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stopped him from –’
    The man swings the pistol around to face her. Clementine shuts up with a nervous squeak.
    â€˜You saved us?’ The man’s voice is as deep as gravel. ‘ You saved us ?’
    Clementine doesn’t respond. Her eyes are trans-fixed upon the pistol, as if a deadly viper is about to lunge for her face.
    I step forward hastily, trying to draw the man’s attention. ‘Sir, we didn’t mean any disrespect.’
    â€˜Oh?’ the man says. His gaze doesn’t waver from Clementine.
    I adopt the humblest voice I can manage: the voice I always used when begging barkeepers for work in Rourton. ‘We just wanted to let you know Víndurn is in danger, sir. Our king is determined to invade and conquer your –’
    The man’s laugh echoes sharply. He turns to face me, his eyes as cold as frost. ‘Hate to break it to you, lass, but King Morrigan would have better luck munching a hornet’s nest for supper. That way, he mightn’t get stung so hard.’
    I glance at the others again, startled. None of us has mentioned King Morrigan’s name – yet this manseems utterly familiar with it, as though details of Taladia’s governance are common knowledge.
    Back in Taladia, we knew nothing of the outside world. There were lands that the king was invading, and there was the land beyond the Valley. That was it.
    Yet here we are, in a land of fables – and this stranger knows not only the name of our country, but our king. It feels oddly like being caught naked, while the rest of the world swans around in ball gowns and tuxedos.
    The man readjusts his grip on the pistol. ‘You’re not the first Taladians to come running here,’ he says. ‘And you won’t be the last.’
    â€˜What are you going to do to us?’ I say.
    He raises an eyebrow. ‘I might be planning to shoot you, lass. Are you so keen to get it over with?’
    I tense a little, but try to keep my expression neutral. ‘No, sir. It’s just … we were told that your land was a welcoming place. Somewhere to be safe. We were hoping to find a new home.’
    The man snorts. ‘Weren’t we all?’
    I frown, confused.
    â€˜Here’s the thing,’ the man says, his finger still tight on the trigger. ‘I’m a migrant too. My parents brought me here as a boy, from the Borrolan Islands in the south.’
    None of us responds. I shift my gaze subtly towards Maisy, trying to see if she looks familiarwith the name ‘Borrolan Islands’. But her eyes are wide and her lips are parted in surprise, so I guess her beloved encyclopaedias failed to mention any distant nations.
    â€˜See, a lot of folks come to Víndurn,’ the man says. ‘They hear the stories, and come here looking for a better life. People from the south, people from the east. People from the west,’ he adds, with a nod towards us.
    â€˜You all hear the same stories?’ Lukas says. ‘In all these countries, you hear the rumours of Víndurn as a sanctuary?’
    The man nods. There’s something unreadable in his eyes now. ‘Most folks’ve got something to run from,’ he says. ‘And Víndurn’s willing to take them, see? Lord Farran’s the one who seeds the stories. Sends the rumours out on the lips of travellers, to cross the seas and mountains and valleys.’
    â€˜But why?’ I survey the scraggly trees. ‘I mean, no offence, but this isn’t exactly the paradise they talk about in the stories …’
    â€˜Lord Farran needs workers,’ the man says. ‘When he first came to Víndurn, this country had so few people – barely enough to build a proper nation. The land didn’t even have a central ruler.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘They say a giant could spit across Víndurn, and there’d be barely a soul to complain of the rain on his cheeks.’
    â€˜But