As Sraddi began to read, the Cynn sat back and yawned hugely, running his fingers through his hair.

"12 November 2005," Sraddi said. "Issued by the Enodian-Aetherian Joint Council: Effective immediately, Enodian and Aetherian ports will be opened in light of the growing refugee crisis. Visas are limited and will be provisioned as follows..."

Here the sun was going down as just a smear of orange between the dark horizon and the heavy clouds overhead, and the Palace on its hill was the only thing breaking the flat horizon. Elsewhere--somewhere with telephone poles and tall evergreen trees--rain was coming down in cold sheets over a low, rundown, unmarked building blocked off from the sidewalk by an iron fence.

Somewhere inside a fax machine was spitting out paper after paper, watched by people with tails and striped hands. One of them left the building shortly after, pulling closed the door marked 'condemned' behind him, putting a hat on over his odd ears. He walked through the rain with a brown envelope tucked under one arm, down wet sidewalks, into a part of the town with wooden walkways and shops and people who were out despite the rain. He walked past someone else with a red umbrella, someone with their face covered by a thick woolen scarf--and handed off the envelope to them without a word.

The envelope rode in the front seat of the truck as it was driven from the rain into the snow and finally to a small house at the edge of a stand of pines, which would have looked like nothing more than a little mountain home but for the radio antenna anchored to the ground in its front yard.

Inside, an oni woman with deep crimson skin sat at an amateur radio setup, a toddler with short stubby horns and a sippy cup sitting in her lap as she read from the papers that had been in the brown envelope.

"--Doctors, healers, aid workers, interpreters--people with family or work already in Enodia--and for Aetherian visas, people who want to join R.I.T. when it's created. But even if you aren't any of those things, it's definitely worth trying for while you can."

Her voice came through on the little storm radio's speakers, as it sat on a craggy rock amid thick grass littered with garbage and a low fog, next to someone with torn jeans.

"And this starts right now, so if you're anywhere near Enodia or Thraston or another port--if you're within the sound of my voice, even--"