The last words I ever wanted to hear.

It’s Baba means it’s over.

It’s Baba means he’s hurt, or worse—

No. I stop my thoughts as we sprint across the wooden planks of the merchant quarter. He’s okay, I promise myself. Whatever it is, he’s going to live.

Eloirin rises with the sun, bringing our ocean village to life. Waves crash against the wooden pillars that keep our settlement afloat, coating our feet with mist. Like a spider caught in the web of the sea, our village sits on eight legs of lumber all con- nected in the center. It’s that center we run to now. That center that brings us closer to Baba.

“Watch it,” a kosidán woman yells as I sprint past, almost knocking a basket of plantain off her black hair. Maybe if she re- alized my world is falling apart, she’d find the heart to forgive.

“What happened?” I pant.

“I don’t know,” Tzain rushes out. “Ndulu interrupted agbön practice. Said Baba was in trouble. I was headed home, but Yemi told me you had a problem with the guards?”

Oh gods, what if it’s the one from Mama Agba’s hut? Fear creeps into my consciousness as we zip through the tradeswomen and craftsmen crowding the wooden walkways. The guard who attacked me could’ve gone after Baba. And soon he’ll go after—

“Zélie!” Tzain shouts with an edge that indicates this isn’t his first attempt to grab my attention. “Why’d you leave him? It was your turn to stay!”

“Today was the graduation match! If I missed it—” “Dammit, Zél!” Tzain’s roar makes other villagers turn. “Are you serious? You left Baba for your stupid stick?”

“It’s not a stick, it’s a weapon,” I shoot back. “And I didn’t abandon him. Baba overslept. He needed to rest. And I’ve stayed every day this week—”

“Because I stayed every day last week!” Tzain leaps over a crawling child, muscles rippling when he lands. A kosidán girl smiles as he runs past, hoping a flirtatious wave will break his stride. Even now, villagers gravitate to Tzain like magnets find- ing their way home. I have no need to push others out of my way—one look at my white hair, and people avoid me like I’m an infectious plague.

“The Orïshan Games are only two moons away,” Tzain con- tinues. “You know what winning that kind of coin could do for us? When I practice, you have to stay with Baba. What part of that’s so hard to understand? Dammit.”

Tzain skids to a stop before the floating market in the center of Eloirin. Surrounded by a rectangular walkway, the stretch of open sea swells with villagers haggling inside their round, co- conut boats. Before the daily trades begin, we can run across the night bridge to our home in the fishermen’s sector. But the mar- ket’s opened early and the bridge is nowhere to be seen. We’ll have to go the long way.

Ever the athlete, Tzain takes off, sprinting down the walkway surrounding the market to make it back to Baba. I begin to follow him but pause when I see the coconut boats. 

Merchants and fishermen barter, trading fresh fruit for the best of that day’s catch. When times are good, the trades are kind—everyone accepts a little less to give others a little more. But today everyone bickers, demanding bronze and silver over promises and fish.

The taxes . . .

The wretched face of the guard fills my mind as the ghost of his grip burns my thigh. The memory of his glare propels me. I leap into the first boat.

“Zélie, watch out!” Kana cries out, cradling her precious fruit. Our village gardener adjusts her headwrap and scowls as I hop onto a wooden barge teeming with blue moonfish.

“Sorry!”

I yell apology after apology, leaping from boat to boat like a red-nosed frogger. As soon as I land on the deck of the fishermen’s sector, I’m off, relishing in the sensation of my feet pounding against the wooden planks. Though Tzain now trails behind, I keep going. I need to reach Baba first. If it’s bad, Tzain’ll need a warning.

If Baba’s dead . . .

The thought turns my legs to lead. He can’t be dead. It’s half past dawn; we need to load our boat and sail out to sea. By the time we lay out our nets, the prime catch will have passed. Who’ll scold me for that if Baba’s gone?

I picture him before I left, passed out in the emptiness of our ahéré. Even asleep, he looked worn, like the longest sleep couldn’t grant him rest. I had hoped he wouldn’t wake until I returned, but I should’ve known better. In stillness, he has to deal with his pain, his regrets . . .

And me.

Me and my stupid mistakes.

The crowd gathered outside my ahéré makes me stumble to a halt. People block my view of the ocean, pointing and shout- ing at something I can’t see. Before I can push my way in, Tzain barrels through the crowd. As a path clears, my heart stops.

Almost half a kilometer out at sea, a man flails, his dark hands thrashing in desperation. Powerful waves ram against the poor soul’s head, drowning him with each impact. The man cries out for help, voice choked and weak. But it’s a voice I’d know anywhere.

The voice of my father.

Two fishermen row toward him, frantic as they paddle in their coconut boats. But the force of the waves pushes them back. They’ll never reach him in time.

“No,” I cry in horror as a current pulls Baba below the surface. Though I wait for him to surface, nothing breaks through the vengeful waves. We’re too late.

Baba’s gone.

It hits me like a staff to the chest. To the head. To the heart.

In an instant the air vanishes from my world and I forget how to breathe.

But while I struggle to stand, Tzain launches into action. I scream as he dives into the water, cutting through the waves with the power of a dual-finned shark.

Tzain swims with a frenzy I’ve never seen. Within moments he overtakes the boats. Seconds later he reaches the area where Baba went under.

He dives down and my chest tightens so much I swear I feel my ribs crack. But when Tzain reemerges, his hands are empty. No body. 

No Baba.

Panting, Tzain dives again, kicking harder this time. The sec- onds without him stretch into an eternity. Oh my gods . . .

I could lose them both.

“Come on,” I whisper as I stare at the waves where Tzain and Baba have disappeared. “Come back.”

I’ve whispered these words before.

As a kid, I once watched Baba haul Tzain from the depths of a lake, ripping him from the seaweed that had trapped him under- water. He pumped on his fragile chest, but when Baba failed to make him breathe, it was Mama and her magic who saved him. She risked everything, violating maji law to call on the forbidden powers in her blood. She wove her incantations into Tzain like a thread, pulling him back to life with the magic of the dead. I wish Mama was alive every day but never more than this moment. I wish the magic that coursed through her body ran through mine.

I wish I could bring Tzain and Baba back.

“Please.” Despite everything I believe, I close my eyes and pray, just like I did that day. If even one god is alive, I need her to hear me now.

“Please!” Tears leak through my lashes, hope shriveling in- side my chest. “Bring them back. Please, Oya, don’t take them too—”

“Ugh!”

My eyes snap open as Tzain bursts out of the ocean, one arm around Baba’s chest. A liter of water seems to escape Baba’s throat as he coughs, but he’s here.

He’s alive.

I fall to my knees, nearly collapsing on the wooden walkway.

My gods . . .

It’s barely past sunrise, and I’ve already risked two lives. Six minutes.

That’s how long Baba thrashed out at sea.

How long he fought against the current, how long his lungs ached for air.

As we sit in the silence of our empty ahéré, I can’t get that number out of my head. The way Baba shivers, I’m convinced those six minutes took ten years off his life.

This shouldn’t have happened. It’s too early to have ruined the entire day. I should be outside cleaning the morning’s haul with Baba. Tzain should be returning from agbön practice to help.

Instead Tzain watches Baba, arms crossed, too enraged to throw a glance my way. Right now my only friend is Nailah, the faithful lionaire I’ve raised since she was a wounded cub. No longer a baby, my ryder towers over me, reaching Tzain’s neck on all fours. Two jagged horns protrude behind her ears, dangerously close to puncturing our reed walls. I reach up and Nailah instinctively brings her giant head down, careful to ma- neuver the fangs curved over her jaw. She purrs as I scratch her snout. At least someone’s not angry with me.

“What happened, Baba?”

Tzain’s gruff voice cuts through the silence. We wait for an answer, but Baba’s expression stays blank. He gazes at the floor with an emptiness that makes my heart ache.

“Baba?” Tzain bends down to meet his eyes. “Do you remember what happened?”

Baba pulls his blanket tighter. “I had to fish.”

“But you’re not supposed to go alone!” I exclaim.

Baba winces and Tzain glares at me, forcing me to soften my tone. “Your blackouts are only getting worse,” I try again. “Why couldn’t you just wait for me to come home?”

“I didn’t have time.” Baba shakes his head. “The guards came. Said I had to pay.”

“What?” Tzain’s brows knit together. “Why? I paid them last week.”

“It’s a divîner tax.” I grip the draped fabric of my pants, still haunted by the guard’s touch. “They came for Mama Agba, too. Probably hitting every divîner home in Eloirin.”

Tzain presses his fists to his forehead as if he could smash through his own skull. He wants to believe that playing by the monarchy’s rules will keep us safe, but nothing can protect us when those rules are rooted in hate.

The same guilt from earlier resurfaces, squeezing until it sinks into my chest. If I wasn’t a divîner, they wouldn’t suffer. If Mama hadn’t been a maji, she’d still be alive today.

I dig my fingers through my hair, accidentally ripping a few strands from my scalp. Part of me considers cutting all of it off, but even without my white hair, my maji heritage would damn our family all the same. We are the people who fill the guards’ prisons, the people our kingdom turns into laborers. The peo- ple Orïshans try to chase out of their features, outlawing our lin- eage as if white hair and dead magic were a societal stain.

Mama used to say that in the beginning, white hair was a sign of the powers of heaven and earth. It held beauty and virtue and love, it meant we were blessed by the gods above. But when everything changed, magic became a thing to loathe. Our her- itage transformed into a thing to hate.

It’s a cruelty I’ve had to accept, but whenever I see that pain inflicted on Tzain or Baba, it cuts to new depths. Baba’s still coughing up salt water, and already we’re forced to think about making ends meet.

“What about the sailfish?” Tzain asks. “We can pay them with that.”

I walk to the back of the hut and open our small iron icebox. In a bath of chilled seawater lies the red-tailed sailfish we wran- gled yesterday, its glistening scales promising a delicious taste. A rare find in the Warri Sea, it’s much too valuable for us to eat. But if the guards would take it—

“They refused to be paid in fish,” Baba grumbles. “I needed bronze. Silver.” He massages his temple like he could make the whole world disappear. “They told me to get the coin or they’d force Zélie into the stocks.”

My blood runs cold. I whip around, unable to hide my fear. Run by the king’s army, the stocks act as our kingdom’s labor force, spreading throughout all of Orïsha. Whenever someone can’t afford the taxes, he’s required to work off the debt for our king. Those stuck in the stocks toil endlessly, erecting palaces, building roads, mining coal, and everything in between.

It’s a system that served Orïsha well once, but since the Raid it’s no more than a state-sanctioned death sentence. An excuse to round up my people, as if the monarchy ever needed one. With all the divîners left orphaned from the Raid, we are the ones who can’t afford the monarchy’s high taxes. We are the true targets of every raised tax.

Dammit. I fight to keep my terror inside. If I’m forced into the stocks, I’ll never get out. No one who enters escapes. The labor is only supposed to last until the original debt is worked off, but when the taxes keep rising, so does the debt. Starved, beaten, and worse, the divîners are transported like cattle, forced to work until our bodies break, nothing more than our kingdom’s slaves.

I push my hands into the chilled seawater to calm my nerves. I can’t let Baba and Tzain know how frightened I truly am. It’ll only make it worse for all of us. But as my fingers start to shake, I don’t know if it’s from the cold or my terror. How is this happening? When did things get this bad?

“No,” I whisper to myself. Wrong question.

I shouldn’t be asking when things got this bad. I should ask why I ever thought things had gotten better.

I look to the single black calla lily woven into the netted win- dow of our hut, the only living connection to Mama I have left. She used to place calla lilies in the window of our old home in the village of Ibadan to honor her mother, a tribute maji pay to their dead.

Usually when I look at the flower, I remember the wide smile that came to Mama’s lips when she would inhale its cinnamon scent. Today all I see in its wilted leaves is the black majacite chain that took the place of the gold amulet she always wore around her neck.

Though the memory is eleven years old, it’s clearer to me now than my own vision.

That was the night things got bad, I decide. The night King Saran hung my people for the world to see, declaring war against the maji of today and tomorrow. The night magic died.

The night we lost everything.

Baba shudders and I run to his side, placing a hand on his back to keep him upright. His eyes hold no anger, only defeat. As he clings to the worn blanket, I wish I could see the warrior I knew when I was a child. Before the Raid, he could fight off three armed men with nothing but a skinning knife in hand. But after the beating he got that night, it took him five moons before he could even talk.

They broke him that night, battered his heart and shattered his soul. Maybe he would’ve recovered if he hadn’t woken to find Mama’s corpse bound in black chains. But he did.

He’s never been the same since.

“All right.” Tzain sighs, always searching for an ember in the ashes. “Let’s get out on the boat. If we leave now—”

“Won’t work,” I interrupt. “You saw the market. Everyone’s scrambling to meet the tax. Even if we could bring in fish, what- ever spare coin people have is gone.”

“And we don’t have a boat,” Baba mutters. “I lost it this morning.”

“What?” I didn’t realize that the boat wasn’t outside. I turn to Tzain, ready to hear his new plan, but he slumps to the reed floor.

I’m done. . . . I press into the wall and close my eyes.

No boat, no coin.

No way to avoid the stocks.

A heavy silence descends in the ahéré, cementing my sentence. Maybe I’ll be assigned to the palace. At least then I could eat all the food they must waste.

Waiting on spoiled nobles would be preferable to coughing up coal dust in the mines of Calabrar or the other nefarious channels stockers can force divîners into. From what I’ve heard, the underground brothels aren’t even close to the worst of what the stockers might make me do.

“All right.” Tzain shifts in the corner. I know him. He’s going to offer to take my place. But as I prepare to protest, the thought of being assigned to the royal palace sparks an idea.

“What about Lagose?” I ask.

“Running away won’t work.”

“Not to run.” I shake my head. “That market’s filled with nobles. I can trade the sailfish there.”

Before either can comment on my genius, I grab parchment paper and run over to the sailfish. “I’ll come back with three moons’ worth of taxes. And coin for a new boat.” And Tzain can focus on his agbön matches. Baba can finally get some rest. I can help. I smile to myself. I can finally do something right.

“You can’t go.” Baba’s weary voice cuts into my thoughts. “It’s too dangerous for a divîner.”

“More dangerous than the stocks?” I ask. “Because if I don’t do this, that’s where I’m headed.”

“I’ll go to Lagose,” Tzain argues.

“No, you won’t.” I tuck the wrapped sailfish into my pack. “You can barely barter. You’ll blow the entire trade.”

“I may get less coin, but I can protect myself.”

“So can I.” I wave Mama Agba’s staff before tossing it into my pack.

“Baba, please.” Tzain shoos me away. “If Zél goes, she’ll do something stupid.”

“If I go, I’ll come back with more coin than we’ve ever seen.”

Baba’s brow creases as he deliberates. “Zélie should make the trade—”

“Thank you.”

“—but Tzain, keep her in line.”

“No.” Tzain crosses his arms. “You need one of us here in case the guards come back.”

“Take me to Mama Agba’s,” Baba says. “I’ll hide there until you return.”

“But Baba—”

“If you don’t leave now, you won’t be back by nightfall.” Tzain closes his eyes, stifling his frustration. He starts loading Nailah’s saddle onto her massive back as I help Baba to his feet. “I’m trusting you,” Baba mutters, too quiet for Tzain to hear. “I know.” I tie the worn blanket around his thin frame. “I won’t mess up again.”