabel stumbled out.

Below the bell tower and flag, winged creatures peered everlastingly down at a stone archway that led to the front doors. Sabel had never seen such statuary on a house. She had never seen a Donahue estate at all, having grown up with Lamberts.

No, that wasn’t exactly true. She had been born here, before Donahue sent them away. For our protection, Mother used to say, touching Sabel’s cheek. She told fantasy stories at bedtime, but Sabel had come to believe that was the biggest myth of all—that Donahue had actually cared about them.

Sabel had grown up with her mother’s relatives, the one dark-haired cousin who stood out like a crow. Her parents had thought intermarrying would produce a happy ending. It had only produced her. She was a Donahue by name, a Lambert by breeding, and by blood, a ghost—the derogatory label for any person of mixed clan blood.

Sabel tucked the paintbrush into her belt like a dagger. Her limbs were stiff from travel, but she walked up the circular drive with confident strides in case someone watched from the glittering sea of windows. She doubted it. The whole place looked ancient and deserted. The stones were weathered and pockmarked like gravestones.

This manor was larger than any ought to be, as though it had been built for a grander purpose hundreds of years ago, and without anything so noble in existence now, would have to make due as a mansion. It had at least four wings, probably with a courtyard in the center.

Her escort thumped her trunk down at the top of the stairs and lifted their caps. A spurt of exhaust drifted across the drive, and they were off to the outbuildings tucked away somewhere on the estate. Sabel watched them disappear, aware that she was very much alone.

She turned to the imposing double doors and raised her arm. It wasn’t that she felt afraid to knock. She shouldn’t have to knock on her father’s door at all. In a sudden swell of boldness, she tried the brass knob, and it turned in her hand, opening into a vast foyer with slate tiles and an iron chandelier, unlit.

She waited, peering into the dim space until her vision adjusted. No servants rushed forward to welcome her. How odd. Sabel didn’t think her Donahue grandparents were still alive, but she might have at least been greeted by a dark-haired cousin or elderly aunt.

She narrowed her eyes at the grand sweep of stairs fading into the darkness and deliberated whether she should feel annoyed or afraid. In the end, her curiosity came awake and propelled her through another doorway into an antiquated ballroom, which had been repurposed into a museum or storage room.

Sabel had never seen so many curious objects in one place. Pairs of tusks and antlers protruded from the walls. Carpets with exotic floral designs padded her footsteps as she wandered along sideboards. They displayed glass lamps and finicky metal gadgets and weapons from other quadrants of the planet.

Huge mobiles dangled lazily from the ceiling. One of them was composed of several models of the aeroplane that had never taken flight. A brilliant inventor, a young man from the Griswold clan, had tried to make a flying machine, before he’d been found dead far from home. Still, it gave Sabel hope that in the midst of all the clan bloodshed, others were searching for impossible things even more amazing than radios or photography or light bulbs.

Donahue must have been to every continent on Claeria to acquire such an assortment of wonders. Quite a feat, considering their country had closed borders. Quite illegal.

Perhaps Donahue would prove tolerable after all.

More importantly, there might be something useful in this massive estate—answers not attainable elsewhere.

Sabel slid an old-fashioned saber from its sheath. Every clan still learned fencing to this day, mostly to keep up with gangs who favored it. If one lost a gun in a close-quartered fight or ran out of ammunition, a sword won out over every other weapon. This one was much heavier than the sabers they used now, but well crafted. Sabel lunged and parried, deftly avoiding other articles in the room. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.

What are you doing here?

It wasn’t a question. She turned, swinging the saber tip up in a salute. The man in the doorway had a shaved head and a slender, compact body that belied his strength.

I believe knocking was in order, he said. They stared at each other long enough for him to realize she wasn’t going to answer. He opened his mouth, still frowning, but before he could speak, another voice rang out from the foyer, loud and deep.

Farren, who are you talking to, man?

Sabel’s stomach dropped, but her heart flew up to her throat. Her arm lost all substance, and she quickly sheathed the blade and propped it against the wall.

Another man appeared beside the bald one. For all the volume of his voice, Sabel heard no footsteps. He towered above Farren, and there was nothing hidden about his strength. Of course, she didn’t have to ask. She was looking at her father.

---

Sabel had received Donahue’s summons on her eighteenth birthday, only a week ago, while eating cake with her multitude of Lambert relations. There was never much to say on Sabel’s birthday. The aunts who had loved her mother tried to draw out conversation. The clink of rose-painted porcelain and interspersed words made it feel more like a funeral, until one cousin kicked another under the table, which led to snickers and Grandmother’s sharp eyes rising from her plate.

Before she could issue a reprimand, a servant came with the letter, sent by private courier. When Grandmother saw the seal, her hand just stopped, frozen over the flap. Sabel instantly knew who’d sent it. He had never written her before, but she knew. 

The preparations had begun that night, and so did the questions she had buried for so long. Did he say why he wanted her to come? Did she have any other Donahue relatives?

Grandmother only shook her head. Enough with the questions, child. Pack your things. You won’t be coming back.

Sabel wondered why the mysterious Lord Donahue had chosen this moment in time to send for her. Five years ago, Mother had been killed, and only now did he deign to notice his single child. Even through his absence, Donahue had controlled Sabel’s actions and emotions, and she did not wish to be drawn back into his orbit. It was too late for that.

Now, after years of futile imagination and nonexistent letters, Sabel was standing face-to-face with Donahue. She couldn’t help feeling a little proud that he looked well-built and astute. He had raven hair like hers, thick and neatly trimmed and without a streak of silver. She had wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. There was still an angry pit of fear in her stomach, but she pretended that her emotions concerning him did not exist.

He had already assessed her more efficiently than she could absorb him. There was just so much of him. Sabel knew what he would see when he looked at her. Nothing. Her face didn’t change. Her flawless posture didn’t change. Her martial trainer had taught Sabel not to emit clues that people could read. Her true essence roiled inside carefully crafted walls, untouched.

Donahue turned to Farren. Fetch her trunk from the doorstep, would you? I’ll bring her upstairs.

Farren cast a deep-set glance her way. When he was gone, Donahue extended a hand toward her. He silently bid her to come near, and Sabel’s feet didn’t ask her permission. They went.

Welcome.

Sabel was relieved he didn’t try to embrace her. He didn’t look like the embracing sort, so perhaps they had something in common. She had put a little hope in him answering her questions, but surely this wealthy clan lord wouldn’t share his secrets with her, a child he had abandoned. He also wasn’t the sort to make small talk. Her Lambert relatives would have commented on her journey or how tired she must be, because it was the cultured thing to do. But Sabel still hadn’t said anything and didn’t plan to, unless asked a direct question. She might not hate Donahue, but she did not like how he had treated her.

I’ll show you to your room, he said.

Her room. As if she’d always had a place here.

He led her to the front steps, a waterfall of marble. The upstairs hall stretched into gloom, as dark and deserted as the floor below. The landing was guarded by shadowy portraits of long-dead ancestors and a towering grandfather clock that ticked softly. If Donahue had any house servants besides Farren, they must live in the woodwork. The elegant Lambert estate she’d left behind had employed doormen, maids, and cooks. It would have been impossible to make it this far without encountering a servant or two. Sabel did notice the dust under the banisters of the stairs.

She was disappointed that her chambers sported none of the curiosities of the ballroom. Whoever had designed it for the master’s daughter had selected very fine stylish furniture and a canopy bed with light, billowy curtains. Sabel half expected to see her Lambert cousin, Blanche, sprawled on the covers, drowning in miserable love poetry. The older girl had lost interest in mock battles and often used Sabel’s old room as her hiding place, uninvited. She had never been very kind, but Sabel let her stay anyway. The Lamberts took pride in acting refined, but behind closed doors, they were savage and relentless.

But this was a different house and a different life, and Sabel might never see Blanche again. She turned toward Donahue, who filled the whole doorframe.

I hope you’ll be comfortable here. When he brings your trunk, tell Farren if you need anything.

She wanted to blurt out, Why am I here? but a whole stream of questions would follow—Why do you want me? Why now? Who are you?—and she didn’t want to sound like a babbling idiot.

She still hadn’t said a word. It was Sabel’s own type of power, one of the few things she had been able to control. While adults died on her, decided for her, and kept her in the dark, she had her voice and her will. 

Donahue was not a fool. He could see the burning in her eyes, that she kept silent not because she was dull or afraid, but for reasons of her own. His gaze dropped to the paintbrush at her belt. Perhaps it had been silly to wear it. He must have noticed it downstairs, but Sabel had forgotten it was there. She should have put it in her pocket. Sweat trickled beneath her arms, and she forced herself not to fidget. It was only a paintbrush, but also the last one she had, and she treasured it as an extension of her own soul. It was the final gift her mother had given her.

They had been sitting at tea with their Lambert relatives. It’s made of special wood, Mother had whispered. The trees only grow beside the River. She passed the paintbrush beneath the lace tablecloth, and Sabel wrapped her child’s fingers around it. What river? The knobby wooden handle felt textured and alive against her skin. She wanted to hear a story about it, but they couldn’t talk here.

Grandmother had never liked them painting together. If she discovered the paintbrush while they were at tea, there would be consequences, but Mother must think Sabel clever enough to keep it hidden. And she had. Grandmother had converted the art studio into a private parlor shortly after Mother’s death, and all the other materials disappeared.

Donahue did not remark on her talisman. I must tell you, Sabel, that I live a very unconventional lifestyle, but I think it may suit you.

He had no idea what might suit her. He didn’t know her.

I’d be pleased if you’d join me for dinner, he said. You must have a lot of questions.

A few. Sabel finally spoke, keeping her voice measured, though a shard of hope shot through her like a physical pain.

He nodded. I’ll have Farren or my housekeeper come for you. It is easy to get lost here.

Are those your only servants? she asked.

Is that your question? He sounded amused, but answered anyway. I don’t require much attendance and don’t entertain many guests. Hired help doesn’t tend to stay around.

2

I’ll tell you how to paint mermaids next, Carissa said. Would you like that?

Sabel twirled her paintbrush in the water jar a little longer than she needed to. What are they?

Mermaids live under the sea. They’re very mischievous and try not to do what humans tell them.

Alright then, yes.

The world sank into twilight beyond the old rippled glass of her windowpanes. Light from the burning lampposts illuminated the drive, but the lawns and arbor were lost to darkness.

Sabel rifled through her few things, unpacking nothing but another buttoned blouse to wear at dinner. This one had puffier sleeves and a lace collar. A Lambert maid had pressed and folded it so carefully that it emerged unwrinkled, and without warning, Sabel felt an odd pulse of homesickness. Odd, because there was nothing to miss. Her relatives had accepted her because she was blood kin, not out of any real sense of love or nurturing. To any Lamberts outside their family, she was a ghost—half of what they hated, and half of what should have been theirs. It was somehow worse. Her cousins had to defend her from the Donahues and Lamberts alike at school, and they were often slow in their familial duties.

Grandmother swore over and over that a Donahue gang had killed Mother. Of course she would, but it could’ve been the Lamberts themselves, targeting her because she’d married into the wrong blood. Sabel would never know which side pulled the trigger, and it didn’t matter. She hated them both for it.

Thanks to the brutal attention of their family trainer, she had become the best freehand fighter at the all-girls institution. This method of combat was more useful than guns or knives, which weren’t easily smuggled in. She could use her body with a brutal force that made even older students give her wide berth. Sabel would have to establish that respect at her new school. This time she would have no relatives to fall back on.

She couldn’t be homesick for a home that didn’t exist.

The clock chimed the dinner hour, and a punctual knock came at her door. Sabel wanted to fling it open. She was almost breathless from waiting. Instead, she took even steps,