The night sky was awash with stars. In Drakardia, they would have been obscured by smog. In Maskamere, they shone clear and bright. He remembered this night well. His troop had advanced across the border first. A patch of woodland provided cover. They had entered it after sunset, engaged in a brief skirmish with an enemy patrol, and encountered their first real resistance about a mile later.

Now as they crossed a field, trampling bodies underfoot, he looked up at that sky in a futile effort to get his bearings.

Everything had changed. He had not expected to find himself here with his memories intact, least of all with his strange new senses. Did the world look like this for Valerie too? He was a blind man gifted with sight, and the landscape took on a whole new dimension. Power swirled around him in currents and eddies, ebbing and flowing like the tides. It emanated from multiple sources, bright beacons of magic that had to be silvertrees. He was riding towards one right now.

He urged his grey mare into a canter, heading to the front of the line. "Halt! Hold the line! Tell the men to halt."

The word spread, his captains repeating his orders, and he sensed his power over them like a tangible thing. He was the General, commander-in-chief of the Drakonian army, so of course all these men followed him. The magic in the air and the land surged through him in response to them.

He wondered what it meant, but there was little time.

"Tell the men to make camp. I'll scout ahead. You and you, come with me."

He picked out two of his best scouts; it would have been suspicious to go on alone. Only one person occupied his thoughts now: Valerie.

Valerie had given him the gift of the goldentree. To say that she had taken him by surprise was a vast understatement. She had astonished him. He had not asked for it; she had not shared her intentions. He had resigned himself to losing all his memories of the past two years. In effect, it was a kind of death. He had sacrificed himself to save his sister, and he did not regret that decision no matter what it cost.

Yet here he was, alive.

Valerie had given him this gift, and he knew without her saying so that he had one task now: to return to her.

He knew little of her village. He had burned it down, or so she claimed, but he had burned down many villages during this campaign. He knew that she had studied at a convent. He had burned that down too. Perhaps the silvertree he sensed close by belonged to that convent. Perhaps it lay further ahead. Either way, the trees were his best chance of finding her.

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His scouts joined him, the woodland swallowing them up. Leaves rustled overhead and underfoot. Despite the dark, he knew exactly which direction to go in. He half-drew his sword in anticipation of an ambush, but that too overflowed with power, shining a brilliant white, and he had to return it to its sheath.

No wonder Valerie had so easily identified its magic.

That blade, Maska's sword, had won this war. Its blood still stained his hands. He had spearheaded the invasion. He had cut down priestesses and acolytes alike. He had ordered his men to set the silvertrees alight. When he thought of that, and the transcendent beauty of the goldentree, the way it had welcomed even one such as him, he was filled with shame. How ignorant he had been. How arrogant. Valerie had told him so, and he had not listened.

If he failed to save her village now…

Without warning, the world shifted.

He almost fell over. Night became day. Dark woods bloomed into a bright rose garden. He was no longer astride a saddle, but mid-stride on a stroll through the garden. His clothes were fine and silky, without the weight of the sword at his hip. The scent of roses filled his nostrils, far more pleasant than the previous combination of sweat, leather and horse flesh. The blue sky seemed almost lurid.

Am I dreaming?

The sudden change dizzied him. Slowly, as he blinked and turned around, taking in his surroundings, he recognised where he had ended up.

The royal palace in Jairah.

A silvertree grew nearby.

This time, it was only feet away. He spotted the pale pointed leaves poking over the top of a tall hedge and hurried around to get a closer look. Yes—in the centre of the garden, by a stone fountain, the silvertree stood bright and splendid. If he had not encountered the goldentree only minutes ago, he would have been overawed by its power and beauty.

He approached the tree. As his palm touched the silver bark, the same sense of grandeur that he had felt at the goldentree overwhelmed him. An image formed in his mind's eye: a forest of silvertrees, all of them connected. If he only reached out, he might enter that forest…

"Lord Avon."

He caught himself, reeling back. His heart leapt, and he did not know why until he turned around and saw the woman who had spoken his name.

Tall and willowy, she wore a gown of shimmering silver. Her skin was smooth and pale, her nose upturned, almost sly, her cheekbones high. Shining black hair flowed scandalously about her shoulders, and her eyes were witch-green. He had thought her beautiful as a lady in a painting might be beautiful: sleek, elegant, untouchable.

But she was more than beautiful. She shone with ancient power, a terrifying goddess armed with her baubles of state: the Kestrel's Eye that adorned her neck, the Golden Sceptre in her hand, and the Masked Crown upon her head. She could kill him in an instant and they both knew it.

He reached for his missing blade before remembering that he no longer had it.

"We meet again." The queen gave a feline smile. "Do you still mean to propose?"

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