A Prince Out of Time
Author: J. McCoy; Eligos
Date: 2022-04-18T18:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: To save the kingdom, he'll have to stop his own murder... It’s hard to be a drunken idiot when the world keeps burning down around you. Cairn, the charming-yet-utterly-irresponsible heir to the Uskarrion throne, is all too happy to toss the crown aside. But an invasion, conspiracy, and rise of a terrifying villain result in his untimely death. Then, Cairn reawakens. It's a decade earlier and he's in his childhood body. But he remembers everything... There's much to accomplish. First, however, he'd really love to stop himself from dying. After cementing itself as one of the most beloved progres
Publisher: Aethon Books

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

ALSO IN SERIES

Prologue

1. Ignis I

2. Ignis II

3. Ignis III

4. Ignis IV

5. Ignis V

6. Everwood I

7. Everwood II

8. Everwood III

9. Everwood IV

10. Everwood V

11. Everwood VI

12. Everwood VII

13. Everwood VIII

14. Everwood IX

15. Everwood X

16. Everwood XI

17. Everwood XII

18. Crossroads I

19. Crossroads II

20. Crossroads III

21. Crossroads IV

22. Crossroads V

23. Crossroads VI

24. Crossroads VII

25. Crossroads VIII

26. Crossroads IX

27. Crossroads X

28. Crossroads XI

29. Crossroads XII

30. Enclave I

31. Enclave II

32. Enclave III

33. Enclave IV

34. Enclave V

35. Enclave VI

36. Enclave VII

37. Enclave VIII

38. Enclave IX

39. Enclave X

40. Enclave XI

41. Enclave XII

42. Enclave XIII

43. Enclave XIV

44. Enclave XV

45. Enclave XVI

46. Enclave XVII

47. Enclave XVIII

48. Enclave XIX

49. Enclave XX

50. Enclave XXI

51. Enclave XXII

52. Enclave XXIII

53. Enclave XXIV

54. Enclave XXV

55. Enclave XXVI

56. Enclave XXVII

57. Enclave XXVIII

58. Enclave XXIX

59. Enclave XXX

60. Enclave XXXI

61. Enclave XXXII

62. Enclave XXXIII

63. Enclave XXXIV

64. Enclave XXXV

65. Enclave XXXVI

66. Enclave XXXVII

67. Enclave XXXVIII

68. Enclave XXXIX

69. Enclave XL

70. Enclave XLI

71. Enclave XLII

72. Enclave XLIII

73. Enclave XLIV

Thank you for reading Re: Monarch

PRINCE OUT OF TIME

©2022 J McCoy (AKA Eligos)

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To A.J., my endless fount of suggestions and support. You’ll always be my Eloise.

ALSO IN SERIES

PRINCE OUT OF TIME

FORGOTTEN SANCTUM

PROLOGUE

This was the last time. Every breath I drew was borrowed with interest and my life was already forfeit. The things that lived in the dark fissures between this life and the next could deign to settle their claim on me at any moment.

I had to make this one count.

Empress Emira sat at a lacquered desk. The room was enormous, the size of a meeting hall back home. Expansive marble floors broken up by beautifully handcrafted pillars overgrown with violet flowered vines. To the untrained eye, it would look like the occupants had simply let nature take its course, but I knew the elves well enough to understand the amount of effort required to maintain this balance between architecture and flora. Years of careful effort, nurtured daily. A tree grew in the center of the room next to the desk, budding with periwinkle fruits that almost glimmered in the light of a floating luminosity incantation.

She frowned at a piece of correspondence written in foreign text I couldn’t understand. If this worked out, I’d have to ask her about it. At this point, after so many cycles, it was rare to run into a language I could not read, let alone recognize.

This was the part I hated most. It took so much time and effort to get here. Now I had to put it all on the line, again, ready for all my preparations and plans to be for naught. There was a tingling feeling across my shoulders as the invisibility spell faded.

"Honorable Empress-" The words barely left my lips before her body blurred, spinning to face me. The Empress’ lithe form moved easily, as if she’d been expecting this all along and was just waiting for the signal. Her wrist shot forward like a snake. My eyes widened as I saw the fulcrum extend from her bracer.

So much for catching her off-guard and unarmed.

I had less than a second to kick myself before the necrotic blast tore through my leather chest piece, catapulting me backwards. An invisible hand wormed its way through my rib cage, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. The ring on my third finger shattered instantly.

Damn.

I’d almost skipped raiding the dwarven armory this cycle. If I had, I’d be a smoking corpse on the floor right now. I was getting complacent. Time to end this quickly.

"... Ouch." Fine, maybe I needed a little more time to collect myself. My heart had nearly stopped and wasn’t exactly beating steadily anymore. It wasn't the sort of experience you just shook off.

"Intruder!" She shouted in elvish. Her eyes were wide, probably at the fact that I just took a killing spell to center mass and was struggling to my knees, still very much alive.

"Wait," I grunted.

"Guards!" The Empress shouted, louder. Footsteps thundered down the hallway. I had seconds, if that.

Okay. Fine. Time to pivot. I pulled my sword from its sheath. The Empress jerked backward, correctly predicting the horizontal swing. However, there was one thing she couldn’t predict:

My sword was bullshit.

I focused my will into the weapon and it bubbled in a near-instantaneous transformation, shifting from its short sword form into a black demonic spear. It stopped just shy of her neck. The Empress closed her eyes. There was no fear in her face, just acceptance and—relief?

That was something we had in common. Never ready for death, but always prepared for it.

I spoke haltingly in lower-elvish, "Blood of the Night Sky, this lowly servant requests an audience with eternity." Then I pulled my arm back and heaved. The spear landed and slid across the smooth marble, instantly returning to its original form.

At the sound of metal clattering, Empress Emira opened her eyes. A struggle played across her dark features. "Who are you?" She finally asked. "How do you know our words?"

But with that, our time was up. A squad of dark elves sprinted through the door. Unfortunately, the closest one was also the largest. His face twisted in righteous anger, sword hand descending. Shit. I’d failed. Again. Could I draw a backup weapon and kill him? Maybe, but it would accomplish nothing other than radicalizing the dark elves against us once more. Time slowed as the tip of the sword came down.

My master would laugh at the despair I felt clutching at my soul. "This is a learning experience. So learn. Adapt. Overcome. Survive."

Easier said than done.

I shifted my body at the last moment, eyes rolling back from the explosion of pain as the sword stabbed into the nerve cluster of my shoulder instead of my chest.

It doesn't matter how many times it happens. You never get used to being stabbed.

The last thing I heard was the Empress shouting to stop before it all went black.

I came to slowly, consciousness bringing a slow throb of pain. Controlling my breathing to appear asleep, I ejected my spirit from my body, using astral projection to take stock of the situation. We were in a small holding cell. To my surprise, the Empress herself was treating my wounds. The hole in my shoulder was nearly closed.

I was shirtless on the table and winced at the state of my body. Countless scars from blades, arrows, and the occasional burn told a story of treachery and violence. She would be more wary of me now, if that was even possible. The Empress stopped healing me and stood, looking stiff and tired. She retrieved my sword from the corner and held it against my neck. If my projected form could emote, I would have frowned.

She began to speak in common. "You infiltrated the most heavily guarded facility in the underworld. You are armed with Star-Eater, an elvish masterwork that no one has seen for thousands of years. Only, it’s not even the rarest item in your possession." My heart sank. Her researchers worked absurdly quickly.

"Practically every object on your person could finance a small kingdom. You are capable of casting true invisibility. If it was an illusion, or trick of light, I would have detected it immediately. You come here, armed to the teeth, only to throw your sword down and speak the words of supplication known only by my inner circle. Despite all this, you are what my Shadow Ward refers to as an unknown quantity. No one in my network knows who you are." She sat down on the stool across from my body. Star-Eater casually shifted form in her hand between alternating tools of torture. A bead of sweat that wasn’t actually there dripped down my back. Being intimately familiar with what the sword was capable of, I really wanted to avoid the new and novel experience of being tortured with my own weapon.

"And now, you deal the grave insult of underestimating my ability to detect a simple astral projection spell." She slowly looked up to where my incorporeal form floated in the ceiling corner.

Oh. Shit.

I immediately snapped back into my body. It took a second to force the nausea down. My mouth felt dry as the runic desert as I spoke. "To be fair, your people stabbed me first. And there’s nothing simple about that spell."

The Empress’s head tilted upward, and she looked down her nose at me. "For you, perhaps."

Well, that was just rude.

"You are a walking contradiction, human. And dangerous beyond measure. My advisors consider you an unnecessary security risk that should be dealt with immediately. So, I’m only going to ask once. Who are you?" There was a subtle shift in color within the cell, indicating that a spell was cast. Blood drained from my face. If my guess was correct, the spell was verias, or a very similar elven analogue. The Empress would know the second my words rang false.

And I would be dead.

I swallowed.

A verias interrogation was exhausting and lethal at the even best of times because not only did it trigger on any modification of the truth, killing the speaker for the slightest mistake, it also took into account lies of omission, even if the speaker himself was unaware of what they were omitting in the case of external interference or memory modification. Or, you know, general forgetfulness. It was an easy route to a quick death, which was something I needed to avoid at all costs.

I spoke slowly, carefully measuring each word.

"I have been known by many names. The elves of the northern plains call me the false savior. The infernals called me the bearer of the sacred flame. The dwarves of the eastern subterranean call me he-who-frightens-monsters-in-the-dark. The pixies of the golden forest call me the broken one, though there is one particular tribe that calls me friend." A small smile comes unbidden to my lips, fleeting just as quickly. "Humans, amongst more colorful epithets, have mostly settled on calling me the great betrayer. The name I was born with is Cairn." The Empress watched me quietly. Her spell would have told her I hadn’t finished.

Damn. This was not the way it was supposed to go.

"These are some of my names. Were I to go through every moniker I’ve ever worn, we would be here for quite some time, and you would be no closer to the answers you truly seek."

That was true. But there was one name in particular I did not want her to know.

"You hold an unspeakable pain in your heart," She said, more of a statement than a question. So the rumor was true. The Empress was a true empath. Verias spell and empathic analysis. What a nasty combination.

"Yes."

"Do you desire a true death, fallow one?" That question hit harder than the rest, crashing through the carefully maintained shield of logic and emotional restraint I had constructed for myself. That was the point. Unbalancing me. More importantly, I now understood why she didn’t immediately follow-up on my previous answers. The Empress might not know who I was, but she knew what I was. Still, there was a more immediate issue.

"Please retract the question," I asked, trying to keep my voice composed.

"What is the point of retraction if both you and the asker know what the answer will be?"

"Just as some questions should not be asked, some truths should never be spoken."

"Fine. I will retract the question. On one condition."

"Name it."

"Start at the beginning."

My mind went into overdrive. "Around six months ago-"

The Empress held up a hand, signaling to stop. "No. The beginning of everything. The first repetition onward." I worked my jaw silently, chewing on the absolute enormity of the request.

"What you’re asking... will take some time."

"For this? I have all the time in the world."

1

IGNIS I

My mother used to tell me stories of the old gods. Rhadis. Khetrix. Elphion. Onara. I struggled to stay awake those nights, fighting the ever-growing weight of my eyelids, trying desperately to make it through just one more tale, wanting nothing more than to ride upon their victories and battles till morning light. It was ingrained in me from childhood that one day I would join them, not as a supplicant before a deity but as a deity myself. That was what it meant to be Cairn, son of Gil, descendent of Thotar himself. When I crossed into the afterlife, the watcher would see the purity of my bloodline, the value of my very soul, and welcome me into Valhalla. I was the recipient of a noble gift. All I had to do was die honorably in battle.

They lied.

The day I died started innocently enough. Stepmother was buzzing around like a common maid, tossing clothes around, holding them up, clucking her tongue, and then putting them back.

"Oh, why don’t we have anything for you in purple. You look so dashing in purple," Genevieve fretted. I pulled the covers over my head, hoping that if I just ignored her, she’d go away. The sound of fabric swishing continued, capitalized by little staccato sighs. Infuriating.

I threw the blankets off with a flourish and sat up. She was somewhere near the back of the closet, managing to completely disappear within the expanse of dyed wool and cotton.

"I’ll find something appropriate," I said, barely managing constrained civility. "It’s a coronation, mother, same as the rest. The crown is passing from father to son."

"It is historic. Don’t talk about yourself like you don’t matter, darling." She crossed the double door gap to the other side to further bother my garments. "You’re a prince, and more importantly, my darling boy. I’m just going to give you a few options to pick from. I know how you get."

When I finally return to the Pantheon in the afterlife, I believe simply surviving my stepmother will rank chief among my accolades. You would be hard-pressed to name a person more needling or generally bothersome. The contrast between my parents was almost comical. Father, a living legend. He united Silodan under a single flag. He fought in countless wars, slaughtered armies, subjugated rebellion and established peace.

Then there’s my stepmother, whose achievements include teatime diplomacy, picking outfits, and the vice-chair—yes, you read that correctly, the vice-chair—of the Noble Ladies Book Club. The logic never ceases to confound. It’s not as if there were no better options. Whitefall had plenty of strong warriors, male and female. Tournaments had become fiercer and less gender-segregated. King Gil had his pick of plenty of viable, superior matches. Yet, he chose her. Genevieve. Perhaps after all his accomplishments, my father just wanted something… simple.

"Don’t say it." Mother warned. She had shifted from her nattering to watch me from inside the closet.

"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you’re thinking. You have that squinty look that always comes right before something nasty."

"Such cruel, baseless accusations." I feigned hurt.

Mother sniffed, managing to sound affronted and apathetic simultaneously, before continuing her work. "You know, the sooner you stop mooning over that girl-"

"Enough." Anger rose in my throat like hot bile. I rose from the bed and pushed past her into the closet, grabbing the first thing that didn’t look overly frilly and tossing it on, ignoring her cry of protest and cloying fingers.

"Don’t forget the offering for tonight!"

They’d always been like this, my parents. It wasn’t enough that they ruled all of Siladon. No, that would be too simple. They had to dominate every aspect of our lives. I stalked down the hallway, servants and other lessers scurrying out of my way. Everyone suddenly had somewhere better to look and I realized I wore what my younger sister referred to as, "Tyrant Face." No matter. That worked better for my purposes right now anyway, I’d rather not be delayed from my brisk walk toward the gates. I needed the sort of air that only existed outside the confines of the castle.

Thunder boomed, threatening to deafen anyone in earshot, despite the absence of a single cloud in the sky. Someone yelped in the courtyard. Another flash of lightning, another yelp. I couldn't help but smile. My older sister was "sparring" with the guards again.

The courtyard was a disaster area. Grass scorched black, topped with cherry red embers, burning out only to be immediately reignited. What was astonishing was how little attention the scene drew. People walked back and forth along the walkway, barely raising an eyebrow, sometimes pausing when an errant crackling ball of fire was thrown their way, tossing a dirty look when they caught a proximity shock. Funny how commonplace even the strangest events become, given time.

The Guards weren’t doing much, though that’s likely because they were largely strewn across the ground, some breathing hard, others completely unconscious. Several chanting priests in the ceremonial Bakhal robes walked among the dozen bodies, occasionally stopping to spritz crimson water across the foreheads of the more "gravely" injured. From my alchemical knowledge, the water was only latently magic, and the wretched smell that made my head spin from all the way across the yard was primarily a smelling salt.

Poor bastards.

Sera headed my way, awkwardly attempting to step over an incredibly broad man before giving up, hiking up her robe, and using his chest as a footbridge. My oldest sister pulled her attunement gloves off. She was almost tragically tall, towering over all the women of the castle and most of the men. There was a rumor that had persisted for almost as long as I could remember that Sera was a half-elf. Total nonsense, but unlike many rumors about my sister, there was some logic to this one: her height and magic.

Hundreds of years ago, we thought magic belonged exclusively to the demi-humans. That it was some result of their heritage, or some ability unique to their psychology, or, more heretically, their gods. But as humans began to proliferate across Siladon, the talent began to show up in one in every thousand.

"My liege," she said with a deep bow, eyes twinkling from my stiff reaction.

"Cut the shit."

"Ooh, my, aren’t we snippy this morning. Wake up on the wrong side of mother again?"

I looked at her blankly, wondering if she ever fully considered the implications of her words.

"Well, did you?" She pressed. Her cool eyes glimmered in the winter sun.

I stepped past her, making a show of surveying the wreckage. Even the shrubbery was beaten and bruised, leaning pathetically to the side. "I see you’ve been terrorizing the help."

"Cairn," she warned, "they are loyal knights, our first and last line of defense."

I maintained my blank stare, giving her nothing. Finally, we both broke, cracking up beneath the sun-kissed sky.

"Stable?" I asked.

"Stable."

We made our way through the lower sections to the outer yard. The castle was an architect’s wet dream: sprawling and intimidating, consistently valuing form over function. After a lifetime of existing within the walls the sense of glamour faded, and the only remotely interesting thing about it was its various quirks. For example, It’s cold all year long, so snow gathers on the towering roofs, needing only an errant wind to shift loose and come slamming down on some unsuspecting sap. There was a betting pool for who would be hit next, with allotments for when, as well as whether they lost their footing.

Sera shooed the stable hands away and, after one thorough check to make sure we were alone, broke into one of the stalls, pulling out a wineskin with a knowing smile.

"A present for his highness." She purred. I snatched it away from her with more force than necessary.

"If you keep making dumb little jokes like that, making light of my status-"

"Someone will put it together, yes, yes. There’s no one here. Relax." Sera stuck out her tongue before reaching out an upturned hand.

"There were plenty of witnesses in the courtyard." I glared and took an extra swig out of spite.

"Plebeian!"

"Shrew."

Sera snatched the wineskin back and held it to her chest like some sort of jealous treasure hunter, then upturned the skin, taking several large gulps while maintaining eye contact. She handed it over casually, as if she hadn't just thrown down the gauntlet. After a moment's hesitation, I took a light sip, deciding to end the escalation there while we both still had legs. My mind slipped away from me, summoning the image it always did of late: brown honeyed skin, chocolate eyes looking down at me through a canopy of chestnut hair—I squinted my eyes shut, frowning.

"Hey," Sera’s voice cut through the image. Her warm hand was on my arm. Gently, I shifted away from her, and she let go, hand dropping to her side.

"I’m sorry, Cairn."

"Don’t." I took a long pull from the wineskin. It burned in a way that good wine never should, but succeeded in clearing my head and incinerating the unwanted image. In that instant of clarity, I looked at my sister. To an outside observer, it might seem like we were great friends. Like we had a solid relationship, a codependent bond of support and commiseration. In truth, we were completely estranged little more than half a year ago.

Father drove the wedge in early, figuring if he could turn us against each other, we’d be more competitive, more likely to learn. He was right. And unfortunately, an accumulation of resentment over the course of an entire childhood isn't the sort of thing you just let go of. The only reason Sera no longer hated me was because, on a rare sunny day six months ago, I told her a secret that would alter the course of her life. Still, it meant something to me that she tried: prompting me to open up. Raiding the winery. Treating me like a friend and actual sibling.

It wasn’t real. Nothing more than a familial version of noblesse oblige. Still, it felt... nice.

"They’re awful. But they do love us," Sera said.

"Your problem. Not mine. Not anymore."

Sera stared at me, her eyes calculating. "It just doesn't seem real. It seems like the sort of thing you'll go back on."

"You really do take after Father, Sera. Already looking for a way to hold on to something that's not even yours yet."

There was a snort towards the back of the stable, startling us both. Titan had caught my scent. I chuckled, appreciating the break in the tension. Sera didn’t seem amused, her lips pressed together tightly. I left her to finish off the wineskin and approached the gray and white speckled horse.

A few minutes later, I’d replaced Titan’s oats and combed out his mane. Father had nearly pitched a fit when I picked him from the merchant’s lineup. "There are war horses, and peace horses." He’d gravelled. "This is a peace horse. Might as well pick yourself a nice fat pony."

Of course, he was missing critical information. Even then, I was piecing the plan together. The fat and sturdy sort of horse my father preferred would have a better chance against a spear, but I didn't plan on fighting any spearman, and a slow horse with a heavyset gait would leave deep tracks and be a complete liability for what came next.

Sera was still grim-faced when I returned. She watched me, as if expecting the answer I’d previously denied.

"Since you’re obviously not going to let this go, I may as well tell you the rest."

"Oh?" Sera raised an eyebrow.

I motioned her closer to whisper. Maybe a little paranoid, but our resident spymaster had practically the entire staff on a secondary payroll.

I told her the rest of my plan and her eyes went wide.

We spent an hour riding—grudgingly on Sera’s part, she’d never really gotten the hang of it—before a runner came and took her away.

I had just requisitioned a second wineskin from the wine cellar and tipped it skyward when a man in dark robes seemingly appeared out of thin air right beside me.

"My lord," He said, as if spontaneously generating out of nowhere was entirely reasonable.

I choked. "Elder gods, Thaddeus!" My throat spasmed from the errant wine. "Someone needs to tie a damn bell around your neck."

"Very droll, my lord. However, I believe that would impede my purpose." His voice was coy and simpering.

"I assume you have a reason for being here?" I asked. Even if I didn’t loathe Thaddeus entirely, he was bad company at the best of times: along with being my father’s spymaster, he was inherently insidious and disquietingly insightful, a combination best avoided at all costs. He was the sort of person that could stare at you across a cramped room, and accurately guess what you'd done that day based on nothing more than your appearance and disposition. Just speaking to him right now was dangerous.

Thaddeus opened his mouth and closed it, looking over my shoulder. There was a clatter. I followed his gaze to see a man in mercenary grays staggering down the hall, ignoring the planter he had overturned. Uncle Luther passed us and clipped my shoulder, leering through long greasy bangs with an expression that could only be interpreted as hateful and dismissive. I didn’t even bother taking it personally. You could count on one hand the number of people Luther didn’t look at that way: my little sister Annette, and...

Actually, maybe it was just her.

"I do hope—once the throne is yours—that you’ll be retiring that man soon," Thaddeus said. "He’s an embarrassment to the family."

"Spoken like you share our blood,” I muttered.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I’ll consider it, spymaster. Will that be all?" I asked.

He blinked at me owlishly and I cursed my nerves, wondering exactly what twisted insight he gleaned from my response.

"There is a matter of some import." Thaddeus looked around us cautiously.

"Then get to it."

"I have it on good authority that the elves are on the move."

Gooseflesh prickled at my skin. "Where?"

"Alabaster Forest."

Whatever interest I had immediately waned. Alabaster was hundreds of miles from here. It was also a designated Elven reservation. That made it an issue immediately filed in the cross categorization of probably-nothing and not-my-problem.

"They’re elves. They do things in forests," I said, resuming my walk towards the castle gate. Thaddeus let out a little huff.

"True enough, my lord," he said in a voice that didn’t lend itself to the sentiment, "but it is more complicated than that. My operative believes they are mobilizing, preparing for an attack."

If the conversation went on much longer he would start putting things together. I turned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thaddeus, my friend, you know I have nothing but faith in you. But there’s a reason you’re talking to me, rather than the current king. What do you need?"

"If it pleases you, my lord, permission to send out a small regiment to scout and serve as a deterrent."

Ah, so that was why he came to me.

Father would want all hands on deck for the coronation. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been in anything remotely resembling a war for the last five years. I could almost hear his voice in my head. "You must project strength. All visitors must see the might of their future king."

The little insubordination game Thaddeus was playing annoyed me—more that he had read me correctly than due to any real loyalty towards the king—but if I had to choose between irritating Thaddeus or irritating my Father, it wasn’t much of a dilemma. The only tragedy was that I could not do both.

I waved a hand dismissively. "Do it. Send as many as you need."

"Thank you, my lord," Thaddeus said, but much to my disappointment, kept stride with me. We walked in charged silence until he finally stopped.

"If I can offer a word of advice, my lord?"

I crossed my arms. "Go ahead."

"Let us... speak in hypotheticals."

The hair on the back of my neck began to prickle and rise. "As long as it does not belabor the point."

He smiled, the expression disturbingly out of place. "Let us say, in this hypothetical scenario, I am a prince, and my coronation is imminent."

"How strangely familiar." I glanced around. All at once, every person nearby seemed to have disappeared, leaving the hallway vacant.

"Let us also say, for the sake of wild speculation, that I was angry. Enraged even."

Shit.

It took everything I had to keep my expression blank. A creeping worry built in my chest. How much did he know?

"What’s there to be angry about?" I asked, shrugging. "You’re about to be king." Thaddeus’ eyebrows climbed higher and I wished I'd said nothing at all.

"But say I was. Imagine, just for a moment, that my parents had made a grave miscalculation in their attempts to prepare me for succession. They meant well, but they wounded me deeply."

"I can’t imagine you’d let your emotions get in the way. In fact, I’m not even sure you have them. Emotions, that is."

"Of course." Thaddeus pouted, an image I really could have gone without. "But imagine for a moment that I am a lesser man. It would be tempting for anyone to take advantage of the events to exact some sort of... justice. At the very least, to use the coronation to embarrass them."

Relief flooded me and I relaxed. He had some sense of the situation but nothing in the way of specifics. This whole interaction had been nothing more than a fishing expedition. Still, something about his manner was questionable.

"A bit dangerous to refer to a king as a lesser man, isn’t it?" I asked him, letting the ice into my tone. "It almost sounds like hypothetical treason, Thaddeus."

Thaddeus bowed deeply, showing his too-white smile. "I live to serve in the demonstrable, my lord. Forgive this old man the occasional flight of fancy."

"Think nothing of it."

I made it a few feet away, quick to put distance between us before an idea struck. "Thaddeus," I said carefully. "Say I was in the market for some clothes."

"Clothes, my lord?" His beard twitched.

"I’m a day away from having to be very selective with my outfits. Let's say I wanted to go all out on my last day of freedom. Where in Whitefall should I go if I want to try on everything?"

"Ah." Thaddeus leaned forward, face over-serious. "I may have a few ideas."

The next four hours were exhausting. I soared the peaks and valleys of carnal bliss. There were moments when my spirits lifted, ever so slightly. But now it was over, and all I was left with was the ache. I reveled in the hollowness quietly before stirring and navigating the tangle of supple limbs and soft bodies. It was suddenly tempting to just forget about my coronation and stay the rest of the day—rest of the year even. Say what you want about Thaddeus, the man was a master of two categories, lying and laying.

With a sigh, I staggered off the bed to a cacophony of disappointed cries. Their smoky eyes nearly drew me back, and their enthusiasm was infectious.

"My lord!"

"Don’t leave yet!

"We’re just getting started."

"You haven’t even sampled the fun side of the menu."

"If we lived in Panthania, I’d take you all as wives my dears. But unfortunately, this is Uskar." I leaned down towards Catarine’s head and stage whispered, "We have to at least pretend to be monogamous."

Catarine laughed, a bit too loud to be genuine. "Pity."

I slid my jacket on and buckled my pants. "Mourn me well, new friends, for I go to a place you cannot follow." My farewell was met with coos and cries and sultry poses, and I took one last long look, hoping to commit the scene to memory.

From there, it was a short skip down the street to the Noble’s Cassock. There my friends bought me drinks while I joked and japed and tried laboriously to think of them kindly. It wasn’t their fault that their parents were conniving bastards. I tried to think that, in another world where I wasn’t heir to the throne, we would all still somehow be friends. Then someone would elbow me chummily and all too casually mention a court appointment or a favor to be named later and the illusion fell to ruin. My father’s words echoed in my head. "A king does not have friends. He has allies."

Perhaps the only sentiment on which we agreed.

A bard, either incredibly insightful or absurdly lucky, strummed out an instrumental-only rendition of The Prince’s Lament. I slid off my stool and approached, the world drunkenly shifting from side to side. The bard raised an amused eyebrow and continued to play. Not coincidence, then. Too clever by half. The state of his clothing was ragged, his face dirty and unwashed. A sense of respect washed over me. The Noble’s Cassock was more than a little on the high end of the nose. It followed that this particular bard had played his ass off to get here.

"Greetings to the bard,” I said.

"Regrets to the noble."

Mouthy. I liked him immediately. Interestingly, he didn’t correct me, meaning he was either unscrupulous or a legitimate bard. Traveling minstrels and troopers were a bronze sliver in a dozen in these parts, but actual bards were rare.

I raised my hand with two fingers extended and glanced towards the barkeep, requesting a refill for the both of us. The bard bowed appreciatively, fingers strumming all the while. After the song came to a close, a serving girl brought out the drinks. Mine was served in the same embellished metal stein I’d been drinking from for the last hour, while the bard’s was brought in a stained wooden mug. I smelled it experimentally and winced, firing a glare at the bartender before switching our drinks.

I took a long pull from the wooden mug, wincing as the acrid taste hit the back of my throat. "Sander been making you drink this piss all day?"

The bard shrugged, played the final chord of the chorus and stopped, reaching to take the traded mug. "Beer is beer milord." He smelled his new drink and looked delighted, taking a sip, savoring it. "However, hades will melt to a puddle before I ever turn down an Oteron. It’s nice to see that not everyone around these parts has forgotten proper hospitality." His accent betrayed the fact that he wasn’t local. Certain consonants were elongated in a subtle back region lilt.

"And this is the good side of town. Stay out of Topside if you can manage it," I said darkly, "nothing but sorrow to be found there."

"Appreciate the advice," The bard replied, though I suspected he was already aware.

Topside, unintuitively, did not refer to the true north of Whitehall, rather the west. When the city was first established, the castle, mercantile, and educational districts were all constructed first, built closer to the road for easier trade and access. The poorer and less desirable real estate was pushed out to the west. While the east was properly spaced, with a reasonable distance between each building and well-maintained roads, the west was cramped, buildings at the far end jammed up against the mountain itself. Over time, the roads grew smaller and smaller. It was the geographical equivalent of a hangman’s noose. The corresponding unrest and eventual upheaval had been as inevitable as breathing, though my father had crushed it so mercilessly that there hadn’t been much noise since the revolt nine years ago.

"How long have you been in the city?" I asked, killing the beer with as much resentment as one could have towards a beverage and signaling for another.

"A week? Give or take a day. With the clouds constantly darkening the sky it’s hard to keep one’s sense of time around these parts." He plucked a single note on an open string, adjusted the corresponding tuning key, then moved to the next.

"You think it’s bad now, wait until we get further into winterscrest," I joked, "eventually it stops being about how cold it is and becomes a question of how long you can stay outside before breathing your last."

The bard shuddered. "Too much for my summer blood. I'll be long gone by then." My friends had finally noticed my absence and were shooting questioning glances in my direction. I sighed.

"I should be getting back."

"It was a pleasure, milord." There was a hint of something in his voice, but it was too subtle to know for sure if I was being mocked.

"Say, bard?"

"Yes milord?"

"How are you at composition?"

After a brief negotiation, I left him with an invitation to the coronation, a letter of introduction and credit to my favorite local tailor, a promise of a story worth writing songs about, and enough silver to feed him for a year. His eyes had bulged as I placed the silver rods on the table and for once, his laissez-faire attitude slipped. He snatched them away, his gaze panning the room, ensuring no one had seen the magnitude of the exchange. I made a few requests and he happily obliged. My friends all drank their fill and sang along with me. The rest of the nobles noticed and followed suit. For one perfect moment in time, the oh-so-respectable Noble’s Cassock was transformed into a much bawdier establishment, passers-by glancing in, wondering if they had inadvertently wandered into Topside.

What none of us realized was that the division between Topside and Central would soon be nothing more than a line in the descriptive history of a dead city.

2

IGNIS II

Well and truly drunk, I wandered into a toy store. There were various baubles and dolls and paddles with strings tied to rubber balls. None of it was what I was looking for. There was a xylophone. I picked up the small mallet and picked out discordant notes until the shopkeep came up huffing from the back. To my mild relief, he didn’t seem to recognize me, other than picking up on the general air of nobility. He was plump and had a pleasant disposition, though I wondered how much of it was calculated.

"Greetings, good sir! How may I be of assistance on this blessed day?" His eyes flicked to the mallet in my hand and back. "Has the tone board caught your fancy?"

I shook my head. "Sadly, I’m shopping for someone else today."

"Little brother then?"

"Sister." I wobbled on my feet, and he took my arm to steady me. Once confident I would not tip over, he released my arm and waddled to the more pastel, feminine side of the room.

"How old?" He asked, cheery but businesslike.

"Fifteen…" I paused, "I think."

His hand faltered for a moment, then reached for a decorative silver band with clear rhinestones embedded upon the top. He held it out with a flourish. "A tiara for the little princess, perhaps?"

I stiffened, then coughed to hide a laugh. The man had no idea how good his instincts were. The thought of presenting Annette with a fake tiara was tempting, but I was relatively sure she’d find it either daft or insulting.

"Alas, she already has one."

"Hm," The man muttered to himself. From there we went through a repetitive dance: he would pick something off the shelf, I would consider it and eventually turn it down. It had never occurred to me how difficult Annette was to shop for. Everything any other girl her age would appreciate all seemed too infantile or silly pictured in her hands.

This went on for some time and our interaction grew strained.

The storekeeper brought out a stuffed animal. I sighed and nearly left before giving it a second look. It was a white tiger with black stripes, blue eyes, and a stern stare. It stood out because it didn’t seem childish. Nothing like the caricatured spotted dogs with felt tongues lolling out or circus bears popular among children. If not for its size, it could almost pass as a work of taxidermy.

"I’ll take it."

The toymaker let out a breath of relief so large he seemed to deflate, and offered a reasonable price, more to avoid what he likely assumed would be an extensive haggle than out of any sense of fairness.

I found Annette in the war room. That wasn’t its given name—it was more like a pavilion, really—but since Annette took it over a few years back the nickname stuck. A dozen tables with kossboards were arranged in a parallel line, a single person seated at each of them, all of them deep in thought. Except Annette. She barely seemed to contemplate anything as she walked casually down the line, pausing at each board for less than a second to make a move before continuing to the next.

The contrast between my sisters always struck me as peculiar. No two siblings are exactly the same, not even twins. But my sisters might as well have been from entirely different continents, let alone families. While Sera was bright and energetic, Annette was taciturn and reserved. Sera’s emotions blazed white and hot while Annette revealed nothing, her feelings invisible and immutable beneath the ice of her frozen demeanor. Sera had magic and music, while Annette had only her mind.

But her mind was something else entirely.

"Hello, little sister," I said, holding the tiger behind my back. Annette didn’t look up, instead walking over to the closest board and leaning over it. The student at the board looked absolutely gobsmacked. It took a moment to recognize him: A baronet’s son, Tary, who didn’t walk so much as strut, as if the very clouds lifted his feet. I’d never seen him look so lost.

"Why did I beat you?" Annette drummed her fingers on the board. Her voice gave nothing away—if I hadn’t grown up with her, I would have no idea the extent of her irritation.

"You haven’t yet," Tary snapped, trying to regain his usual bluster.

"Oh?" Annette demonstrated in seconds the various ways every legal move he had would lead to imminent defeat. "Looks like discendente to me."

Discedente indicated the game would end in less than five moves, and was an automatic prompt to surrender. I knew it only because Annette made a show of proclaiming it when she was about to beat me. Which was every time.

"It’s not my fault you’re a freak of nature!"

My hackles rose and I stepped forward, only to be stopped by a single flick of Annette’s finger.

"That is why you cannot win, Tary of Fillmont." My sister began to reverse the pieces in order of movement from memory alone. "Here. And here. These were your critical mistakes. Simple mistakes a child could avoid. How old are you, Tary?"

"Too old to be taking lessons from a teenage hermit princess." Tary huffed backwards and his knee bumped the Koss table, upsetting the board and sending several white and red pieces tumbling to the ground. A black rage came over me, pulsing from the corners of my eyes. How dare he? I had a sudden urge to grab his hair and throw him to the ground. In reality, all I had to do was cough, draw his attention, and he’d fill his trousers. But I knew from experience that Annette would hate me for it. She had a thing about fighting her own battles. So I did nothing.

"Too old indeed." Annette’s stare was withering, even secondhand. "Yet, you lose. Over and over." Tary’s hands clenched into fists. "The reason you lose," Annette continued, "is because you’re already resigned to losing. From the beginning. Over and over, you tell yourself that the odds are stacked. You give yourself excuses. What’s the point of paying attention when you’re up against a freak of nature? It’s at that moment where you fail. The rest is nothing more than learned helplessness."

To my surprise, Tary actually softened at this. His fists unclenched and his fingers flexed. Shame played across his face. "How do I convince myself it’s possible to win when I know for a fact that it is not?"

"What’s needed is a change of perspective. Have you read Wi’rell?"

"I don’t think so."

Annette glided over to the bookshelf on the far side of the room, perused it with a faraway look, then returned. She held a familiar tome under her arm and I couldn’t help but smile.

I never understood Annette growing up. Sera made sense: a fighter, through and through. Annette was a sponge. She would soak up everything she was taught, be it sewing or etiquette, and be utterly exceptional at it within the year. But everyone wanted her to be the princess Sera never would be. They wanted her to giggle and run through fields with flowers in her hair. They were going to be waiting a long time. Annette never cracked a smile for more than a few seconds, and it was nearly impossible to make her laugh. She’d only ever spoken on the topic once: She said it felt like everyone expected something of her that she didn’t know how to give. Everyone but me.

I never judged her for not showing emotion or being charismatic enough. At some undefined point she began sneaking into my room at night to study and read. Her presence didn’t bother me. After dealing with Sera it was just nice to have a sibling that didn’t constantly shout or argue or need to compete. Sometimes Annette would grow too sleepy to keep her eyes open, and on one such occasion, she asked me to read to her. I picked Fen Wi’rell’s Treatise on Combat underhandedly, hoping the dryness of the text would drive her away, or to sleep, or at least make her think twice about asking me to read in the future. It utterly backfired. I’d read that book to her at least half a dozen times. Then one day she stopped coming.

I never knew why.

Annette flipped the book open and began to quote. "If a warrior finds himself in a situation where victory is improbable and retreat is impossible, his goals should shift. Instead of expending one’s self, attempting to achieve the inconceivable, he should instead look to leave his mark another way." She closed the book and handed it to Tary. He took it slowly. "What does it mean?"

"That even defeat should accomplish something?" Tary said, not able to keep the statement from sounding like a question.

"Yes." Annette flashed a rare smile, there and gone instantly. "You don’t have to win, Tary. You don’t even have to come close. All you have to do is make me sweat. Make me wonder, just for a moment. Cripple me so someone else-" Annette indicated the other Koss boards. "-can come in for the kill."

"That’s… not very satisfying." Tary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Perhaps. But a partial victory is better than total defeat."

Annette finally turned to me. She clasped her arms behind her back and whatever passion had leaked through while she talked of battles and philosophy refroze, leaving her face entirely.

"Hello Cairn."

"Annette." I ignored the panic on Tary’s face. Perhaps it was enough to know he’d be wondering how long I’d been standing there and how much I’d heard for at least the next few weeks. "Can I steal you? It will only take a few minutes. The gardens, perhaps?" I indicated the door to her left, hoping today would be the day I could get her to go outside.

"Of course, but not the gardens." Instead of following me, Annette raised one hand and snapped her fingers. The quiet whispers and mutterings went silent. "Take twenty," she said over her shoulder, addressing the room, "don’t be late."

I sighed inwardly. This was the part of Annette that puzzled most. She used to be somewhat adventurous, roaming the castle, speaking to servants and visitors alike. It might not have been the sort of bubbly, cheery interaction my parents would have preferred, but still, she made an effort. One day, everything changed. A few months after she stopped visiting my rooms she stopped going outside at all. All her meals were served to her room. Her tutors and handful of friends came to visit her here. She could only leave the two areas when practically forced, and even then, began to panic if her excursions went longer than an hour.

We stood awkwardly until the last of her students filed out the door. She wasn’t meant to be the teacher, but after three weeks of attempting to break Annette of her "bad habits," the previous teacher quietly packed her bags and vacated the premises without leaving a note.

I held out the white tiger. It was garnished with a red bow that I had fashioned from some tablecloth, as I’d forgotten any sort of wrapping. Annette didn’t reach to take it at first. Instead, she studied it, bending slightly at the waist, a small hand on her chin.

"It matches your eyes. A pet?" Annette finally said. I felt a crick of irritation.

"It’s a gift, Annette. For you." I pushed the tiger further forward.

"Ah." She took it then and folded it into her arms like one would an infant, the small head peeking over her grasp.

The sides of my mouth started to turn up on their own. "Annette. Did you just make a joke?"

"Of course not." Annette shook her head and her dark curls bobbed. "One cannot simply assume one is being given a present. That could cause quite a misunderstanding if you had already claimed this child as your own." She stroked the tiger’s head.

This child. What a weirdo.

I opened my mouth to speak but Annette interjected, "It is not winter’s festival."

"Do I need an excuse to spoil my dearest sister?" I tried.

Annette’s gaze went to the ceiling as if she was calculating something. "Auburnswell, 15th. Or 16th."

"What?" I could feel my good mood draining away.

Her cold eyes pierced me. "That was the last time you came to see me of your own volition. Four months ago."

"I’m sure we’ve talked since then-"

"A button. A lady’s button had fallen off and you needed my expertise and discretion." Annette’s nose crinkled. "Her bodice smelled like deeply unhappy roses."

"Elphion take me." I ran a hand through my hair in annoyance. "Okay. Fine. I’m sorry, Annette. It’s been terribly-"

She swiped her hand as if deflecting an arrow, still deeply in thought. "Don’t apologize. Not looking for sorry. Doesn’t make sense. You need something?"

"No. If you’d just let me-"

"No favor needed. Why the present? Neither a festival or my name day. Why do people bring presents? Love? Appreciation? No."

The words weren’t intended to be cruel, but they struck a painful chord in my heart just the same. There was no point in cutting in when Annette was like this. Better to let her suss it out for herself.

"Smells like cheap liquor and cheaper perfume. Quantity over quality. Splurging. Gift is a product of sentimentality born out of… guilt? Guilt over what? Over-" the end was bitten off. She blinked several times then and looked up at me, suddenly very small. "Oh. Oh no."

I hugged her then. It was all I could think to do. She didn’t reciprocate, her small arms hanging at her side limply before suddenly pushing me back.

"No. Wait. No. You have to give me time to put together an argument. There are plenty of reasons, I just need to think…" She trailed off as I shook my head sadly. This was not going well. It was part of why I’d held off talking to her for so long. My sister was too smart for her own good.

"Sera’s going to need you, kiddo. She’s shrewd but too brash by half. You’ll need to support her."

Annette made the same wide flicking motion with her hand, her brows pulling downward in a deep scowl. "I do not want to support Sera. Sera makes cruel jokes. Calls me a simulacra. Over plucks my eyebrows. Borrows my dresses, despite the fact that they are both too short and too chesty for her."

I fought back a snort. "Brassiere aside, she’ll be a better ruler than me."

"Perhaps, but that is irrelevant. We were supposed to be a team. You and I. I’ve been preparing for this. I knew you’d need help and I’ve been working myself to the bone-"

"Which is fantastic. It will just be Sera instead of me," I said firmly.

For a second, I thought Annette might shed a tear. Her eyes reddened and her lip quivered. Then her breathing grew steadier. I could almost see her emotions being brutally reined in, pulled close and banished away forever. All the anger and heat and frustration had disappeared entirely, replaced with disinterest and disdain.

"I suppose this is goodbye then? It would not be wise to linger after the fact."

"I suppose it is."

"Be well then, brother. May the frost wane at your waking."

I wanted to hug her, but it was obvious from her body language that further contact was not welcome. So instead, I bowed.

"And yours as well."

The coronation hall was packed to the walls, excited conversations capitalized by the occasional high-pitched laugh. Guards, ever vigilant, formed lines at the front and back, uniform and proud, their gray-silver armor glowing gold in the warm light.

I peeked out from behind the curtain, the magnitude of what was about to happen finally hitting me and souring my stomach. This was it. There would be no going back.

Mother had, indeed, found something in purple, though it was closer to plum, ridden with unnecessary ruffles and enough detailed embroidery to give the most gifted seamstress a heart attack. Worse, it had a collar that was both scratchy and tight, making me feel as if my head could burst at any given moment.

I tried to ignore the bevy of smiles sent my way. It was no secret that most of the kingdom, save a small selection of excessively well-to-do nobles, were desperate for a change. My father ruled with an iron fist and a cold heart. These attributes saw us through the worst of the wars and the rebellions. It was a universal assumption that once those uncertain times were over, my father would change. That he would soften with the absence of external threat. But that never happened. He was still the same warlord who set fire to the villages of his enemies and threw prisoners of war off high balconies. Only the targets had changed.

Stupid as it sounds, I’d been feeling somewhat guilty when he approached me an hour earlier.

An attendant was powdering my face in the preparation room when a hulking seven-foot form stooped through the door and stood behind me, leaned against the wall. I couldn’t see his face through the mirror and lights, and he seemed content to stand in shadows.

"Hello, Father," I said. The attendant faltered, paused to bow, then resumed his task, much more slowly and carefully than before. King Gil’s silhouetted form crossed his arms, seeming to make a point out of saying nothing.

"Come to give me any last-minute advice? The secret to ruling? How to select a respectable queen?" I instantly regretted the last question. It was dangerous for anyone to be coy with my father, even a prince on his coronation day.

No response. Nothing but the quiet swish of the attendants brush. My father finally spoke in a deep, bristling baritone. "Are you meant to be king of Whitehall? Or some whored out Panthanian pillow-biter?"

My attendant immediately stopped, panic rising in his eyes. My father’s harsh words were jarring, but I’d be damned if I let him see it. I gave a meaningful look to the attendant, and he continued, flicking occasional glances into the mirror towards the back of the room, as if preparing to dive aside should Gil the Terrible come charging in to bowl me over.

"Much has changed since your coronation, my king." I said, my answering respect to his impropriety dripping with sincerity. "Plumbing, for instance. Dragons no longer roam the earth. And there are enough lumen lamps and magical lighting on the great hall stage to make the most sun-kissed Dulen pale as the eldest vampire." I cocked an eyebrow playfully, despite knowing the reception my lightheartedness would receive. "If I have the choice between appearing panthanian or vampiric, I must choose the former."

"Why did you allow Thaddeus to send men away from the capital? Today, of all days?" My father’s eyes glittered in the dark, practically smoldering.

"He believes the elves-"

"It’s always the blasted elves!" my father exploded, his voice rattling the mirror. "Or stone-sucking dwarves, or infernals, or demons. The man is obsessed with the lesser races to the degree that should be considered unhealthy. As if any of them pose even the most passing threat."

"Once upon a time, they did." I pointed out, careful to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

"They did, aye. Then I crushed them. I burned their crops and salted the earth. I caved in the dwarven mines. I rode an Elphion damned dragon through a portal to the infernals’ domain and set it on fire, then broke the dimension gate on my way out. I executed every elven cultist and their children."

In a mocking tone, I mentally recited the tirade along with him, it was so often repeated, but when he reached the end, I couldn’t help but cringe. Unlike every other event, I’d been there for the last one. I’d seen the smoke rise above the villages. Heard the screams and wails of broken families. Mother tried to keep me home but Father had insisted, claiming it would enlighten me to the truth of things. Instead, it had given me nightmares for years.

"Yes. You did," I said evenly, staring back at him. "It is not the sort of thing that folk forget. So, it was perhaps with an inexperienced mind that I decided the elves were the kind of threat we should monitor. Seeing as how they might harbor some resentment over, you know, all those pesky dead children."

The man applying my makeup stopped breathing. Father stood directly behind me, his arm perpendicular to his body, prepared to launch a vicious backhand I knew all too well. My attendant scrambled backwards to escape the fallout.

"Quite a mouth on you, boy." He hissed.

"Please. Go ahead." I turned to him and stood, gesturing at his hand. "Strike me. Here, if you would." I pointed to my right eye, coincidentally the last place he had hit when we spoke months ago. "I’d love to see the strength projected by a bruised and battered king." Good King Gil hesitated, then smiled cruelly. His open hand became a fist and lowered, striking me almost casually in the stomach.

I lost my lunch and what felt like several gallons of beer.

As I heaved onto the floor, he leaned down and whispered in my ear. "Everything you are, you owe to me. I made you. A peacetime ruler is nothing more than a mummer’s puppet. Enjoy the strings."

It was at that moment, staring at the newly grimy floor, that the guilt over what I was about to do disappeared entirely.

The pageantry of the coronation continued at a glacial pace. The royal family was set to one side of the stage, a small selection of nobles and high-ranking officers on the other. A group of musicians finished their final piece, and I sighed in relief. The music had been stately, on rhythm, and entirely exhausting, never venturing from mathematically tedious baroque traditions.

Afterwards, Archbishop Celic rose from his seat and made me wish the music had gone on for another hour. With painstakingly extensive detail spoken in the most pious tone, he told the history around the tradition of "The King’s Sacrifice." How every monarch that had provided a proper sacrifice had been rewarded with a bountiful rule, and how every king who had not had suffered. Then he proceeded to list them.

All of them.

By the end of it, even the pews filled with church electorate, all high-ranking priests and nuns, were a line of glazed eyes and slowly tilting heads.

To my amusement, Sera was struggling more than most. Her body slumped momentarily only to reawaken with a start, glancing around to check if anyone had witnessed her heresy. Sera wasn’t allowed to sit with the rest of us, of course. Because of the magic. Because she was different. I caught her eye.

"Be ready," I mouthed.

She nodded. No smile. It occurred to me that for once, Sera was likely more nervous than I was.

Archbishop Celic finally wrapped it up. With shaking hands and a sheen of sweat on his forehead, he took a torch from one of the guards, said a few words in old Uskarian, and lit the pyre in the center of the room. It glowed the usual unearthly green, a side effect of the rare darshall wood used for the ceremony. The queen reached over and squeezed my hand. She had tears in her eyes.

"I’m so proud of you," she whispered in my ear.

Give it time, stepmother. Just give it time.

I tried not to consider how much this was going to hurt her. Plenty of time for contrition after. Annette watched me intently. There was a slight confusion on her face, as if she was staring at a puzzle and couldn’t quite piece out how it all fit together. She was probably wondering why, after our previous conversation, I was still here. Why I’d let things go so far. The answer was simple. Annette didn’t have all the pieces. Sera was the closest. I’d told her more than was wise. Even she didn’t know everything. The state of ignorance wouldn’t last long. Within the hour, everyone would understand.

Archbishop Celic approached me, holding the silken black pillow that nested the platinum crown. It was smaller than my fathers, such was the way of things. As a king’s list of achievements grew the crown would also, additional pieces of platinum and gems being soldered on. In the royal blacksmith’s quarters, there was likely a set of blueprints for how this particular crown might grow. In another world, it might become so elegant and massive it could only be displayed, rather than worn. But even as it was placed upon my brow, I knew the truth.

"I present to you, King Cairn, son of Gil, First of his name!"

This crown would never grow. This crown was stillborn.

The applause of thousands shook me from my revery as I stood, cloak trailing behind. I embraced my mother and sister, then shook hands with my father. All earlier cruelty was gone from his face, and he wore the face of a proud patriarch. I leaned in to whisper in his ear as he had in mine.

"I know what you did, you old fuck," I said. And for a second there was no response. The sort of person he was, he probably had to go down a list. Then his face went ashen as the proud father’s imitation slipped into abject horror. For what might have been the first time ever I let the mask slip. There was nothing he could do. We were past the point of no return.

"Now the king will present the sacrifice." The Archbishop extended a shaking hand towards the ceiling, and the crowd applauded again. It was the last time they’d clap for me tonight.

I approached the edge, overlooking the emerald pyre, and began to speak.

3

IGNIS III

I spread out my hands in a warm welcoming gesture, hoping the spike of adrenaline didn't show. "Thank you, everyone, for attending this humble coronation. Transitions of power can be difficult. My dearest father can attest to that personally." There was a scattering of nervous laughter. The lights directed at this spot on the stage were so bright the faces of the crowd had been replaced with barely visible featureless pink circles.

"I can’t tell you how convenient it is to have all of you in one place. Still, these events can be trying. What helps me get through is to think of it all as a party: you’re made to stand too long, the liquor runs cheap before it runs dry, and some arse prattles on about all manner of things you pretend to care about." I paused for laughter and it came, much less nervous than before. "Alas, as much as we would all prefer to get to the fun part, that comes later. There are matters that must be attended to. The circumstance demands it. The sacrifice."

I mimicked the archbishop’s tedious vocal tone and his face fell into a scowl. "King Seraph bequeathed a golden ring, swearing that he would take no wife while he wore the crown. Whitefall prospered. King Tailien the Wise offered up his dagger, a beautiful piece of Chaya steel, but most importantly, a gift from his long dead grandfather. Whitefall prospered. My father." I gestured to him grandly. "In his boundless wisdom, surrendered his conqueror’s blade, swearing to forgo violence for the sake of peace. And Whitefall prospered." They applauded, likely as much in relief that he was no longer the king as respect.

"And so, in such hallowed company, the choice now comes to me. No small pressure. I had no idea what to choose. At first, I looked through my collection, searching for the object of highest value. But then, our fairest Queen Genevieve, gave me some advice." I indicated my stepmother, and her eyes crinkled in a kindly smile. "My dearest mother advised me that fiscal value of the sacrifice was secondary. It needed to be something I cared about deeply. Something that would tear at my heart as I tossed it into the fire. Weeks passed. I meditated, and drank, and searched my very soul until I finally found the answer. Not an it, rather, a who."

There was a smattering of hushed confusion and the beginnings of alarm. I held my hand out to them kindly. "Calm yourselves. No one’s getting tossed on the pyre today. It’s... metaphorical."

Still, the nervous energy persisted. I had talked much longer than was proper for this stage in the ceremony, and would talk much longer still. They had begun to sense the hammer in the air, poised to strike down at them.

I shook my head and clasped my hands together at my waist, attempting to don a penitent air.

"To do this, there are reparations and admissions to be made. I made a mistake. My father and mother would prefer I hide this from you, but that is no way for a king to begin his reign. You see, my lords, my ladies, I committed the unspeakable. Worse than theft. Worse than incest—though," I glance to the left at Baron Argos and his lady wife, both remarkably similar of face, allowing myself to smirk. "Some would argue that is not such a sin amongst nobles so much as an inevitability." They didn’t laugh that time. Baron Argos puffed himself up and was about to respond, a massive faux pas, but I sprung the trap before he could.

"Worse than murder."

I turned to my father and, for the first time in my life, allowed him to see the depth of my hatred. His face was closer to purple than red, and his massive hands gripped the bottom of the seat. He would kill me for this, of that there was no question. But I no longer cared.

"I fell in love. That was my sin."

It was a solemn moment. No one spoke until everyone did, a wave of whispers rushing out so collectively loud they no longer resembled even a facsimile of quiet. I saw Annette out of the corner of my eye, hand on her forehead. I couldn’t bring myself to look, but I heard my stepmother crying. The anger and the bitterness nearly overwhelmed me then. She may have not had a hand in it directly, but she had certainly condoned it.

Somehow, I reined myself in without lashing out. Instead, I searched the crowd for a particular face until I saw him in the back row. I clapped my hands twice. The whispers ceased.

"Bard!" I called and waved to him. All eyes turned towards the back where the bard I met in the tavern was sitting, glancing between me and the door, face twisted in terror, contemplating making a run for it. He gave another look towards the guards and seemed to come to the conclusion he wouldn’t get very far. He stood, the instrument case dangling off his back.

The bard cleared his throat delicately. "Y-yes, my lord?"

"Come." I made a sweeping motion to my left. "I require accompaniment."

Whispers shifted into mutterings of righteous indignation. The bard looked toward the exit one last time, as if bidding a final farewell to a dying friend, then began the long walk down the hall to the stage. He arrived and knelt at my side to open the case. As he unpacked, he spoke, barely loud enough for me to hear.

"Will you be singing?" The bard asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

"No. Narrating."

"Accompaniment then. Do you have a preferred chord progression?"

"Whatever feels appropriate."

"My lord," the bard said through gritted teeth, "has anyone ever made you aware of the fact that you are a gaping asshole?"

Bard strumming behind me, I told them her story. In truth, I’d brought him up because this was the sort of story I was afraid to tell alone. There’d be far too many moments of quiet and contemplation without the music. It was like trying to tell the story of the sky. Where do you even begin? How do you describe true beauty to those whose very sense of it is counterfeit, derived from the objects they own, calculated from the volume of their treasuries. It is an impossible task. So I could only try, knowing all the while I would inevitably fail.

I told them the story of Lillian Gray. The words were hard at first. I’d been holding them in for the better part of two years. If you were to ask me the beginning of my story, the true beginning of the larger tale I’m telling you now, I believe it all started with her.

Lillian found me stumbling down Gretna avenue. It wasn’t my best look: staggering and concussed, covered in mud, bleeding like a stuck pig from my forehead. She told me later that the blood had trickled down my forehead and into my left eye, dyeing the sclera a hellish pink. Poor girl thought I had the plague.

What I actually had was a combination of being drunk and disorderly, and not looking raggedy enough in Topside, which of course resulted in being robbed.

Who would dare rob a prince, you might ask? Well, this was back before my parents gave up trying to curtail my vices, and therefore getting properly drunk was a laborious sequence of events. I had to buy clothes that could pass me as a commoner, ditch my squire, avoid the guards, convince the cook I made a habit of bedding to let me through the servant’s entrance—usually with promise of seed to be sown later—then put the unknown yet always significant required distance between myself and the castle before my absence was noticed.

Like I said, it was a process.

The Topside denizen that cut my purse had made a point of kicking my head a few dozen more times than strictly necessary. I found myself wandering through Topside in a fish-bowled haze. My head pounded, my memory was hazy, and every time I thought I was heading the correct way, I’d find I’d walked in a circle instead.

I’ve no memory of speaking to her or even seeing her. All I remember is a set of small hands gently tugging my arm, guiding me through the streets, through countless lefts and rights, supporting me as I stumbled. I remember her voice, a gentle murmur of encouragement that quelled the fear in my gut. My injuries were serious, that was obvious, but I couldn’t bring myself to be afraid. The voice would guide me. Somehow, I never doubted that.

The spiraling turns took me deeper into Topside until the smell of piss and trash and vomit were overpowered by the spiced scent of freshly brewed medicine. A lopsided sign marked the otherwise unremarkable building: Gray’s Apothecary, a smiling face carved into the wood next to the more traditionally etched font.

My head pounded. I wanted to lay down and go to sleep. It had not occurred to me how tired I was until that moment and all I could think of was sleep. But it wasn’t meant to be. She guided me around the back and took me inside, laid me down, and put a cool cloth on my head.

It was only then that I saw her. Truly saw her. If you were to see an artists’ depiction of her you might not think her beautiful. Light of hair, but in practice it was closer to brown from dust and sweat. A button nose that had been broken once, the story told by a horizontal pink stripe of skin marred honeyed brown. More freckles than I could count, and I did try. Deep brown chocolate eyes that held equal depths of kindness and intellect. These are only pieces of the whole, of course. You cannot appreciate the essence of her from merely a picture, you must see that picture in motion.

Lillian treated me with the preciseness of a surgeon. Bathed me. Checked my pupils. In the mornings and evenings she fed me, mainly bread, with bits of meat and vegetables she’d pull from the many pockets of her apron. I only saw her father a few times, a jolly, stocky man whose smiling lips would press together in irritation each time he passed me in her room, for which I could hardly blame him. With this as a clue as well as Lillian’s practiced bedside manner, I had a strong feeling I was not the first stray she picked up off the street.

It was difficult for me to speak. The man that robbed me had tried to finish the job, strangling me until I passed out, making a painful mess of my throat and vocal cords. The gravel you hear in my voice now was not there before the alley. Still, Lillian would talk to me, even as I faded in and out of consciousness. She called me her Tristan, after the handsome court jester who made a mockery of King Illade and stole his wife. I chose to take it as a compliment to my looks, not as a suggestion that I was, in fact, a clown.

No one ever cared for me so selflessly. Not knowing who I was, not plotting or planning for anything in return. After a couple of days, I was well enough to help around the apothecary, though still not well enough to speak. Gray’s was a surprisingly busy establishment, and they needed all the aid they could get. Even nobles would send runners down to pick up orders, a rarity for topside. Those three days were like a crash course. What plants grew in the outskirts of the forest were useful. How to prepare an alchemical tincture or powder. Still, not even a fraction of what there was to know about making medicine.

Lillian’s father, Gunther, became much friendlier towards me once I’d established myself as more than an unnecessary drain on his resources.

As I helped around the apothecary and began to hold small conversations, though stilted to not further damage my voice, Lillian’s kindness began to grow into something more. She’d take any excuse to touch me, massaging my arms at the end of a long day, lightly brushing against me in the tight confines of the kitchen.

She seemed to understand I didn’t wish to talk about my life before I met her and stayed away from the topic, but beyond that, nothing was off-limits. We would talk long into the night about everything and nothing. Lillian was incredibly educated for a commoner, thanks to a mix of her own drive and the fact a nearby bookshop owner let her use his establishment as a library in exchange for monthly salve for the man’s feet.

It was too good to last forever. I knew it. But that didn’t stop the ending from coming too soon. We were making the rounds in her wagon to the local shops when a man dressed too well for Topside stopped in his tracks and called out my name. My real name. I quickly recovered, but Lillian caught my momentary shock. She was quiet for the rest of the day. That evening, soldiers came to take me back to the palace.

It was over.

Over a month later, I returned to the apothecary with a retinue and a carriage. Gunther and Lillian both emerged from the apothecary bowed stoically, no doubt still angry with me and irritated that I’d just scared off their customers for the morning. I called a servant over with a bag of golden rods, having tallied how much I’d have paid for a month-long stay in a high-end inn: and for Lillian I brought books from the royal library. Her eyes glowed then immediately dimmed as she looked at her father. Finally, Gunther smiled his jolly smile, and Lillian ran to me—stopping inches away, realizing our circumstances had changed. She was poor and I was not. She was dirty and I was not.

I didn’t care. I embraced her.

For years, I courted her in secret. Bought her and her father a house straddling the line between Topside and everywhere else. Helped in the apothecary whenever I could get away for a day.

We went on picnics outside the city limits, which extended into weekend getaways in the next town over. I brought in teachers for her in etiquette, dancing, and music. In truth, I intended to introduce her as a noble from a faraway land. I did not want her as a mistress. I wanted her as a queen.

And what a queen she would have been.

The bard struck a minor chord, full of sadness and longing, and my chest clenched. Bringing the bard had been half joke, half flight of fancy. But he was a little too good at his job and it was backfiring.

I buried it.

The entire room sat on the edge of their seats, as if under a spell. I was under no delusions. They didn’t care for my pain, nor for me. It was the gossip they were after. The crown prince dating a commoner. What a scandal.

"My king." Thaddeus’ condescending monotone roused me from my sorrow. He approached the dais, one hand palm out. "I understand that this is difficult. But it is not the time-"

"Silence!" I shouted, gripping the lectern with both hands. There were more than a few cringes in the crowd. "You don’t get to stop this now, spymaster. Not when you play the main role in the next act."

"Please, my lord," Thaddeus said. It struck me that he was begging. This was the first time I’d ever heard him beg.

"Sit down, Thaddeus. Or my first order as king will be to part your head from your shoulders." I said. It wasn’t a joke. At that moment, all it would take was a single push, and Thaddeus’s head would roll. He seemed to sense this and backed away with a cordial bow.

I turned to the audience, and the Bard struck another minor chord.

"Now. Where were we?"

We thought we were careful. That no one outside my inner circle knew. That all my servants were loyal—more importantly, that everyone who met Lillian would love her as I did.

We were wrong. It turned out we were just children playing at espionage, clueless of the real monsters that lie in the dark. Thaddeus here was aware of Lillian, and what she meant to me. He knew the whole time. But he held off telling Good King Gil, as I was only nineteen, the crown a long way off.

I still remember the morning Lillian rushed out to the carriage, her cheeks flushed, to tell me the news. She was pregnant.

After that, everything changed.

A part of me died that morning. It started like any other. We had a picnic outside the walls, though it was a little different than usual. No wine. No fish. She leaned on me more, almost clung to me. Scared but too brave to show it. I held her and fed her grapes as we basked in each other's company.

Percy for a girl, perhaps? No, of course not, Percy is a boy’s name. What about Katherine for a girl? Too snobby. Brunhilde, shortened to Hilde? Hilde is good. Regal. Kind.

Our peaceful naming session was cut short by an ambush. The guards were there, yanking us up and tearing us apart. They wore blackened armor. My father’s personal retinue. Everything was so well executed the plan must have been in place for some time. I tried to fight, but they swamped me, making it impossible to move.

The last I saw of Lillian, she was being dragged by her hair to a second wagon. Confused as I was, there was a finality to the scene I couldn’t shake. I grabbed at one of the guard’s scabbards. It was halfway out of the sheath before the guard cocked his armored fist and put me down.

Thaddeus was there when I woke up. So sincere. So full of regret. With all the feigned sympathy in the world, he sat by my bedside and relayed what had happened. That my father had learned of my dalliance with a commoner. He actually called it that, a "dalliance." He pretended to empathize as he relayed to me that, as tragic as it was, Lillian and Gunther were being relocated to a city far away from Whitehall. That my bastard would have a simple but happy life. Away from me. All told from the kindly perspective of an outside observer. As if his hand wasn’t in it at every single step.

This was a race against time now. I had to find her. I would not be like my father who sired bastards and banished them to the ends of the earth.

I paid a guard enough to retire several times over to tell me where they were headed. Millwood. Some rat’s ass little town far south. I used the contacts I’d made amongst the commoners to buy a decent horse and hire a tracker while staying outside the purview of spies. The horse was not worth the golden rod I’d paid for it. The tracker was worth every bit twice over. By the second night of hard riding, we’d caught the wagon’s trail.

On the third night, we came to the end of the trail. The wagons, people, and horses had all disappeared. No tracks leading away into the forest or otherwise. They were simply gone.

I looked out amongst the audience. There were all the expected reactions, outrage, irritation. But to my surprise, though few and far between, there was also sympathy. I could not take comfort in that small display of humanity, however. My sadness had rotted into something much worse.

I turned to my father, slowly, dramatically. His face was etched from stone. "I spent days questioning the tracker. Getting second opinions. Talking to experts about what kind of animal could possibly attack a caravan and leave no trace. It took far too long to realize it was you."

There was a cry of surprise from the crowd. My father said nothing. He had already decided he was going to kill me. The damage was done. Now he was just biding his time.

"Remember that story you used to tell, father? About how you conquered the lizard men? Let's see, if I remember correctly: they agreed to surrender if you let their royal family live. You acquiesced, on the condition that they live in the capital city as vassals. Then, once their home was occupied and their defenses disarmed, you marched that little scaled royal family down the road, just out of view, and slaughtered them. The appearance of mercy was important, you said, so proud of your cleverness. It occurred to me, if you’d execute an entire family for daring to defend their home, what would you do to someone who, theoretically, actually posed a threat to your throne?"

"You... are a disgrace." My father said.

"I'd rather be a disgrace than your spawn." I snapped back. "But that posed a problem. How would I even go about taking revenge? I was stumped. Then the idea came to me. You took away that which I loved most. You cherish your life, certainly, but there is something you love more." I spun the crown between my fingers, smiling madly, before turning back to the crowd.

"But I digress. We were talking about my sacrifice. Obviously, it cannot be Lillian Gray, as thanks to my father, she is gone. So, I searched my mind, and my heart, and came to one vital, final revelation."

I paused then, basking in the tension of the room before delivering the final blow.

"I don’t give a shit." I was yelling now. Murmurs of disapproval and anger. "Not a single, stinking, dog-squatting shit. I hate my family. I don’t care for my sycophantic, sophist, smarm-swallowing friends and sure as hell’s frigid circles don’t give an alley rat’s ass about any of you. If I have to listen to one more noble whisper sweet nothings in my ear in a vain attempt to forcibly penetrate my good graces I might just throw myself off the sky hold. All your petty little problems. The mountains of flaccid in-fighting and resentment for your peers. It’s disgusting. You’re all worth neither my effort nor my time."

"They are your subjects! Your people!" Thousands of heads turned as Sera stalked down the aisle towards the dais.

"Thank the gods for you, sister, I was tiring of talking to myself."

"Why are you doing this?" Sera asked. She raised her voice slightly, subtly projecting so the auditorium could hear.

"Better question. Why are you?" I indicated the crowd, playing up my disgust. "They hate you for your magic, though it protects them. I’ve heard them call you demi-human spawn. They even joke that a man will never love you more than he will fear you. Why speak up for them at all?" There were more than a few looks of guilt in the audience, speaking to the truth of my words.

My sister surveyed the room slowly, looking magnificently wounded before bowing her head. "Rumors and gossip are irrelevant, Cairn. They are my people. I will serve them regardless." She raised her head and stared at me with defiance. "But what kind of king can you possibly hope to be if you hate them so?" Heads bounced back and forth between the two of us. Out of the corner of my eye, Thaddeus sat up ramrod straight in his seat, shocked mouth reforming into a coy smile. So, he finally figured it out. I could hardly blame him for taking that long. Sera was giving a downright masterful performance.

"Yes, Princess. Why indeed? I cannot stand the sight of them. Their pudgy frames, their slow and prejudiced minds, their poorly managed hygiene. The question struck me as well."

"So? Why should you be king?" Sera asked.

"My answer? I should not."

The crowd roared, hundreds jumping to their feet in outrage. The guards started actively managing the crowd. My mother rushed off the stage, her face in her hands. My father’s hand was on his sword, his body poised, ready to strike me down the second of abdication.

It was time. I waited until some semblance of order was restored to continue.

"Still," I finally said, "I am the heir apparent. And it is simpleminded cruelty for a king of Whitefall to refuse the sacrifice. We all know the story of King Hess, who disregarded the sacrifice and brought ruin and famine across the land. If I truly hated you all, I might do just that. But the fact is I do not hate most of you, my lordlings, save a small number I loathe with all my heart." I throw a meaningful glance in the direction of Thaddeus. "It would be more accurate to say that I do not think of you at all. So, lacking a better option, I’ll dedicate my wish to the one person here I can actually stand."

It was the idea I’d been incubating for nearly two years now, ever since Lillian was taken from me. The masterstroke.

I grinned like a madman and took the crown off my head.

Then tossed it into the sacrificial pyre.

It was consumed instantly. I shouted over the raging crowd, my voice filling the room, and made my wish. The wish so many kings had used for the greater good.

Mine was not so magnanimous.

"I wish to live! Freely and forever!"

The arch-bishop fainted. Sera’s mouth dropped. This was the part I'd left out. And finally, the angry roar of the crowd was deafening.

My father had frozen, his sword halfway out of its sheath. He realized it in time, then. He couldn't do anything. To kill me would be the same as denouncing the legitimacy of the sacrifice. I'd twisted the rules, wadded up his legacy, and thrown it in his face, all without giving him any legitimate recourse.

I laughed then, long and hard, my cackling nearly drowned out by the chaos. I didn't stop until Sera pointed her sword at my throat. The room went silent once more.

"Leave this kingdom. You are not worthy of it."

I inclined my head to her and hurried to the exit.

It was halfway to my rooms when I heard them begin to chant her name, and despite myself, smiled.

It actually worked.

I had the gall to be pleased with myself. It was pure hubris. Had I looked out the hallway window, I would have seen thousands of shadows flitting through empty streets, descending on the castle itself.

4

IGNIS IV

There were many consequences for my choices that night. Most immediate was the size of my honor guard. When I left for the coronation, I was flanked by nearly a dozen men. On my return, I was followed by one. That was still one too many.

"Take the night off." I said. We approached my doors, and the last thing I wanted was a guard giving a detailed account of the prince’s escape to Thaddeus.

"With all due respect, my lord, that’s not a wise idea." The guard walked backward to talk to me, taking the moment to survey the hallway behind us. His eyes weren’t erratic, but never stayed in one place for long. It was like he was attempting to make up for the absence of protection by looking everywhere at once. Locks of dark hair hung beneath his helmet, covering golden eyes. He was young for protection detail, possibly a few years younger than me. Yet the combination of his easy posture and subtle intensity betrayed experience.

"Why?" I asked, "The rest did." My voice came out more bitter than intended. After all, I’d just stood in front of the entire kingdom and flipped them the raven. It was hardly the sort of behavior that inspired loyalty. "I’m not your king."

"You are my prince."

"Tomorrow, I will likely not even be that."

"Then I’ll reconsider. Tomorrow."

"Hells take you then." I slammed my bedroom door in his face. Let him stand out there all night and may Elphion smite him. Loyal or not, his presence was throwing a major wrench in my plans. My getaway was contingent on a variety of factors, several of which were now compromised. First step of the plan was pissing off the entire kingdom to the point that no one would want anything to do with me. The second step was getting the hell out with at least an hour lead before anyone knew I was gone. And now my unwanted shadow was impeding both.

There was an alternate path. I glanced at the window. I strapped the rucksack I had purchased in the market to my shoulders, now teeming full. Immediately, my palms began to tingle and shivers went up and down my arms. I closed my eyes and chided myself. You’ve done it before. Just do it again. Carefully, I leaned out. The frigid night air whipped at my ears, the ground far below seeming to shift and ripple. I immediately lost my balance and threw myself backward, falling hard on my ass.

Shit. That wasn’t happening. Not tonight. Endless possibilities and considerations ran through my head. After the coronation there was a feast. I’d order the guard to bring me something. He was being difficult because he thought there was a high chance of trouble, not because he thought I was going to run tonight.

It took some convincing, but he finally agreed, looking at me with a face that seemed a bit too insulted. "I’m a guard, not a maid," it seemed to say.

"Pillage something for yourself as well, guardsman. This will be a long night."

With that he seemed to agree and gave me one last questioning look before trotting off towards the banquet hall.

Finally.

Before I could grab my things, there was a soft knock on the door.

"What now?" I shoved my rucksack under the bed for the second time, almost shaking from nerves and frustration.

"Cairn. It’s me." Sera’s voice. But she sounded strange. I opened the door and Sera came rushing through.

"I thought you’d be drinking your new subjects under the table at this point." I said, unable to hide a smirk. But Sera didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. It was only then that I realized what she was wearing. Dark garments, covered by a black cloak. Sera shivered like she’d just marched through a blizzard, her cheeks and eyes red.

"Sera? What’s-"

Sera rushed forward and wrapped her arms around me, her cloak trailing behind her.

"Brother. I’m sorry."

I never saw the knife that killed me the first time. One moment, I was embracing my sister, wondering if the pressures of the throne had broken her. The next, there was a fire blooming in my gut, ravenous, hungry, consuming my nerves and my every thought, save one: I never really knew Sera at all.

I shoved her backwards and the blade went with her. Dully, as I pushed against it to staunch the bleeding, it dawned on me that it was far too gaping and open. She had twisted the knife. The pain grew unendingly, magnifying, sending waves of agony through my core and up my back. Sera watched through teary eyes, her bottom lip trembling pathetically. Just minutes ago such an expression would have my immediate attention and concern. Now there was only hate.

"Why?" I hissed through the horrible haze. "The throne is yours. Freely given. Why do this?"

"They made me." Sera held herself, wrapping her arms around her shoulders.

"Father?"

"No!" Sera cut the shout short. She stared down at the ground. Her whole body shook, as if the earth was shaking underneath her.

Why wasn’t she saying anything? My blood roared in my ears, but… I cocked my head. It wasn’t just my blood. Finally, I heard the screams, punctuated by the sounds of combat and war. I groaned, the horror of it coming into sharp focus. Sera hadn’t just played me. She’d played everyone.

"What did you do, Sera?" I pushed myself up and leaned against the bed. It was all I could do not to focus on the steady pulse of liquid oozing between my fingers. "What did you do?" I screamed at her.

"There was no other way!" Sera yelled. She shuddered, lowering her voice. "Our time is over Cairn. Siladon is finished. It’s been a long time coming."

"Who’s attacking?"

"Everyone. The demon-kin, the elves, the dwarves, all of them. They’ve been plotting this for years."

The magnitude of it floored me. Of course, individually, they’d want revenge. Father had subjugated all of them, held a boot to their necks, killed their friends and loved ones with no reparations. But for them to come together made no sense. As much as we’d done to earn their hatred, they were supposed to hate each other exponentially more. We only had a few hundred years of bad blood. The dwarves and demon-kin had thousands.

"So… what?" I panted at her, gesturing helplessly in the air. "Murder your brother and you get a free pass? The only human left alive in the land of monsters?"

"I’m not, Cairn." Sera looks at the ground.

"Not free?"

"Not human."

Was she saying the rumors were true?

"Bullshit," I whispered.

"Wealth wasn’t the only trophy father took home," Sera said bitterly.

A high-pitched whine pierced the air and I grunted, holding my free hand to my ear. Sera staggered to the side, her eyes going wide in panic.

"She’s coming. I have to go." With that, she turned and fled, leaving me in the darkness, blood slowly but surely trickling through my fingers.

I screamed for what felt like hours. At first, I screamed for help, then because it hurt too much to stay silent, then because I desperately wanted someone to kill me. Anything to make the pain stop. No one heard. It was agony beyond anything I had ever felt. Worse, it wasn’t static. At moments, it would nearly vanish, only to come shrieking back. It was impossible to adapt to, making every moment of torment as bad as the last. It peaked once more, then the darkness took me.

I awoke again. More pain. A rough impact across my face. Someone had slapped me. There was the coolness of marble beneath my back and pressure against my wound, though my hands were at my side. I opened my eyes and groaned.

"Please kill me."

"That would be treason, my lord."

"I actually hate you." I moaned. My annoying shadow from earlier was back, his hand red with my blood. I opened my eyes and caught him looking concerned. There was no fear in his expression, just determination and focus.

"What… what’s your name," I asked. Somehow I managed to maintain hold on the small thread of consciousness.

"Alten," he said, a wobble of pain in his voice. I studied him and realized, through the hazy veil of pain, that the man had one less appendage than the last time I’d seen him. His left arm was severed at the elbow, armor and all, ending in a charred stump. Suddenly, sitting there wallowing in my misery felt a bit silly.

"You’re injured."

"This old thing? Yes. I’m sorry to say, your majesty, my injury prevented me from fulfilling my duty. My apologies."

"What duty?"

"Retrieving your supper." Alten’s voice was deadpan but his eyes twinkled. I stared at him incredulously then looked down at my mess of a stomach, still bleeding despite the bandaging and pressure. A chuckle escaped my lips, followed immediately by a groan.

"You know, a bit after you left, my appetite just disappeared."

There was a hint of a smile on Alten’s face. "Shocking."

More shocking was the fact that I actually liked the man. It’d been so long since I felt anything more than hate for anyone outside my sisters. My breath grew more ragged as the pain crescendoed and I finally managed to ask the question I feared most of all.

"Am I going to die?"

Alten’s face immediately shifted down, covered in shadow. "I am no physician. What little I know is purely battlefield medicine, my lord."

Something about his wording rang false. I pushed him, deciding I’d rather know definitively than maintain ignorance. "Just… give me your best guess. You’ve seen men die from wounds like this?"

"… Aye." He finally said, eyes still pinned to the floor. "From my time in the Plains Vanguard."

I raised an eyebrow. "A silver sword. Quite the accolade."

"While it lasted." He said, a wry bitterness in his voice I knew all too well. It wasn’t prudent to ask more, but easy enough to read between the lines. The Plains were home to constant skirmishing between humans, elves, and dwarves over natural resources. Only the best and the strongest were sent to a post considered to be the highest honor. The few men who lived long enough retired early, their purses fat from the spoils and higher pay. Most simply died. Alten had been demoted. Whatever he might have done hadn’t been bad enough for execution or discharge, or perhaps he simply had friends in high places.

"How long do I have?"

His face grew grim. "It’s… hard to say. The blade missed the vein and your spine, otherwise you’d be dead at worst, immobile at best. But it did cut deep in a bad area. It is not a good way to die…"

"Tell me." I commanded.

Alten shifted, his tired friendliness evaporating into professionalism. "Yes, my lord. Given the wound and location, a bowel was most likely perforated. Things that are meant to stay separate will begin mixing. Then sepsis. Then death. It will likely take days. In any other situation I’d be rushing you through the castle to a priest, but-"

As if on cue, a scream rang out, sharp and hysterical, impossible to tell if it was male or female.

Well, damn it all. I pushed myself up. Alten clumsily grabbed my arm to support the movement. "How bad is it out there?"

"It is dire, my lord."

"My family?"

"My apologies, your grace. Your father’s status is unknown. But your stepmother and elder sister are dead for certain."

I closed my eyes. I’d never liked my stepmother, but she wasn’t a bad person. She’d deserved better than this. Sera was naturally more troubling. It didn’t surprise me that they’d killed her. Blood aside, she was as human as the rest of us. But as much as I hated her for what she’d done, I couldn’t simply forget the small bond that we had forged over the last few months.

"Annette?" I asked.

"Unknown. But we need to get you to a priest. If we manage to find one, there’s still a chance it could make a difference."

"No." The word left me before I even fully considered the proposal. The earlier encounter with Annette replayed in my mind. She’d begged me to stay, and I’d ignored her. A chromatic mania grew in my head, tinging my vision at the edges, perhaps from delirium, perhaps from something else. Some part of me was relieved. So many things didn’t matter anymore.

"My lord?" Alten asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Give me a moment." I staggered over to my rucksack, waving Alten away when he tried to help. From within it, I pulled a small wooden box and popped it open, revealing the gleaming contents of gems and gold. Alten’s jaw fell open, then immediately firmed up into a face so insulted you’d think I’d asked him to clap.

"Not a bribe. It's to fund the getaway." I gestured dismissively at Alten and he cocked his head to the side. "I get it, you’re so traditional you’d probably prefer to be paid in honor rather than gold." On further consideration, I dumped out the remaining contents of the rucksack, replacing only the chest and the rations I’d set aside for my escape. "The princess must be saved. I gave up my right to the crown. Sera is dead. Annette is all that matters." I thrusted the bag towards Alten and he took it, his face softening.

"And who will guard you?"

"You will, of course." I reached below the bed and retrieved my sword, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain rolling through my gut. "Because I’m going with you."

I'd like to say that I rose to the occasion. Assumed my role as the hero of this story. But the truth is that Alten carried me, sometimes literally.

Yes, I'd made up my mind to storm the castle, to rescue my sister, free her from the grasps of the evil demons and demi-humans. But my resolve was based almost exclusively on fairytales and went up in flames as easily as the paper those stories are printed on. Literally, as it seemed the castle itself was on fire.

Ivory pillars and white stone walls burned under purple flames like kindling, their colors melting from light to a dull corroded iron. The heat was unbearable, rising from the flames in constant visual distortion. Smoke gathered in the high ceilings like billowing storm clouds.

Alten had not exaggerated. It wasn’t so much a battle as a massacre. The bodies of both servants and subjects piled as high as the guards, if not higher, blood strewn across the marbled floor like brush strokes from a manic artist. Most were strangers to me, but every third or fourth body, I’d recognize the face of someone I once knew. One of my previous honor guards. A friend I’d fallen out with. The cook, who always snuck us something extra on our birthdays, despite our father’s dogged insistence on not celebrating such pointless frivolities. I’d grown more and more numb before Alten took me by the arm.

"Don’t focus on their faces. Let the dead flow past you like a river, lest you be drowned with them." Alten said, his voice quiet and firm. He’d dropped the "my lord" and its variants fairly quickly after we’d begun our journey. That was fine. I didn’t feel much like royalty.

We were under attack by every race I’d ever learned of, and a few I hadn’t. I watched small creatures with a striking resemblance to the kind-hearted pixies from fables tear a man apart with nothing more than their teeth, his screams crescendoing octave by octave until finally fading away, most of his flesh shred to the bone. Elves of both light and dark variety—and something in-between I’d never seen before—outfought every opponent with easy agility and fast strikes. Their eyes flashed crimson in the smoke-filled haze, lithe bodies flipping and striking as easily as a child walked.

Dwarves, making up for stature with numbers, struck at men’s knees and groins to topple them before pulverizing their chest plates and helmets with axes and hammers.

The infernals were the worst. Purple, red, and blue horned demons that danced around their opponents, mocking and laughing, infernal speech twisting their voices into something that shook the soul as they set everything on fire.

Still, if I had to pick one person out of the entire massacre I’d prefer not to fight, it would be Alten himself.

An elf flipped away from Alten to create distance. But one didn’t distance themselves from Alten without paying a price. Alten leapt forward, smashing the pommel of his sword against the elf’s head as it rose. The elf made a decidedly inelegant sound and went down hard, smashing his face into the stone and not getting back up. Two more elves hesitated, before one of them threw a knife. Alten, one-armed and unbalanced from the blow, instead pivoted his entire body and kicked the knife out of the air with a crescent lash of his heel.

The sword was growing too heavy again, so I had to improvise. I managed to take advantage of the elves’ hesitation and grab one around the neck, pulling it to the ground in a blood choke. Dishonorable, my father would have said, but we were past anything resembling honor at this point. Before his fellow could turn and slay me, Alten was on him in a blur of motion. The remaining elf, a female, was built for speed and battered at Alten from every angle, constantly dodging into and pressing the attack from his armless side. The elf beneath me made choking noises, his wriggling growing more frantic, every movement sending a shockwave of pain in my gut.

Alten’s opponent pushed him back, managing to land several blows against his armor.

My elf went still. I almost let go, but its head suddenly rotated like an owl’s until it faced backwards, glowing crimson eyes inches from my face as it smiled at me with pointed teeth that gleamed in the firelight before biting into my shoulder.

I screamed.

It flipped up in a blur of feet and grabbed my sword, raising it high in the air with both hands.

It was over. I closed my eyes.

There was a sound of a sword impacting flesh. But it was not my flesh. Something warm and thick splattered across my upheld hands. I opened my eyes to see a bleeding stump where the elf’s head once was.

Alten placed a foot on the elf’s corpse and shoved it off, then unceremoniously sat down beside me, both of us gasping for air.

I’d mocked him for being the only one of my honor guards to stay. This was the third time he’d saved me. The man was worth more than all of them put together.

"They really kicked you out of the silver swords?"

"Yeah." He gasped out.

"Idiots," I said. Alten smiled then, and moved over, studying me.

"Come on, now’s the fun part." He inspected our surroundings before finding what he was looking for: a relatively clean piece of flaming wood. I groaned, already knowing what was coming.

The flesh in my shoulder sizzled from the makeshift torch pressed against and I gasped, squinting. No screaming. Much better than last time.

"Are those bite marks?" Alten asked incredulously, using the fire to get a better look at my wound.

"You know those mummer’s tales about the possessed dolls whose heads turn around all the way?"

"Yes?"

"Well that’s basically what happened."

"No shit." He passed me the torch, trying not to smile. I took it from him and he turned, eyeing me carefully.

"You remember-"

"Yes, yes, two second intervals." I said. His wounds were on his side, two jagged horizontal slashes beneath his blackened stump of an arm. I cauterized them quickly and carefully. Alten, of course, didn’t make a sound. It had seemed excessive to do this with every wound, but the way he’d explained it, we’d both lost too much blood: him from his arm, and me from my gut. It was unpleasant, but the reality was it served us better to staunch any blood loss as quickly as possible, rather than risk falling unconscious or into shock.

Alten turned to me and spoke quietly. "It feels like we’re being herded."

"But we’re still heading the right way." I whispered back, but considered his words. While Alten was a great fighter, he was still just one man. We’d encountered considerably less resistance than some groups I’d seen getting completely overrun. Maybe there was something to that. But it begged a question. Why?

"It feels wrong. Just be ready."

I nodded.

We moved from room to room stealthily, only getting into minor scuffles that Alten dispatched of quickly. Alten’s words festered in my mind. This was probably the most direct path from my rooms to the pavilion. It was also a main thoroughfare. Why were there not more enemies?

The feeling of unease built. I began to hear the ringing in my ears, growing louder and louder. Sera’s parting words came back to me.

She’s coming.

A chill went down my spine.

5

IGNIS V

We pushed through the doors of Annette’s pavilion, only for Alten to come to a sudden stop. Dozens of invaders were already inside, waiting for us. My heart dropped. How could they have known? Then my chest went rigid with hate. Sera. Could Sera have predicted this? Told the enemy what I’d do before they killed her? If so she was more monstrous than I’d thought. Annette had never done anything to her. Still, it made no sense. Why wouldn’t they have just killed me in my rooms?

The doors slammed behind, and we both rushed backwards, shoulders ramming against them, only to find them immovable. The feeling of dread and tension rose with the ringing in my ears as I slowly turned back around. The invaders had not moved. They simply watched. The sound of blade striking blade echoed within the pavilion. A lone pixie flew out from the group, her small body glowing a pinkish hue. She unsuccessfully hid a wicked smile behind one hand and pointed in the direction of the main sitting room with the other. As one the enemy parted, revealing a path.

Alten put a hand on my good shoulder and hissed softly. "If you see a chance. Run."

I wish I could say I had no intention of listening to him. That I’d made up my mind. That I was a hero. But the truth is, as soon as we’d found the doors locked I’d pissed myself. There were just so many of them. My warm shame still dribbled onto the floor. Still, I followed Alten as we walked through the gauntlet of invaders. A legion of faces jeered after us, prodding us forward with swords, spears, and the occasional boot. The ringing in my ears grew into a keening screech so loud it was impossible to hear anything else.

Then, all at once, it stopped.

Across the sitting room, Annette was held by an infernal, a dagger at her throat, tears streaking down her face. The tiger I bought her held tightly in her arms. The sight tore at me. My little sister didn’t cry. Annie never cried. So deep was my distress that it took a moment to register the giant holding a club the size of a dragon’s leg that flanked her. Another man seemingly shrouded in dark mist at her other side. I started towards them blindly, but Alten grabbed my arm a second before two elves held swords to our throats.

At the center of the room, King Gil stood, armor spattered with blood, his claymore held limply in his hands as his massive chest rose and fell with each shuddering breath. In the part of my mind that wasn’t shocked and numb, I considered how bizarre it was to see my father so weak. It was such an odd sight. Like watching an animal walk on two legs. Who could have possibly reduced my invincible father to such a state?

That’s when I saw her for the first time.

I’d met my share of evil men, frequenting the bars of the capital. Slavers. Nobles who made their fortune off the backs of orphans put to work in poorly insulated sweatshops. Mercenaries who had spent years keeping the working class in line by brutally crushing uprisings. The impression, the feeling of a person being evil, you never get it directly. Despite what the bards would have us believe, there are very few true mustache-twirling villains and black-armored evil overlords. It was something you got from the cracks, the negative spaces. When they pause, their silence means more, no matter how cheery or deceptive their dispositions. They all had the same emptiness in their eyes.

I say all this, so you can understand the magnitude of difference between the evil of those men and the evil of her. It streamed off of her, like spite and rage and twisted pleasure all mingled in a single monstrous aura that felt like the air itself was caving in to crush you.

I risked a glance over to Alten, just to see if it was due to my inexperience, but his face was drawn and pale, his eyes wide, glittering fearfully in the gloom.

If it weren’t for the aura she might have been only intimidating: A woman dressed in banded leathers, tight, illustrating the lanky curve-less nature of her form. Arms that were slightly too long. Her head was half shaved, the left side tied in a long wavy tail of white hair. Her face was badly scarred, burns covering from the bottom left side of her face leading up to a milky, sightless eye. Her untainted eye was slit vertically like a snake’s, a bright yellow sclera framing a long black pupil. All that was disquieting enough on its own… but her smile is what stayed with me. Her teeth were white and pointed, like an elf’s but more vicious. And she smiled like it was the best day of her life.

At first, it looked like an even match. The woman was armed with two nasty looking daggers which gave her a massive disadvantage when it came to reach. My father heaved his heavy sword in massive, ground-shaking blows which she dodged by a hair’s breadth, sometimes falling and scampering back to her feet. None of her minions seemed interested in interfering. I felt my heart rise. It was only a matter of time before one of those massive blows landed and removed the woman from this plane of existence.

Alten, however, did not seem to share my hope. His lips were pressed together and his jaw worked furiously. What did he see that I didn’t? I looked back in time to see the woman dodge again, once more missing the blade by the narrowest of margins, smiling all the while. Then it hit me.

She was doing it on purpose.

Weight of his sword aside, my father was wounded and moving slowly. A moderately talented swordsman would be able to dodge his attacks consistently. But she was playing with him. Letting him think he was about to connect, goading him with small blows that did little.

A confluence of emotions rose within me. Yes, my father was a monster. Yes, there were many times that I wished to see him dead. But not like this. Never like this.

Their twisted dance went on for what felt like an eternity. Then my father swung in a half-arc—a feint—the woman ducked as he must have predicted, then suddenly he rotated his blade downward, bringing his forearm down on the ricasso of the blade and leveraging his shoulder to force it down towards the woman with an incredible amount of force.

The woman moved inhumanly, her body seeming to bend, bones and all, out of the way of the blade. Father staggered forward, off-balance, and the blade clattered out of his hands. His eyes met mine. To my surprise, there was no hostility. Just sadness. King Gil knew it, I think. He knew what was about to happen.

All at once, all the small nicks and slashes the woman had made to the integrity of his breastplate added up, and the armor fell to pieces, leaving him bare-chested and exposed. Father looked down at himself numbly. Slowly, he looked back up at me and began to speak.

But the words never left his lips, because the woman was on him. I struggled against my captors but was held still. The dark steel of her daggers glowed with an otherworldly light. Her hands were a blur of horizontal and diagonal strikes. With the final strike she spun away from him and locked eyes with me, running the sharp side of her bloodied knife across her tongue, shivering in pleasure.

King Gil stood motionless. Then all at once the wounds manifested, veins gushing and ligaments snapping as he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, uttering a single cry of pain that flayed me to my core. Fathers should never make those sounds. My sister cried out. A growl wrenched itself from my chest. The host roared, hundreds of voices ringing out in beastly approval.

Alten made his move, disarming the sword held at his neck and rushing forward in a mad dash. The woman dropped a dagger and held her hand out.

"Don’t you dare ruin this moment, scum." She said. Her voice was low and throaty, sibilants extended in a snake-like hiss.

Ethereal green shackles appeared on his wrists and ankles and Alten was stopped a foot away from her. He strained against the restraints, a vein popping on his forehead. The woman raised her glowing hand and Alten rose in the air, floating upwards, now entirely off the ground. The woman made a complex signal with her hand.

The colossus of a man beside my sister stepped forward. He held his club lightly, as if it was made of paper. He stood beside Alten, pulled the club up to his shoulder and looked at the floating guard dispassionately, measuring the distance. Then swung. The club flew through the air with enough velocity that I could feel the wind from it and cracked into Alten, sending him catapulting across the room, shattering the glass windows and into the garden.

Rage coursed through me. I pushed the sword at my throat aside, not caring as the edge cut into my flesh, and walked up to the woman.

"Enough," I said. My whole body shook.

"You have no idea…" She walked around me, looking me over, leering. Her voice modulated up and down in a tone that was almost sing-song. "How long I’ve been waiting for this moment. Oh, how I’ve waited." The last word almost sounded guttural.

"Who are you?" I demanded, somehow sounding much more authoritative than I felt.

"Ah." The woman held a hand to her mouth and moved closer until she was inches from my face. "How very rude of me. My name is Thoth. And this-" she indicated the legion around us, "is my merry band of misfits, all come together to pay tribute to the new king."

"I’m done with this charade. You’ve conquered the city. Killed my people."

"With a heavy heart." Thoth’s face formed a mocking frown. My temper flared, but I couldn’t afford to let it get the best of me, not now. I had to try and get in her head.

"I can pave the way for you, with the rest of the humans. Smooth the transition of power." I clenched my fists tightly, trying desperately to keep my voice neutral.

"You’d do that? For little old me?" Thoth asked. She never stayed still. She was always moving, this way and that.

"Yes. I have no desire to be king." I raised my voice then, attempting to play the room, as I’d done so recently during my coronation. "I understand that my father was a despot. That the things he did to you, to your people, made your conquest here tonight look kind in comparison. However, I am not my father. Mankind will fall in line beneath you, if I help bridge the divide."

A low chuckle from the man in the cowl broke the silence. Thoth shot him a look and it immediately stopped. She stared at me then, contemplating.

"If only we had known that sooner."

My blood froze in my veins.

Thoth continued. "If only I’d known how cooperative you would be, before I had my troops set every human city and settlement across Siladon on fire."

I took a step backward. A bluff. It had to be. It couldn’t be true. The man in the cowl laughed again, immediately followed by the rest of the legion, all cackling at a joke I’d been left out of. Thoth howled in laughter and doubled over, slapping her knee like an old woman. Any confidence I’d built in my ability to negotiate evaporated and the cruel reality of it dawned on me. There was nothing I could do.

Still, I had to try.

"I’ll do anything." I trembled. Slowly, the laughter faded. "Anything you want. I’ll throw myself from the tallest tower if you wish. Please, just let my sister go."

Thoth looked from me to my sister and back, as if the hostage had slipped her mind. "That’s all you want?" She rubbed the back of her neck. "Honestly, we really only needed her as bait." For the first time, Thoth’s voice sounded genuine. She snapped her fingers and the infernal holding my sister released her.

Annette shivered and walked towards me, pointedly not looking at the broken body of our father, gurgling on the floor. The terror in her eyes stilled my blood. She knew something I didn’t. Still, she walked forward. She was so close I could almost touch her.

"Stop." Thoth said.

Annette stopped in her tracks.

Thoth approached her, looking her up and down. Annette shivered.

"Maya. The poor thing is freezing."

The purple infernal with face paint that was holding my sister walked forward, chagrined. "Apologies, mistress."

"Can we… do something about that?" There was something different in Thoth’s voice. Something mirthful.

Annette caught my eye and mouthed a single word. "Discendente."

Panic. "Please. Please. I’ll do anything," I said again, begging, any dignity forgotten.

Maya held out a hand. Her thumb, index, and third finger glowed violet, forming three points of a triangle.

I ran.

My sister began to scream. Violet flames licked up her dress, onto her arms, immediately bubbling the skin. The stuffed tiger slipped from her hands.

I grabbed Annette and lifted her off her feet, not caring about the flames, or the way the nerves in my hands and chest screamed, or the pain in my gut. I sprinted towards the window Alten had broken through. A cluster of dwarves dove out of the way, trying to avoid the mass of purple fire suddenly barreling in their direction. Somehow I made it out the window and landed. The frosted grass crunched beneath my feet as I sprinted towards the fountain. Annette’s screams grew more gravelly and less human.

Hold on baby sister. Almost there. Almost there.

Then the flames crept up my chest and my ruined hands threatened to drop her.

No.

I shifted her further up, using my biceps and forearm to hold her in a vice like grip instead of my hands. The sound of my footfalls on crunching grass synced with the beating of my heart and the smell of burning hair filled my nose with each sharp intake of breath. I raced past the cherry trees, refracting light from the fires of the castle reflected in the icicles hanging from their anemic branches and finally, finally, I could see the gray angel atop the fountain, beckoning me onward.

Almost there.

It had been a particularly cold night in the capital city. There were signs I’d ignored, up until the last moment. I’d acted before thinking. I had known this. I’d even packed warm clothes for it. But under pressure, the knowledge and its implications had just flown from my mind.

I poured all remaining strength into my legs and leapt into the fountain, intending to douse us both.

We landed hard, sliding across the frozen surface. And the water in the fountain had frozen solid. Annette tumbled from my arms in a flash of white-hot pain as flesh that had fused together was torn apart. She rolled once. Her sightless eyes watched me, judging. How long had she been silent?

"No!" I screamed, ramming my still burning arms against the ice, imploring it to crack, the fingers of my blackened hands breaking as I struck. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Enough." Thoth’s voice. There was a snapping sound and the flames suddenly died. A hand grabbed my ankle and dragged me from the fountain. I reached for Annette, one last time. Thoth grabbed my chin and wrenched it forwards. Ashes rained from the orange sky, forming a dark halo silhouetting her cruel face.

"Good, still conscious," She said. None of her minions had followed her into the garden.

"…kill you."

"Hm?" She cocked her head to the side.

"I’ll kill you."

"Sure you will." Thoth stood, brushing the ice from her knees. She walked along the side of the fountain and picked up Annette. One arm dangled lifelessly to the side. I tried to lunge, but only managed to fall over.

"Leave her alone." I croaked. The woman ignored me. She grabbed my shoulder and lifted me back up to a sitting position then laid Annette across my ruined arms. The rage died immediately, flooded with sorrow.

"Little helping hint." Thoth crouched down again, directly in my eye-line. "Demon-fire is unquenchable with water. Learned that one the hard way." The woman pointed to her scarred face. "Even if the fountain hadn’t been frozen, it wouldn’t have made a difference. You have to smother it."

"Why didn’t you just kill me?" Why use my family against me. Why orchestrate this entire conquest just so that this monster, specifically, could carry out such cruelty? Bitter tears obscured my vision. "End. This."

"Earlier, you asked what I wanted." Her face was completely serious, smile gone. "I suppose I’ll tell you." She stroked my cheek.

"My master wants you dead. But I wanted you to understand, Cairn. I want you to suffer… as I have suffered. When you finally get the depths of it, the agony of it, only then will it end." The way she said it almost sounded personal. As if her problem wasn’t with humanity at all, but me, specifically.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

"That would be telling." The grin came back. There was a ruffling of leather and the sound of a dagger being drawn. Unlike her previous combat daggers, this knife looked much more ornate and ceremonial: black and gold trimmings on the handle, and a bright steel blade. Thoth sliced into her own palm and coated the blade in blood. She began to chant. The knife glowed a dull green.

I should have moved. Tried to knock her over and run. Somehow get the knife away from her. But every time my mind went in that direction, I saw Annette beneath me from the corner of my eye, and the fight just dissipated.

Thoth took great care aiming. Then she slid the knife into my chest with the precision of a surgeon. After all the nerve-destroying damage of the demon-fire, it barely hurt. The pain came after, as I felt something inside me start to spasm. I coughed violently, and found immediately afterward it was almost impossible to breathe. Every breath was wet and rasping.

"Your lung is punctured. In that spot, it's fatal. But I’ll leave the knife, so you have time to think." Thoth patted me on the head with her bloodied hand. "See you next time, Cairn."

Insane. She was clearly insane. Thoth walked away with a lift to her step, almost a skip. My head tilted downward, blood dripping out of my mouth in strands as I struggled to breathe. It was too much. I reached for the knife and realized I couldn’t feel the handle. All the nerves were gone. Any attempt to squeeze my hand together failed. The muscles and tendons wouldn’t respond.

There was a rustling to my right. I started, looking for the source of the noise. Alten limped towards me. His left eye was completely swollen shut. A piece of wood—a tree branch—jutted from his chest, having punched straight through his dented armor. I stared in muted awe. He really didn't quit.

Alten looked down at Annette in my arms and nearly lost his balance, a look of grief overtaking his stoic expression.

"The second time I failed you tonight." He slid down, back against the fountain next to me. There was a wet sound. Blood quickly coated the section of stone he leaned against. We were both running out of time.

"You fought harder than any man could be expected to fight."

"Still."

"If it weren’t for you, I would have never seen my sister again." The words, maybe that would have been better, were left unspoken.

Alten was silent for a long time. "After I was kicked out of the Silver Swords, I was optimistic about being a guard. Thought my natural abilities would shine through. Thought I could just work my way back up. Eventually deploy again."

"…Didn’t happen?"

He looked at me sadly. "Sometimes it doesn’t matter how good you are. Or how much you’re willing to sacrifice. Sometimes it just doesn’t go our way."

We sat in silence under the weight of it all. My thoughts drifted to Alten, then. How far he went for me when everyone else had left. Some fragment of nobility stirred in my chest.

I wetted my lips and said, "If we don’t make it to the Elysium halls, I’ll find you in the next life"

Alten chuckles. "You won’t remember. Nobody remembers their past lives, not even the damned seers."

"Hey... that’s heresy. And… I’ll remember." I insisted, reaching out to grab his shoulder and immediately regretting it when the pain spiked up my arm. Alten seemed to take this seriously, even if he didn't really believe it.

We watched the city burn. Eventually the screams stopped. An eerie silence fell over the castle. It was harder and harder to breathe. Everything was so cold. Once more, I reached for the knife in my lung, unable to cling onto it. The man beside me pushed himself to a knee, grunting, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you ready?" He asked. I knew what he was offering. An honorable end. Normally that would have given me pause, but in this situation? No. I didn’t hesitate.

"Please."

I held onto Annette tightly.

See you soon, little sister.

It barely hurt when Alten pulled the knife from my chest and plunged it into my heart.

6

EVERWOOD I

Darkness. Unending soundless blackness. There was no sense of sight, or smells, or sound. Just a sense of floating in nothingness for what felt like forever.

I did not, however, feel alone.

There was a sensation of movement in the void. Things towering over me, whispering. A sibilant chattering of broken teeth. I remember wondering if the place was death. If the stories and legends were wrong. If all that waited for us was this horrible nothingness, in which we were not truly alone.

I was afraid.

Afraid to the point I wondered if, before, I had ever truly known what fear was.

Something caressed my very existence, then grabbed hold.

What followed was the sensation of flying through the void at an incredible speed. I was yanked backwards, my being stretching from the strain until it felt my very essence could snap at any moment. Then light returned. I saw flashes of my old life. Vignettes played backward. My father. Annette. Sera. My mother—my real mother, alive and smiling.

Lillian.

The light grew unbearably bright, whiting out all semblance of images and memory. It pierced me over and over, like so many flaming swords. A single word was seared into my soul with an unholy green light.

Again.

Someone grabbed me.

"Cairn. Kid. Kid!"

I came to with fists swinging, clawing wildly at the hands that gripped me, Thoth’s terrifying visage still vivid in my mind. Get away. Have to get away. I slipped beneath my attackers arms and threw myself against the door, throwing it open to-

Trees? A forest, tall and wide as the eye could see. A hand grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and threw me back in.

It took a moment for the fog of panic to clear. Uncle Luther’s concerned face stared at me. He had gotten on top of me and was pinning my wrists against the seat cushions. There was a sense of movement and the occasional bump. A carriage. I was in a carriage.

What the hell?

"You were dreaming." Luther quickly released me and returned to the opposing side. The red satin cushions crumpled beneath him, and the whole weight of the chamber seemed to shift his way. He was fully armored. My whole body seemed to deflate as the importance of those words sunk in.

"It was awful." I raised a hand to place it against my pounding head. But it was not my hand. It was so small. There was practically no hair on my arm whatsoever. I froze in place, having played the last few moments back in my head and noticing another problem. "Terrible," I said, experimentally, almost choking at the pitch of my own voice. It was higher than before. Then it hit me.

"Annette! What happened to Annette?" I stood up, my heart racing. Uncle stood with me and bumped his head against the ceiling, knees braced, as if ready to grab me if I tried to dive out of a moving carriage again.

"She’s still at the castle with your sister and mother, kid. Damn, that dream really did a number on you." Uncle sat back down and crossed his legs, looking away guiltily. "Can’t blame you, though. After everything you saw today."

His words finally registered. Annette was fine. But how could that be? I’d witnessed it. She was clearly dead. Even if she wasn’t, there was no recovering from those injuries. Another strange notion occurred to me. When was the last time I’d seen Uncle Luther this sober? He was oddly put together. Almost knightly. There was no seething judgement hidden behind his expression. He looked… almost shockingly normal.

Clearly, I was missing something. I sat back down.

Uncle Luther continued to speak. "Kid, I want you to know. The things you saw today. The things I did… that’s not usually how we do business. That village was a real problem. The elves had to be put in their place sure, but the children?"

I looked up at him, shock coursing through me. I’d had this conversation before, nearly ten years ago. The only reason I remembered it was because of how angry I’d gotten. It was after the sacking of the elven village of Inharion. Elven cultists. They’d been killing tax collectors and burying their bodies in the Everwood. Once the murders came to light my father put together a raiding party disguised as an envoy and brought me along. Said I needed to see the law in action, as well as the consequences of disobedience. From a distance, I’d watched as the raiding party slaughtered the entire village, led by my uncle.

I’d called him a monster.

I was naive. There was no way for me to know back then what would have happened if he refused. That my father would have him executed and banish his wife and children. He wasn’t a bad man, just a weak one. Years later I regretted the way I had treated him.

Was this some sort of dream then? My subconscious trying to work out the last few kinks of regret before passing on?

"I wish there was another way. But you did what you had to," I said carefully, still not sure exactly what I was doing.

"Doesn’t make it right," Luther seemed to hesitate, struggling with something. "Can you keep a secret? It’ll make you feel better, but if it gets out it’ll be the end of me."

Interesting. Originally, my raging at him and calling him a monster had shut the conversation down entirely, and we rode the rest of the way to the castle in silence. I had no memory of this exchange.

"Of course." I smiled at him. "I’ve never mentioned your many affairs with the castle staff to my parents."

Luther blanched. "Guess I was less discreet than I thought." He looked at me, suddenly suspicious. "How would you even know what an affair is? You’re just a kid."

"Old enough to read, Uncle."

"Fine, fine." His cheeks reddened and he waved as if to dismiss the embarrassing line of conversation. "The truth is, I let some of them go."

"Who?"

"The elves. There was a cluster of them playing behind the town hall. A few adults and some children. I came upon them before anyone else and shooed them into the forest." He looked down at his steepled hands. "I know it doesn’t make up for… the rest of it."

I frowned. This was no mere rehashing of memory. It was too vivid, and it involved information I’d been entirely ignorant of. Nothing about it felt like a dream either. Could the last ten years of my life have been the dream?

No. That would mean Lillian wasn’t real. I refused to even consider it. If that reality was real, and this one was also, then what the hells was happening? Unless…

"Uncle. How old am I this year?" I asked, testing my theory.

Luther looked up, confused at the change of topic but also relieved. "Is this a quiz?" He asked with a grin. "Twelve. As if I’d forget my nephew’s age."

"And what day is it?"

His grin lessened. "The twelfth."

"Of?"

"Winterscrest."

The carriage hit a bump and I stifled a gasp. The 12th of Winterscrest. It seemed so uncanny. Exactly ten years from the day of the coronation. There was something to that, there had to be. Assuming the small chance this wasn’t some sort of death knell hallucination. Could it actually be true?

Again

The word echoed in my head, sending chills down my arms.

Was I sent a vision of the future?

The endless possibilities begin to run through my mind. It was like something out of the old tales. I had so much foreknowledge. All I needed was for someone to believe me.

My heart pounded in my throat. "Uncle-"

The ringing in my ears came back. My eyes went wide. Cold chills went up and down my arms. I doubled over in my seat. How? It didn’t make sense. Luther was on his knees before me in an instant.

"Cairn. What’s wrong?"

All the memories of past wounds came back to me at once as the ringing in my ears grew louder and louder. The hole in my stomach. The burns on my chest and hands. The knife in my lung. Annette, broken in my arms.

"What’s wrong, boy? What’s happening?" Uncle shook me vehemently.

"She’s coming," I whispered.

"Who’s coming?"

"Thoth." The moment I said her name, the carriage ground to a halt. Luther looked up, clearly unsettled. Several wagons up, I heard a guard call out.

"Who goes there?!"

There was a cacophony of heavy footsteps moving towards the front of the line and blades being drawn.

No. No no no.

Luther, still holding my shoulders, looked out of the carriage, then back at me. "Stay here."

I grabbed his arm. "You cannot beat her, Uncle. When the fighting starts in earnest, run."

He gave me a strange look. And then he was gone, leaping out of the carriage and running to join the rest of the men at the front. My whole body fought as I followed, slowly. It was so far from the carriage door to the ground. The forest, previously filled with the sound of calling birds, had gone silent.

"Oh Cairn, where are you?" The sing-song voice sent a wave of revulsion through me and I choked back a sudden surge of acid rising from my gut. All my half-baked plans went out the window like nothing more than a flight of fancy. So much for a second chance to do things right and plan.

Thoth was already here.

Suffer, as I have suffered.

There was no question what she’d do if she found me. When she found me. I climbed up and snuck a peek over the top of the carriage. Thoth was there. She looked younger, but otherwise just as terrifying. She was flanked by the man in the cowl and the giant, but otherwise alone. A thought occurred to me. She hadn’t raised her army yet.

Still, I had a feeling that the three of them would be more than enough to destroy the small retinue that accompanied me.

"If you make me look for you, it will only make things worse." Thoth called out over the formation of guards that attempted to engage with her, ignoring them entirely. She scanned the caravan and almost saw me before I ducked back down behind the carriage. I’d already learned from my first encounter. There was no reasoning with Thoth. No fighting her. There was only one logical course of action.

Run.

Left or right? Did it matter? Both sides of the road were thick with forest.

For just a second, I saw a glimpse of something on my left side, partially obscured behind a tree. It looked like a silver hand, beckoning. A sign from the gods, perhaps. Whatever it was, it was enough.

I sprinted left, away from the caravan into the deep dark of the Everwood.

7

EVERWOOD II

In the distance the sounds of battle grew fainter until they were almost inaudible. I ran, tripping over roots and ducking under low branches. At first there was a sense of confidence. I’d played in these woods much of my early life. Not this particular section, sure, but many days of my childhood had been spent marching bravely out into the great green unknown, pretending to be a knight on a quest for the kingdom, looking for the seer stone or other such nonsense.

Child or not, I wasn’t an idiot about it. I’d always brought supplies and chalk to mark the trees, thus, always been able to find my way out. I’d never been lost in the Everwood, not even once. The most threatening creature I’d found had been a small boar.

Of course, this logic was flawed. The sections of forest that encroached upon the capital city were heavily patrolled. The forest seemed safe to me only because there was a group of rangers—all veterans and battle-hardened—who spent their lives and sometimes lost them pushing the monsters of the wood away from the capital and into the deep recesses of the wood. The deep recesses where I now wandered.

The immediate issue, however, was unlike my childhood adventures, I didn’t have any chalk to mark my path. My initial plan was to move in a large half-circle. Venturing far out into the forest, looping around, eventually coming back a mile or so further down the road. Once I found the road again, I’d follow it from the cover of the Everwood back to civilization.

It was a plan born out of panic and adrenaline, and as with any such plans, there were a few problems. Firstly, I had no idea how far from the capital city I was. Secondly, the road to the capital... was gone. I was certain I’d circled around correctly and had walked in a straight line for miles. No road.

The biggest problem by far was that something was following me. Some part of me would almost chalk it up to paranoia. I was walking for miles in a forest, after all. There was a constant chatter of strange and unknowable sounds. Insects chirped and called. The occasional wolf would howl. There was, infrequently, a crash of something much larger, usually accompanied by a yowl of bestial pain. All told, it was enough noise to reasonably assume my mind was playing tricks on me and I was looking for patterns where there were none.

It was always when I was on the verge of accepting this notion when a twig snapped behind me. A bush rustled. Worst of all was the low, sharp, intake of breath that sounded mere meters away.

I unsheathed my sword. It was barely more than a toothpick, gifted to me on my tenth birthday. If what was out there was anything bigger than a small dog, I was doomed.

With all the turning around to search for my unseen stalker, it became harder to be sure I was heading in the right direction. I didn’t dare double back. Thing in the shadows aside, the possibility that Thoth and her allies had already dispatched my group and were currently combing the forest looking for me was simply too high.

But for all I knew, I was heading backwards. It was impossible to tell what time it was or how long I’d been walking. Thick trees above cloaked the sun entirely, a perfect canopy that let in only the smallest fragment of light.

I trudged on. My arm began to grow tired from holding the sword. Slowly, my mind began to wander back to the greater situation at hand. I’d watched my father die. Watched Annette die. I’d yet to truly lay eyes on either of them, but unless my uncle was somehow in on it I had to believe they were alive now. They were dead and now they weren’t. If nothing else had changed, time had simply shifted backwards…

My mother is alive.

My real mother. I stopped walking, completely gobsmacked. My mother died of a wasting illness a month after my eighteenth birthday. The physicians hadn’t been able to do anything because they hadn’t caught it early enough. But I could.

And Lillian. Lillian would be working at Gray’s apothecary. Even in a situation this dire, the thought brought a smile to my face. Which was then immediately dashed as the memory of Thoth’s savage visage came back to mind. It didn’t matter if I saved anyone temporarily, if Thoth slaughtered them all in the end. Worse, judging from the last few hours she was completely unpredictable. I couldn’t expect for things to unfold the same way. It begged the question. Why had she come looking for me so early this time? Was she-

A black blur of growling mass leapt at my face, obscuring my entire vision in an instant. I didn’t dodge so much as fall on my ass, scrambling backwards, trying to create distance. The thing stalked around me, lithe and dangerous. Its fur was dark as night, and its eyes glowed golden in the gloom. Shadow Panther. A small one, but deadly nonetheless.

I puffed myself up and stretched my arms out in an attempt to look bigger than I was. The panther just purred, continuing to move closer, entirely unimpressed. I swore.

If I’d been the size of a full-grown man, scaring it off might have worked. But this was a child’s body. The panther pounced. I jerked to the side, dodging wildly, my reflexes and muscle memory all feeling foreign and off. It circled to the side and I tracked it with the point of my blade. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. This was not good. Killing it was likely beyond me. Even if I somehow managed to escape, this beast would continue tracking me through the forest as it had before. Somehow I needed to show it that I was more trouble than I was worth.

Stepping carefully, I bent down to scoop up a fallen branch while maintaining eye contact. It lunged towards me in a false start, baring white fangs speckled with red. This was not its first hunt of the day. Maybe that would work in my favor. I waited. It finally stopped moving, its shoulders hunching together, preparing to pounce.

Then, with all the power I could muster, I flung the branch at its head. The panther flinched back. Its face scrunched up almost comically. Then a deep, angry growl resonated from its throat.

Well. Shit.

It slammed into me, claws digging into my chest and sternum. I made a sound that was entirely un-princely as my back hit the forest dirt. My sword clattered to the side somewhere unseen. It snapped at me viciously, held back only by my small hands around its neck. But this body was weak. The panther leaned forward, snapping, pushing its body face closer.

I’d always been weak. Growing up, I took every chance I’d had to avoid physical training. Violence reminded me of my father. I’d looked down on him, thinking myself more civilized. Instead, I’d prided myself on my mind, but I was nowhere near as clever as Annette. I’d thought myself a good speaker, but what good were words to me now?

Long strings of red drool splattered against my face, the panther’s breath hot and foul. This was so stupid. I was going to die here. I was going to squander this rare chance I’d been given. I was going to die in a forest to a simple beast because I was weak, and everything would happen as it had before. A dark rage went through me then. I thought of Annette, consumed by the flames.

There was a sudden sharp pain that went through both hands.

At first, I thought it had finally broken through my grip. Then the panther threw itself off me, earlier grace entirely absent as it rolled in the dirt, panicking. A small wreath of familiar purple flame grew larger around its neck. I watched, stunned. My first response was to look around for the mage. There was no one nearby that could have interfered. Dumbly, I looked at my stinging hands. A small burn marked the center of my palms on each.

The panther managed to extinguish the flames—though not without significant damage to its previously pristine coat—and gave me a strange look before disappearing into the forest.

It almost looked... frightened.

Afternoon waned into evening and the Panther did not come back. My mood plummeted with the dying light. The soles of my luxurious and colorful shoes were perilously thin, thus I felt every errant pebble, puddle, and fallen branch. Hope of finding the road was mostly abandoned. Instead, I found myself fantasizing about finding a cave: a nice, well-lit, thoroughly unoccupied cave. Perhaps with a cot and fresh linens.

No such luck.

There was a cave, but it wasn’t exactly ideal. I took one step inside when a pair of floating red dots appeared, hovering in the darkness. I froze. Then another pair opened. Then another. I slowly backed away, breath held and sword outstretched. Thankfully, whatever it was didn’t follow. Just peered after me until the cave and its untold inhabitants were out of sight.

Still, I was running out of time. Darkness was coming quickly now, and despite how active and dangerous the Everwood seemed before, it felt borderline malevolent now. Those large, infrequent noises I’d only heard distantly became commonplace and seemingly closer. Unseen dangers growled at me from bushes and more than once I heard the telltale chik-chik-chik of a cobalt rattler. My throat was savagely dry and I had hoped to find a river or stream before stopping for the night, but any chance of that died with the sun.

I started the long process of building a fire.

"Getting it started is the hardest part. You want this sort of bark." Lillian dragged me forward and pointed to a thin white tree with dark splotches. Her cheerful demeanor was infectious.

"What’s it called?"

Her cheeks pinked. "Don't know the proper name. That's your job. All I know is it catches no matter how damp things are."

The memory needled at the all-too-familiar ache in my chest and I hacked into the tree with more force than necessary, using my fingers to pry the bark off. Lillian was like that. Brilliant with the knowledge of a thousand books, but terrible with names. The impromptu survivalism lessons always came while we foraged for ingredients for Gray’s Apothecary. She was equally terrible with plant and ingredient names.

"This one makes you sick."

"The green one and the white one work as an antidote against that one’s poison."

"This one just kills you."

I grabbed a couple of stalks of thorn thistle, or "the one that disinfects," and a few cyan petals of "the one that repels bugs," and placed them in my satchel. It was nearly completely dark when I returned to the campsite with my bundle of wood. I piled my wood in the log formation I’d been taught with the kindling in the middle and began rubbing two sticks together. There was full-on movement in the dark now. Constant scampering and yowling and whispering.

Whispering?

Maybe it was just my imagination. Now that I focused on it, it sounded like nothing more than the lonely whistle of wind through trees. I turned back to my work.

Coooooooooward

Chills ran down my spine and I dropped the stick. That had not been my imagination. Something else was in this forest with me and it wasn’t an animal.

Betraaaaaaaaayer

The whisper picked up into a howl. Louder and louder the voices grew, prickling at me. Cold sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

"Come on. Come on." I twisted the sticks until they snapped. The voices in the wind cackled at me in delight.

Only one thing left to try, and I had no idea if it would work. I held both hands to the wood, closed my eyes, and tried to will the purple flame from earlier into the kindling.

Nothing.

I tried again. Visualizing the flame this time.

Nothing.

A small animal nipped at my leg and I kicked it away. What was I missing? Maybe...

As much as I hated myself for it, I held out my hand, first, second, and third fingers forming a triangle. No feeling of power. No light. No fire.

I dug deep into my mind. How exactly did I feel when I’d summoned the fire the first time? How did I feel when the panther was on me? I stared the memory full in the face, letting it wash over me until I finally found it.

Despair.

A single pinprick of violet light floated in the center of my outstretched fingers, so tiny it looked like the smallest breeze could snuff it out. I cupped my other hand around it to shield it from the wind and oh-so-slowly held it to the kindling.

The flame roared to life, almost blinding. I fell backwards, shielding my face with my arm. There was a chorus of agitated sounds as creatures scurried away. Even the whispering wind seemed to scream. It was far too hot around the fire to rest comfortably but in the context of what had just happened, that didn’t seem to matter. I curled with my back to it, adoring and loathing it all the same, and promptly fell asleep.

The second day was easier. I found two oblong rocks of similar size and used them to grind the sanitizing herbs until they resembled a powder, then cleaned and treated my wounds from the panther. I ran across a fast-moving brook that I used to fill my flask and drank from heavily. The water cramped my stomach but at that point it was a small price to pay. I found a cluster of mushrooms with orange stripes that I knew to be edible. They helped fend off the hunger, but not by much.

The second source of water I found was a small pond. I nearly raced towards it, only noticing just in time one of the giant trees wasn't a tree. It looked like a huge elk from far away, but somehow felt wrong. Better not to risk it and stick with the stream.

Twice, I ran into creatures that posed a threat. Another panther and some sort of giant lizard the size of a dog. Both times I managed to summon demon-fire and light the makeshift torch I carried, frightening them off. I tried not to think of the implications.

When Sera’s talent was first discovered, my father had called in a litany of so-called magical experts to test the rest of us, as magic—while rare—has a much higher chance to show up along the same genetic line. Annette and I were tested for every magic sensitivity under the sun, but at the end of the day there was nothing to show for it. From my shallow understanding, elemental magic was something you had to be born with. No amount of tinkering or blessings from the church or potions would give you power. Magic could not be gifted. If it could, everyone would have it.

So, why was this happening now?

Feeling terrible but slightly more confident, I packed up my things, along with my growing collection of herbs, and followed the brook downstream. Dusk fell uneventfully. I went to sleep the second night with a cramping belly full of foul water and mushrooms, endless questions plaguing my mind.

When I awoke, there was a feeling in my stomach that something was wrong. I looked up. A shadowy figure spun my sword in his hand idly. His face was hooded, hiding everything but his tightly skinned mouth. He smiled a charming smile. "Found you."

8

EVERWOOD III

I initially panicked, thinking this hooded person and the cowled man at Thoth’s side were the same person. On further inspection they were clearly distinct. This man was much wider, though that might be attributed to his billowing robe. He also lacked the gravity and presence of the other cowled man.

"Tell me child, how does a magician come to be lost in the Everwood?" His voice modulated. It was almost genderless, one moment seeming male, then next female. I shuffled backwards, hair on my neck raising as the words cut through my sleep-addled mind and registered. He knew. How did he know?

I considered running, but the stranger still held my sword in his hand, my only weapon in this gods-forsaken place.

“I’m not a magic-user,” I finally said.

He let the silence hang between us awkwardly, only cocking his head at my words, his gaze slowly panning from me to the still burning violet flame. I mentally kicked myself for my poorly thought actions over the previous days. Using the demon-fire so freely was moronic. It was justifiable the first night; I was under siege in an unfamiliar place and didn’t know what I was doing. Using it every night after was a mistake. If the man followed me even for the last day, he would know unequivocally what I was.

"It’s just a minor talent," I said.

"I see. But you still haven’t answered my question, child."

I am Prince Cairn. My escort was attacked.

The words died in my throat before they were given a voice. Noble status was a double-edged sword. Throwing a title around in the correct situation achieves much. But at that moment I was incredibly vulnerable. Announcing myself as a prince to random denizens of the wood seemed an excellent way to be taken hostage. I considered my next words carefully.

"My name is Cairn. I’m apprenticed to my father, a traveling apothecary. We were on route to the capital when bandits attacked and were separated."

The man clapped his gloved hands together suddenly with a muted thump. "A magician and an apothecary?" He looked around my campsite, gaze settling on the bound herbs. "What wonderful luck!"

I regretted my choice only for a moment before the significance of this statement struck me. "Are you in need of an apothecary… sir?" I cringed slightly. It was truly difficult to discern the person’s gender.

The stranger took it in stride. "Sir is fine, child. Sir Barion." He sighed. "And that I am. Living in the Everwood is an eternal ordeal. I am constantly running out of poultices and salves. And the little monsters in the closest village don’t like to share." Inharion. He was talking about the elves.

I pressed the advantage. "If you help return me to the capital, kind sir, my father will happily provide you with all the aid you might need as a reward. And then some." It wasn’t a total lie. My father would provide him aid. It would just be from the royal chemist, rather than an apothecary. In actuality—a much better deal than I was offering.

The man threw his hood back and eyed me critically. He was entirely hairless, including eyebrows. His skin was albino-white. The nose of his face was almost feminine, while his lips were wide and bloodless. "I wasn’t born yesterday, child. What’s to stop you from scampering off the moment we reach the capital? Not to mention it’s quite a long journey."

I crossed my arms, my honor impugned. "What sort of wretch would dare treat their savior so poorly?"

"You’d be surprised then." The stranger said dryly. He stood, brushing off the seat of his pants and pulled his hood back over his head. "Still, I have a proposition for you child. I am a researcher. A man of science. But my lack of knowledge in your field rankles the mind. Come to my home. Show me your craft. Instruct me on how to make my own poultices and where to find the ingredients."

I held my hands palms out and forced a smile. "You honor me. But I am but a lowly apprentice of little talent. My father is the true practitioner."

He looked at the ground herbs again and my makeshift mortar and pestle, then back up to the bandage that I had sewn for myself out of plant fiber. I flushed.

"Nothing wrong with a little humility, child, but assign credit where credit is due. I’ll feed you and provide you shelter. After a few weeks, I’ll charter an escort from Ironhenge and pay for it myself to return you to your father."

Well, it was too much to hope the man would just grab a knapsack on a stick and skip down to the capital with me. I didn’t trust him, exactly, but he seemed well-educated and intelligent. There was a chance he was dangerous, sure. I’d be a fool to trust a random altruistic stranger in the Everwood.

But the Everwood itself was a death trap, and my rescuer wasn’t altruistic, really. I knew what he wanted. It was a mutually beneficial proposal, something I was much more familiar with. From my experience in the royal court, it was far more dangerous to trust an ally with unknown intentions than a neutral party with clear goals. I pretended to think it over, then nodded.

"Excellent. What splendid luck indeed, my boy. For both of us."

He motioned for me to follow him and turned, his robe billowing behind him as he strode into the early morning fog. It may have been a trick of the light, but something seemed strange in his figure, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

It would occur to me randomly, weeks later.

Barion didn’t cast a shadow.

I’d feared some sort of witch’s hut, small and cramped, where we were forced to sleep on bedrolls around the cauldron. Instead, the cottage was surprisingly normal. It was situated in a clearing and was charmingly rustic: the paint was faded and the construction uneven, but it was relatively spacious. In fact, it seemed the sort of house those in rustic communities might shake their fist at for ruining the neighborhood with how decent it was. Smoke curled invitingly from the chimney. Barion stopped me at the door and pointed me to a nearby river where I could wash, handing me a jug and asking me to bring water back with me.

I dipped myself in the river and reveled in the sensation of cool, clean water tugging at my limbs. Tension left me for the first time since the coronation, washed away with a filmy layer of dirt. It felt like the last few days had been nothing but running, scrounging, nearly dying and possibly actually dying. I held onto a nearby root and closed my eyes, wishing the sensation could last forever. I opened my eyes and saw a patch of beautiful blue flowers across the river from me. Laudenshade. The one that kills you. That reminded me, there was a job to do.

It took an embarrassingly involved effort to clean my clothes, and I gave up on them entirely by the time it was done, instead opting to wear the simple black tunic that Barion gave me. The fact that he had it in the first place had not initially given me pause. It had yet to fully sink in that I was no longer the size of my previous body. I didn’t feel short. Everyone and everything else just seemed too tall. But now, as I looked at the garment, it did seem strange that Barion would have clothes in my size. Perhaps he wasn't alone out here after all.

Filling the jug with river water was easy. Carrying it was not. I managed to lift it and move a few steps before having to pause. I continued like this for some time. Around halfway I considered giving up and just dragging it, but immediately dismissed the notion. That was the sort of thinking that got me to the point where—during the invasion—I could barely hold my own against a single enemy.

My mind drifted to Alten. I wondered where he was now. He was younger than me. He had carried himself with the air of a veteran, but surely it would be a few years before he could enlist. As far as I knew, the Royal Army did not take men younger than fourteen. I would not forget him. My debt to Alten was not the sort of thing I took lightly, even if it had not yet been incurred.

I set the jug down one final time before reaching the house. Much to my annoyance, I was winded and stared at the ground, taking several deep breaths. It was then that I saw the cellar door off to the side. That alone was unremarkable—cellars were not uncommon, especially in rustic homes—but the chains that held the doors shut were not. There were four chains in total. Though dirty, they were clearly made from ascended steel, bright chrome coloring glinting in the sun, bound in the center by a massive padlock.

I frowned. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a researcher’s lab to be under lock and key. They were isolated sorts, protective of their methods and findings, nearly to the degree of magicians. But this level of security was absurd. Contents of the cellar would likely be completely unrecoverable should Barion ever lose his key.

I shrugged, picking up the jar and finally crossing the threshold into the house.

Barion was an excellent host. He prepared a pheasant for dinner, accompanied with an assortment of vegetables he bragged were from his garden out back. I cleaned my plate in a storm of flashing utensils. The pheasant was delectably greasy and well-spiced. Even the vegetables were excellent. I’d have paid a full silver rod back home for a meal like this, preferably at the end of a night of drinking. When I looked up mournfully from my vanquished meal, I saw with embarrassment that my rescuer was only a third of the way through his, studying me with amusement.

Damn. Apparently, a little exposure and survivalism was enough to transform me into a terrible guest. Trying to save face, I asked how he’d managed to grow such a delicious bounty within the bounds of the Everwood.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, but compliments from a starving child are questionably sourced." He generously heaped another serving onto my plate. I dug in, but slower.

"Perhaps," I admitted. "But that doesn’t change the fact that it's the beginning of Winterscrest and the grounds of this forest are practically barren. Herbs and the like grow here well enough, but farming produce is said to be devilishly hard, if not impossible. Is the land in this clearing different?"

"Not particularly. The grounds were just as wooded as everywhere else when I first came here, years ago. I cleared them myself over time."

"I see." He was stronger than he looked, then.

"Why not." Barion interjected suddenly. "I’ll tell you, since you’ll be sharing quite a few secrets with me over the course of our time together. The secret to farming in this accursed land is simple. Fertilizer."

"Fertilizer," I said dumbly, not quite believing him.

"Fertilizer." Barion poked his knife at me. "Rabble these days always expect something for nothing. They take and they take until there’s nothing left, then shake their fists at the sky in mewling impotent rage, blaming the gods for their sudden misfortune." He stabbed at the pheasant, slicing it into careful, precise chunks.

"But not you."

"Not me. What I understand that they do not, is the value of giving back to the earth. Sacrifice. Thus, I use only the best fertilizer for my plants."

I pushed my plate away, leaning back, hand on my full stomach. "For a man of science, that sounds almost…"

"Mystical?"

"Well… yes." For the first time, I noticed there was a third plate and set of utensils set out at the end of the table. "Sir Barion, is someone else joining us?"

He sighed. "Most likely not. My assistant buries herself in her work these days. She’s going through something of a rebellious phase, you see." I was relieved at that. Something about the strange hairless man having an assistant made him less intimidating. "She’s a little older than you. How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Two years older, then. You’ll be teaching us both to identify the necessary ingredients and prepare them."

"Speaking of which…"

We went on to discuss the sorts of things Barion would need. I was comforted when he didn’t ask for anything questionable. In fact, everything he requested was some sort of palliative: burn salve, disinfectant, numbing agents, the sort of things that healed colds and bronchial infections. The sort of things a chemist would want on hand in case of an accident. I silently thanked Lillian for being so thorough in her teachings. Never had the knowledge been so crucial to me.

Day gave way to night quickly. There was no sign of Sir Barion’s assistant, but when asked he seemed confident in her ability to take care of herself. I was beset by yawning far before the sun had set, and by dusk I was nearly asleep on my feet. Sir Barion introduced me to my quarters. They were cramped, consisting of just a small bed, dresser, and closet, but compared to my prehistoric accommodations in the Everwood, it felt like an untenable luxury. My host bade me farewell and I collapsed on the bed and greeted sleep, warm and grateful.

Sleep was not kind. Surviving the Everwood kept my mind occupied with a uniform obsession. Every waking moment spent with iron focus on surviving and attempting to navigate, every night filled with a fatigue so total it was impossible to focus on anything else.

Now safe, my mind went back to the invasion, replaying the horror and violence again and again, terror growing with each repetition. I woke up in tears, hand clutched to my chest, cursing the useless fear and wanting nothing more than to fall asleep. It happened twice more that night before I finally fell into a fitful, uneasy nothingness.

The dreams haunted me, filled with visions of my enemies. Sharp-toothed elves. Thoth’s gloating hatred. The infernal who murdered my sister. Her tribal face-paint and devil horns and milky white eyes. She shook me violently with both hands. "Boy?" the infernal said, her accent thick.

I slammed down on where her forearms met her elbows and broke her hold.

It was all too cogent in my mind how quickly she could cast her magic.

I grabbed her and pulled her over my body. A shriek of surprise died in her throat as her head hit the wall. Too slow. I was moving too slow. She thrashed and I leapt atop her. The others could be on me at any moment. Her hand went out, fingers splayed.

Not this time.

I slapped it away in a rage, managing to pin both her hands above her head. She opened her mouth to shout for help and I clamped my hand over it just in time. She still struggled against my grip. She was stronger than me but right now, I had the advantage. Quickly removing my hand from her mouth I placed it on her throat and began to squeeze. Her eyes bulged. She struggled more violently now, clawing my arms and hands, her dark claws leaving lines of blood. I tightened my grip, put my full weight behind it. Her struggling grew weaker and weaker.

"Why didn’t you just leave it?" I whispered angrily. "Why couldn’t you just leave me be?"

The cold tip of a needle brushed my throat. "That’s quite enough, child."

Barion.

Only then did I realize that this was not a dream.

9

EVERWOOD IV

The infernal squirmed out from under me as I released my hands and slowly sat up. She bolted to the furthest end of the room behind Barion, hacking and coughing pathetically. It was only when I saw both of them side by side that I noticed how small she was. The terrifying demon from my dreams looked like nothing more than a child. My hands and arms stung where she scratched me.

Sir Barion removed the point of his rapier from my neck, still holding it at his side, watching me warily.

It wasn’t a dream. It was real. I clenched my fists and unclenched them, over and over, nothing to do with my seething hatred. "What in the hells is that thing doing here?"

The infernal glared at me, her breathing normalizing, hand still held to her bruising throat.

"Now now," Sir Barion clucked his tongue. "This is my assistant, Maya."

"She’s a killer." I said immediately.

"Child, I understand there might not be many infernals where you come from, but they are not all monsters. Maya here is one of the good ones." Barion patted her head. The infernal looked away, tight-lipped. "Maya, this is Cairn." He said, trying to introduce us and diffuse the tension.

I couldn’t bring myself to be polite. It was her. It was absolutely her. The memory ran on a savage loop through my mind. She might have been smaller and younger, but this was the same person. Even if I wasn’t completely sure of the face—which I was—the dark hair, spiral horns, and light facial marks were all identical, minus a few scars.

Barion’s head swiveled between us and he sighed. "Very well. I apologize to the both of you. This was my fault." We broke off the staring match to look at him. "Maya," Barion continued in the voice adults use to distract children, "Cairn is able to summon demon-fire."

"Impossible," Maya croaked. She studied me more carefully. "He doesn’t have a drop of infernal blood."

"Yet you have quite a few drops of mine," I snapped at her, knowing the statement was irrational. What was she supposed to do, let me strangle her?

"My thoughts as well." Barion cut in quickly before Maya could respond. "Still, I saw the fire myself. Purple as an overripe eggplant and hotter than a forge fire. Cairn has understandably been a bit cagey with the details but given the nature of our research I could not resist. I was curious how my new young friend would react to you."

"Not well." Maya said, eyes cast downward.

I was furious. Furious at Barion for screwing with me at the earliest possible opportunity and furious at the girl for looking so damn pathetic. She was monstrous, I tried to remind myself, but Maya looked less and less like a monster the longer I looked. She looked like a child. A terrified child.

"To be fair, had I thought your reaction would be so explosive, I would have warned you yesterday," Barion said, angering me further. He reminded me of my stepmother in that moment, always finding a way to blame her mistakes on me.

"Sir Barion," I said, voice suffused with fury, "with your permission, I would like to begin scouting around your home for the ingredients we need."

So I can get the hells away from here as soon as possible. Barion made a sweeping gesture and stepped aside.

I stormed out, not sparing a glance for the girl who still coughed weakly, despising what I felt.

There was nothing to feel guilty about.

In something of a callback, I ate mushrooms for breakfast. It hadn’t occurred to me until after I stormed out of the house that I had not eaten, and by then my pride wouldn’t let me return. My shoestring defiance might have been more satisfying if I was not being followed. An hour ago, I would have thought it impossible that someone was clumsier in the wood than me. Yet, Maya managed to step on every twig as if they were drawn to her feet. At first, I was alarmed. Then it became obvious she was somehow more scared of me than I was of her.

I scraped some arrow wart fungus off a slumped willow stump, adding it to my bag. I checked the contents. It was over three-quarters full. At some point I’d need to go back to the house and drop it off.

Snap. Another twig.

"What exactly are you doing?" I asked coldly.

"Master Barion asked me to accompany you." Maya said, her accented voice muffled from behind a nearby oak. "I was told to write down everything you said."

"Go jump off a cliff," I snapped out, despite myself. There was a scribbling noise of pencil on paper.

"Really?" I groaned.

More scribbling. Aggressive scribbling.

"Fine! If you must follow, then follow. Stop skulking behind trees." I waited for the scribbling again, my teeth set. It didn’t come. Maya stepped out into the open, body language pulled inward, head down. From beneath her jaw, I saw traces of my handprint beginning to purple into a nasty bruise.

No. I would not be taken in by this game, whatever it was, I would not feel guilty for a cold-blooded murderer.

But what if that’s not who she is yet?

The unwanted thought plied at me. I hesitated.

"What is it?" Maya asked. The "what" sounded like "vat." Her tail twitched from side to side nervously, low to the ground.

"As long as you don’t set me on fire, we’re good."

A snorting noise. Maya held a hand to her mouth. She was laughing.

"That’s not concerning at all," I said, grumpily.

"I am sorry. It is a misunderstanding, I think."

"It’s pretty straightforward, really. Fire bad."

"No. It is your misunderstanding." Maya looked away when I tried to meet her eye. "Though we are known for it, most of my folk cannot use the dantalion flame. We have an affinity towards fire, this much is true. But what you call demon-fire is very rare, even amongst my people. Such blessings were not bestowed upon me."

"I see." If it was true, it made no sense. If Maya was the infernal from my memories—which I was certain she was, there was no way I’d misremember a face like hers—then I knew for a fact she had the ability.

Perhaps she has yet to awaken.

"If I might ask, what is the purpose of this expedition?" Maya asked.

I gave her a sideways glance. "Sir Barion didn’t tell you?"

The infernal shook her head. "No. Only that you will be teaching, and I will be learning."

So, I wasn’t the only one he played his little games with. I mentally retraced my steps, making sure to get my story correct. "I’m an apothecary’s apprentice." I grunted, pulling a plant out by the root. "Sir Barion asked me to instruct him in making medicine as well as to help him stockpile supplies, since shopping in town is difficult."

I happened to look back only to see Maya clutching her papers to her chest, her violet skin pale.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"No!" She blurted, shaking her head vehemently. A moment of thought later, she spoke again. "No. How long will it take?"

I considered the question. "It depends on how thorough Sir Barion wants me to be."

"Thorough." Maya said immediately.

"Then one to two weeks, tops."

That was the only conversation we had. My answers seemed to have aggravated Maya, though I had no idea why. Still, she stayed at my heel and was attentive as I started explaining what the various ingredients were and how they functioned. She soaked in information like a sponge. But she was also strangely tense. The infernal had a habit of neurotically tugging at a lock of her hair. Her thin, pointed tail often wandered upward to wrap around her wrist, giving a vague impression of a person holding their own hand.

The next few days went without incident. Without a clear enemy, I relaxed quickly. Outside of our daily foraging and occasional evening alchemy prep, Maya stayed away from me. I lost my fear towards her—it was obvious, whoever this person might become in the future, she wasn’t a threat now. Barion was appropriately apologetic and continued to make excellent food. For three people living in the same quaint house, we didn’t see much of each other. Barion and Maya went into the lab through the night and into the next morning. He would come out sometime around noon and go straight to bed. She would follow sometime after, dark bags under her eyes. The only time I really spent with Barion was after he’d woken up from his midday sleep and I’d typically returned from foraging.

We were lounging in front of the fireplace on a particularly cold night when Barion finally asked the question I’d thought would come much earlier.

"Might I ask a favor, child?" Barion shifted his chair towards me. His manner was almost forcefully relaxed, the way one approaches a skittish animal.

"Of course." I replied.

"May I see it? The demon-fire."

Somewhere deep down, an alarm bell went off. "Well-"

Barion held up a hand. "You need not comply if that is too much. I understand that one’s magic is a deeply personal thing. Getting you to the capital is contingent on our original deal, nothing more, nothing less."

I looked for a reason to say no and couldn’t find it. The man had done so much for me already, and more than that, I liked him. He was a bit of a snob and could be bossy, but as a person of means who thought me nothing more than a lost commoner child, he treated me incredibly well, early missteps aside.

"I can try. But you may be setting yourself up for disappointment." I said, and leaned forward to look at my hands.

"Just a moment, young sir, just a moment." Barion stood quickly, with barely concealed enthusiasm, and went out the front door in nearly a run. I shifted uncomfortably. Was I even able to do it in a controlled environment like this? Every time I summoned the flame before, my life was in some varying degree of danger. Even though this man was a stranger I feared disappointing him.

The door swung back open and Barion returned, clutching a jade bowl with a piece of wood. He placed it on the table before me. Did he mean for me to light it?

"I’m not confident in my ability," I confided nervously, "and it spreads quickly. I had to use twice as much firewood as I would a normal fire. I do not want to burn your home down."

Barion batted his hands, as if to slap my concerns away. "Pish-posh. From everything I’ve read, jade contains demon-fire."

That sounded alarmingly untested to me. "Still."

"I can always build another home, young sir. Homes are a sliver a dozen over the course of a lifetime. The chance to study demon-fire up close, though?" Excitement shown through his face. "That is a much rarer opportunity."

Well, he had essentially just assuaged me of any responsibility.

"As you wish."

I fell into myself, looking for the pieces of emotion I would need. It was easier in the forest, under constant threat, because so many elements of it were bubbling under the surface. Fear and desperation were easily in reach, the darker elements beyond all I had to manufacture. Now I needed to construct all of them simultaneously.

A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. It never took this long before. But Barion was an excellent audience. He did not prod or goad me, simply watched, his light blue eyes detached and analytical.

It took another five minutes before I found it. The claw clutched at my soul once more, threatening to crumple it to dust. I reached out with my hand palm up, fingers aligned in a triangle. The purple spark manifested, immediately radiating warmth.

"Spectacular." Barion breathed in sharply. "Without uttering a single word or incantation. You’ve had no instruction, then?" His statement confused me. The only other magic user I had seen—never chanted or even spoke when she used her magic. It simply manifested.

"No. It usually doesn’t take that long," I mused. Barion started at that, looking away from the violet spark for the first time to stare at me. I explained the difference between casting in the safety of the house and the Everwood. He blinked, then ran somewhere out of view and returned with a notebook that was more of a tome, and set it down with a heavy thump. He wrote furiously into it for a few moments. "I knew it. Those bastards laughed at me. I knew there had to be an emotional component. Who’s wasting their time now? Bastards," He muttered to himself.

"I take it your research is related to magic."

"And the manifestation of it, yes," he said, his attention still entirely on his notes.

I noticed, idly, that I still easily held the purple spark. This was by far the longest I had maintained it. The spark was steady, floating between my fingers, not seeming to flicker or dim or brighten. A thought occurred.

"Why don’t I get tired? I met a spell caster before—my father did some work for a traveling elementalist," I interjected the lie quickly, naming the garden variety line of magicians that even a supposed commoner like me might have met before he could ask where I’d met someone so rare, "And she ordered a pharmacy worth of potions to help with endurance."

"It depends-" Barion finished jotting a sentence and placed a period with a self-satisfied flourish before setting the pen down, "-on the magic in question. Amongst the many varieties of magicians, a traveling elementalist is a bad example, essentially the ugly plough horse of the lot." His lip curled, letting me know exactly how well he thought of them. "It takes a particularly talented person to make magic seem boring. Their magic is strictly related to earth or water elements with no crossover between. Building levees and purifying water sources involve low sophistication magic in massive quantities, so the mana involved is actually very low. The physical stamina required, however, is probably massive. Just throwing a number out, perhaps ten percent of what it would take to physically do the work. They’re simply inefficient."

"I take it you don’t like them much.

"I don’t dislike them, rather, I simply prefer not to entertain the idea of their existence. You though, child," He indicated the spark in my hand, "Have been holding a catalyst in your hands with massive destructive potential, capable of burning this cottage and half the forest down. What does that tell you?" Barion asked, in the sort of tone my tutors often used.

"It’s… efficient?" I guessed lamely, then put more thought into it. "Or there’s some differentiator between initial power and potential power." In other words, the demon fire was powerful because its form was powerful, not because I was particularly talented.

"Correct." Barion sounded pleased. "You do not have to pay for what the spell could be, only what it is."

"I… see." With some trepidation, I reached forward and placed my spark against the wood in the bowl. There was a shimmering reflectiveness to the wood, as if it was soaked in something. It caught fire, raising the immediate temperature in the room by a few degrees, but was not consumed in seconds as I’d expected.

"Beautiful." Barion gazed into the flame.

Since we were sharing, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. "Are you a practitioner yourself, Sir Barion?"

Barion shook his head. "Despite my many, many attempts to rectify that particular shortcoming, my expertise is purely academic. I have no talent for it myself. Though it’s my field of study, you’re actually only the second person with some ability that I’ve met."

"Who is the first?" I asked, thinking I might know the answer already.

"Maya," Barion said. My hands clenched into fists. Of course.

He continued. "She has some talent for healing magic, but like your talent, it is limited and untrained."

Strange. So, she hadn’t lied to me. Or was just keeping her cards extremely close to the chest.

"How did you slow the burn?" I asked.

"Oh." Barion raised a playful eyebrow, "Do I have the rare opportunity to teach the master alchemist something he does not know?"

"Apothecary," I grumbled. My knowledge extended to healing and curatives for ailments. Alchemists knew everything about everything. And they were smug about it too. "Apprentice, for that matter."

"Don’t sulk." Barion held his hand above the flame for a moment only to yank it back, wringing it painfully. "It’s not dissimilar to rosewater, but with oil as the base. Rosewater itself being the one thing that could put out demon flame, other than simply starving it of oxygen and praying you kill it before it kills you. When you use oil, it allows the fire to still burn due to the oxidization…"

The rest of his words faded away into a dull murmur. I stared into the fire, my mind fixated on the earlier statement. Rosewater extinguishes demon-flame. If only I had known back then. But even if I had, would it have made a difference? It wasn’t exactly something we kept around the castle. What was I supposed to do? Carry around a jug, like the one I brought in from the river and could barely lift, filled with rosewater instead? How could I possibly prepare for every possibility when a monster from the pit of the deepest hell could show up at any time and start slaughtering people I care about. I stared at the flame. I hated it. Hated everything about it. I wanted it gone.

The flame disappeared. It didn’t die out, didn’t fade away. It disappeared.

What?

There was a shuffling as Barion stood to his feet and hurried over to the jade cup, studying it in confusion. Slowly, his head turned to me. Out of my peripheral vision I saw someone looking through the window. Maya. A range of emotions warred across her face. Most prominent, though, was anger. Then she disappeared.

"How?" He asked. There was a forced neutrality to his voice I wasn’t sure I liked.

I said the only thing I could think of. The truth.

"I don’t know."

10

EVERWOOD V

It was halfway through the second week that everything went to hell. I covered much ground over the prior ten days, teaching Barion and Maya how to produce the various poultices and salves. While Barion seemed to only grow happier with me—though his requests for increased production were endless—Maya grew more and more sullen, to the point it made me actively uncomfortable. The thought began to percolate that Maya might be concerned with the possibility I was attempting to steal her role as Barion’s assistant. So whenever possible while she was in earshot, I would comment on how excited I was to be returning to the capital and my father’s side.

Somehow that only made things worse, her demeanor growing stonier, the dark cloud that followed her billowing and full. Eventually, she stopped accompanying me on my daily outings altogether. I said nothing to Barion. Frankly, it was a relief.

And it’s not like it mattered what she thought of me, regardless.

It was a particularly chill morning, one of those late Winterscrest days that carried with it the promise of a much colder night to come. I was trying to restore warmth to my hands, rubbing them together and breathing into them when there was a knock on my door. Maya stood there, a blank look on her face—downright hospitable compared to her recent manner—and held out an envelope, around the size and length of a standard letter.

"What’s this?" I asked.

"Doesn’t matter. Master Barion instructed me to have you bring it to him."

"Okay." On second thought, I threw on an additional robe, not looking forward to going out in the cold. "Where is he?"

Maya chewed her lip, then crossed her arms and looked away. The once florid bruise across her throat had faded to a magenta shadow, nearly gone. "He is in the cellar."

That gave me pause. Barion had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped since my demonstration with the fire. When I’d attempted to pry, he’d say something along the lines of needing to prepare, and that he’d show me when it was ready. I was delighted. Some part of me had feared our business would conclude with Barion’s research remaining a mystery. Any additional information on magic would be invaluable.

I walked around her excitedly, then paused. Whoever Maya was, whoever she might become in the future, she was still a person. At this point, she didn’t even seem like a particularly bad person. Just a child. I turned back.

"I’m sorry I hurt you," I said. Somehow, I’d never been able to bring myself to apologize before now. "It’s complicated, but, long story short, I thought you were someone else. It’s not what you are, I mean. I don’t go around attacking-" I stopped myself just shy of saying demi-humans, then continued. "-attacking infernals. Maybe that doesn’t matter. Anyway, I am sorry." I was about to turn and go when Maya spoke.

"It matters," she said. A shadow of something flitted across her face, disappearing before I could identify it.

A weight lifted off my chest as I left the house. Perhaps the simple act of befriending Maya now could change things for the better. For the first time, the path ahead of me didn’t seem quite so insurmountable.

Perhaps building a successful future was as simple as making incremental changes over time. I could get my father to sponsor Barion’s research, build him a facility within the capital, and he in turn could study my newfound magic, maybe even my visions of the future. I could keep Maya close and solidify her role as Barion’s assistant, keeping her busy and off the board for the opposing force.

To fight Thoth, I would need allies.

The padlock on the cellar door was already open, the chains hanging slack to either side of the iron doors. I pulled the heavy doors open one at a time, the metal whinging in protest, and stepped inside.

It went deeper than expected. At the bottom of the initial set of stairs, there was another set, leading downward to the right. Then another. A sound echoed up from beneath and I stopped in my tracks, tilting my head.

Was someone crying?

I shivered, then shook my head to clear it. Was I a child, jumping at noises in the dark? No.

Well. I was a child.

But no.

I descended three more sets of stairs, moving slowly, my hand against the cold stone wall. My teeth chattered and I could see my breath with each exhale. It was somehow colder in the stairwell than it was outside. There was a growing scent of antiseptic and something foul beneath it, a mix of refuse and oxidized copper. Someone was crying, I was sure of it. My stomach turned, my earlier confidence all but forgotten.

Something was wrong here.

The stairway opened up into a pitch-black room. The darkness pushed in on me, thick and oppressive. I could barely make out the shape of a torch sconce. I blindly found the flint and steel hanging from its base and struck them against the torch. On my second strike, the torch caught, flooding the room in a dim light.

And as the contents of the room came to light, that small hope that had kindled within me flickered and died.

When my father first told me I was to accompany the army to Inharion, I was thrilled. Mother had been reading me the Collected Tales of Sir Gantry the Wise over the prior weeks, the story of the knight who was among the first to arrive in Uskar. The tales of Sir Gantry were frolicking and optimistic, regaling the reader with a rose-colored retelling of the first meeting between mankind and the elves.

Sir Gantry was shocked by the appearance of the elves. The women were buxom and beautiful, the men slight and effeminate. Sir Gantry gave the elves gifts, greeting them as equals. But they were not that. They were fiercely territorial amongst themselves and primitive. All the more reason, Sir Gantry decided, for mankind to aid them. With the help of a thousand scholars and a thousand priests he taught the elves to read and honor the gods. He taught them how to prepare vegetables and cook meat, instead of simply eating everything raw. Most magnanimous of all, Sir Gantry gave the strongest tribe of the elves the secret of forging steel so they might maintain order.

But the elves did not care for order, only power.

The strongest tribe of elves began slaughtering the rest, forcing submission and tyrannical rule upon their fellows. They levied unfair taxes and raped and murdered. Sir Gantry wept at the carnage. Determined that it could not end this way, he rode into the midst of a battle, banner held high, and shouted to the elves. "Why have you forgotten the gods and turned against your own people?" The elves looked at each other and threw down their weapons, and mourned, for they had forgotten the humanity they had been taught.

Thus, from that day onward, mankind governed the elves with great compassion, keeping them in check, so they might not turn the sword upon themselves once more.

My mother had told me to take the tales of Gantry with a grain of salt, but of course, I hadn’t known what that meant. I’d just wanted more stories. She said that Sir Gantry wasn’t the hero of the tale, but again, that didn’t make any sense. Of course Sir Gantry was the hero. His name was on the cover. When I told her this she smiled, brushed the hair out of my face and whispered, "But who gave them the steel?" Then she kissed my forehead and bade me sweet dreams.

I puzzled over her question, eventually discarding it. It wouldn’t come back to me until sometime later. My father had explained this trip to me as a "renegotiation" and "a settling of terms." I took it to mean we’d be doing something similar to Sir Gantry, helping the elves so they did not hurt themselves. The prospect was tantalizing. As we traveled through the Everwood I was so excited I could hardly sleep. I wanted so badly to see them, the beautiful women and strangely feminine men with pointed ears who ate raw food and wielded magic and carried curved swords.

Then the fighting began. I watched the sacking of Inharion from an elevated hill, guarded by my father’s men. This wasn’t order. It was a slaughter of people. The ones who ran were put to the sword. The ones who didn’t run were beaten bloody and then put to the sword.

In the blank, analytical fog of shock I came to understand several things: the elves were beautiful only in the same sense that all people were beautiful—some were, and some were not. They didn’t fight with savagery.

Mostly, they didn’t fight at all.

The few men who picked up spears to defend their families or homes were untrained and quickly cut down. There was only one spell: a girl with long white hair cast something that formed a protective bubble around two children and an older man. The soldiers just waited until the bubble faded, putting her into chains and slaughtering the others.

I realized, through a haze of grief, that the stories were lies. And not just the Tales of Sir Gantry. All stories. Every story of noble knights and kind kings were lies. There was nothing noble about this violence, nothing honorable. Then there was a tearing sensation in my chest as if my very soul was rended.

That night in Barion’s cellar, I felt that same tearing in once more.

Torchlight flooded the basement. It wasn’t a laboratory. It was a dungeon. A half-dozen cast iron cages held animals that skittered back against their bars, cringing at the sudden illumination.

Only, they weren’t animals.

They were children.

The scent of blood was suddenly unbearable, its source clear from tepid reservoirs that passed beneath the hung cages, leading to grates in the floor.

The children cringed back from the light, bodies curled in terror and fear. Some wept, some stayed silent. A little boy stared at me, shadows barely obscuring the hollow cavity of his left eye. An older girl was missing an arm, yellowed bandages covering the stump. I wandered forward, as if possessed, unable to stop. They all had countless injuries, some healed, some fresh.

It occurred to me in a rush why, exactly, Barion was in need of so many healing items.

I doubled over and vomited, emptying the contents of my stomach onto the filthy ground. The letter Maya had given me floated to the floor, unsealed top coming open.

In the center of the room was the only empty cage. It was only partially constructed and taller than the others, perhaps meant for a teenager instead of a child. Above it was a bucket. It looked like a crude version of the emergency showers alchemists who worked with dangerous chemicals would use. But why? The other cells didn’t have anything similar.

I took a step backwards. My foot scraped against paper. I looked down. From within the envelope Maya had given me there was a single piece of paper with sparse writing. I bent down and picked it up and pulled the paper out, my hands shaking violently. On the other side of the page was a single word.

Run

There was a slow creak as somewhere, several sets of steps above me, the cellar door creaked open.

My heart crawled into my throat and died there. Hide. Have to hide. I ran towards the back, nearly knocking over a basket filled with something I’d rather not describe. Off-balance, one foot came down hard on a reservoir as I ran, spattering me with foul-smelling blood. I opened up a cupboard near the back of the room and squeezed myself in, my arms and legs scraping against the rough wood.

Through a crack, I saw Barion descend the last of the stairs slowly, his usually cheerful smile gone. His hairless face flickered luminescent gold in the torchlight as he walked, robe trailing behind him.

"Cairn," he called softly, "We have some things to talk about."

The hells we did. I stayed as silent and still as I could, curled up within the cupboard, unable to do anything about the tears that leaked from me, tiny drops that softly pattered the wood below.

"I’m sure you have questions. And while I admit my methods are not pleasant, they are not quite as draconian as they seem. There is a purpose, child. Why don’t you come out, and we’ll talk."

I closed my eyes and took deep silent breaths, trying to calm the pounding of my heart.

"Darling. Did Maya heal your wound?"

There was an affirmative grunt. He wasn’t talking to me.

Barion’s voice was strangely sympathetic, almost kindly. "I’m sure your talent will manifest before we get to your other eye. We’ll be extra thorough."

There was a soft, stuttered sound. Crying.

"I know it’s earlier than planned but have a little faith my dear. We just have to push a bit further."

The crying turned more hysterical and mixed with begging. It turned my stomach.

"Well, perhaps you could use a break. Just do me one small favor."

Anything, the child said.

"Tell me where the boy who came down here went. Did he leave?"

Everything in my mind screamed at me to run. I exploded out of the cupboard, startling the children in cages near me, and made a mad dash towards the top of the stairs.

Barion stood at the top. I scraped to a halt, my arms pinwheeling. How had he gotten in front of me? His expression was so mournful it made my skin crawl. I slowly backed away as Barion closed the distance between us.

"We could have done such great work together," he said, "if you’d only waited a few more days." I moved further into the dungeon, looking for a window of opportunity to move past him. None came.

"The hells are you talking about?" I stammered.

"Your new home was nearly complete." Barion inclined his head towards the cage in the center of the room and I felt my blood freeze. "It was quite the passion project. Beautiful and utilitarian in equal measure. A lot of thought went into making sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself or anyone else."

The demon-fire. That was the point of the chemical bath above the cage, likely filled with rosewater in case I immolated myself. He feared it enough to take such measures, so that had to mean something. But how could I use it? It wasn’t exactly practical and most of the cellar was made of stone.

The broom. It was next to the bucket I almost knocked over. I needed to distract him. I continued moving backwards, shifting my destination slightly towards the broom.

"As if you care for the suffering of others." I spat at him, not having to fake the anger.

"You wound me, child," Barion said. There was actual hurt in his voice. "Unnecessary suffering is unconscionable, the gods’ greatest failure."

The look on my face must have said quite a lot because I didn’t even have to goad him before he continued.

"There are great evils in the world, child. A war is coming. A Great War, the atrocity of which you cannot possibly imagine."

I almost tripped, his words throwing me entirely off-balance. I tried to shake it off. People always said that. My father made the same claim most of my life. Just because he was saying it now didn’t mean he knew for certain. I almost reached the broom.

"So, what, you’re just getting the war-crimes started before the war? What possible justification could you have for all this?" I indicated the room angrily, creeping closer to my goal inch by inch.

"They are my students. I am trying to help them awaken, as you awakened." Barion closed the distance between us casually. He moved easily, as if there was nothing truly at stake, as if his victory and correctness were both completely assured.

"You know nothing about me." My hand closed on the rough wood of the broom. I didn’t have to search for the feeling. It boiled beneath the surface of my mind, thick and awful.

"Incorrect. I know that at some point in the not-so-distant past, you were exposed to demon-fire and lived. It was traumatic. The way you look at the flame—that beautiful gift of the gods—as if it is grime beneath your heel is enough. The how and the why are as beyond me as they are irrelevant. You were ordinary once and are now anything but."

A wave of heat radiated up my back, signaling my success. I pulled the flaming broomstick forward and swung, air crackling as the violet flames flickered and the flaming wood arced straight towards his face. Barion didn’t flinch. His gloved hand blurred and caught the stick with a meaty crack. My flames petered out where he held the stick. Rosewater. He’d been treating his clothes with rosewater.

The blue-silver blade of his rapier flashed and caught me in the chest, piercing me through.

A white-hot sliver of pain shot through me a half-second later and something inside me tensed, spasming horribly. I might be the only person in the world to recognize that specific pain. The heart. Again. I tried to reach out with a spark to set him on fire. But my hand fell to my side. My body was already failing me.

"Alas, I cannot risk the whole of my research for one intriguing case study." Barion sheathed his blade, looking utterly crestfallen. "I am sorry, child."

I slipped to my knees and toppled over. My sight was already going dark around the edges, a black halo growing wider and wider. What was the point of all this, anyway? A dark smile came to my lips. If somewhere in the aether, some god had the misfortune of choosing me as their champion, had given me a vision of the future and expected me to change things… they chose poorly. I thought of Lillian’s smiling face, her soft body nestled next to mine, basking in the gold-dusk sun after our mountainside picnic, then nothing.

As I died, returning to the same black void I’d nearly forgotten, I heard a single word.

Again.

11

EVERWOOD VI

Gentle hands shook me awake. I started, sitting up in bed and immediately bent forwards, hand clutching my heart. What the hells? I was dead. No one survived a sword to the heart, not even with healing magic. Maya stared at me in confusion, her hands clasped in front of her waist. "Boy, are you well?"

Shit. I was still in Barion’s house. I fell back, placing my hands on my face.

"Of course I’m not well, I got stabbed."

Maya’s eyes roamed up and down my shirtless form with clinical thoroughness and I felt myself blush. "Where?"

I looked down at myself. The spot on my chest was flawless. Several things occurred to me at once. Maya had played me, sending me into Barion’s lair and setting me up to die. And someone was messing with me. A sudden burst of anger took me. "Whatever game you and that hack bastard Barion are playing, I’m done." I stood, not caring about my state of undress or the way she shied away from me. I summoned the spark and held it to the cottage wall. Maya’s eyes went wide.

"I’ll burn this place to the ground-"

Instead of backing away, Maya stepped forward. Her hand glowed green, and she placed it against the back of my neck before I could react. There was a loud snap and bright flash of pain as the vertebra in my neck detached themselves. I fell to the ground limply, head bouncing off the bed frame with a hollow thunk and saw black.

I flew through the darkness. The speed felt slightly different from last time.

Again.

Gentle hands shook me awake. I opened my eyes and stared at Maya.

"Boy, are you well?" She asked. There was no suspicion or hostility in her face, nothing to imply she had just tried to murder me. Had murdered me. I sat up, flexing my neck carefully and finding no pain. My heart beat rapidly in my chest. I was terrified of her.

"Please leave me." I said, unable to look at her.

"Very well,” Maya said quietly, seeming to sense something was off. "But Master Barion wishes to see you. Do not keep him waiting long.”

As soon as the door closed, I began to hyperventilate, head hung, staring at the comforter. The puzzle pieces slid into place with damning clarity. I hadn’t been sent a vision of the future.

I’d lived it.

And then I died, then was sent back to my childhood. To quote a certain monster, the why and the how of it were beyond me. Barion and Maya had both killed me. There was no question of that. It meant everything I’d learned was true. Not a dream, not a vision. Barion was a monster. Maya could not be trusted. And there were a half dozen children being tortured in the basement.

It occurred to me that I knew this story. I’d been so distracted it hadn’t really come to me until now. Whenever I was on one of my many drinking expeditions I’d often go to the military bars and hassle the rangers for tales of the Everwood. A particularly surly—or perhaps haunted—veteran regaled me with the awful tale. They’d come across an abandoned house in the Everwood, found the bodies of dozens of children buried there. Only three were found alive in the cellar, all horribly maimed. Between long pulls on his mead, he mentioned what really kept him up at night was how fresh everything was. Some of the corpses had been there a while, but several were recent, possibly only hours old.

I did the mental math. The rangers would find this place… approximately four years from now. Well, that was no help at all. But wait. If he hadn’t already, father would soon be sending out massive search parties. They’d be thorough. All I really needed to do was run away. Once they found me, I could direct them here, and they could save the children in the basement.

Nothing about it was illogical, but it felt wrong, craven somehow. As if I was betraying them.

I could feel guilty later. Now wasn’t the time to take unnecessary risks. I had already died twice, three times if you counted the first. There was no way to know how many times I could come back. I’d bide my time for a few days to gather supplies and give the search parties time to cover ground. Then I’d make my escape. I just needed to do things exactly as before.

That plan lasted as long as it took for me to walk out of the room. Almost immediately, things were different. Barion seemed markedly less friendly than the last time, always watching me out of the corner of his eye and interrogating me on the uses and makeup of whatever mixture I was demonstrating. The gathering went much more quickly now that I knew where to look, and I spent almost all of my free time practicing with my flame. My feelings for the magic had not changed, but avoidance was simply a luxury I no longer had.

Maya’s demeanor had changed nearly as much as Barion’s. Where before, I’d been lucky to get a single sentence out of her, now the words gushed from her, as if they’d been held under pressure for quite some time.

"So lucky." Maya said, mesmerized by the spark in my hand. She lounged in the field as I practiced, our work done for the day.

"I’d hate to see what you consider unlucky." I focused on the spark, trying to make it move independently. No dice.

"There goes the storm in your eyes again." Maya said. I grimaced. It was hard to remember what she was capable of and how she’d turned on me when she was so damn affable. "But you are lucky," she continued. "The dantalion flame is completely lost to my people within this realm."

I closed my hand around the spark, not actually touching it, just letting it fade the moment my fingers closed around it. What Maya said slowly registered. That was different from what she’d told me last time.

"There’s no infernals left who can use it?" I asked carefully.

"Most of its practitioners were defending our home during the reckoning. The human tyrant destroyed the dimension gate, separating us forever. Perhaps there are a handful left out there, but they are unknown to the Magus Enclave."

I winced, increasingly grateful my name was not as well-known as my father’s. "Forever? So, there’s no way to make another gate?"

"There is, but it involves dantalion fire and other high-level magics. A difficulty, when-"

"Your strongest practitioners are on the other side of the gate." I finished, realizing the problem. That explained a lot. Why Maya was working with Barion. More concerning was that during the invasion, there was no shortage of infernals using demon-fire. More than a handful. Meaning at some point between now and the next ten years, someone fixed the gate, and weaponized them against us. And it wasn’t hard to imagine who. I grimaced.

"Where did you go?" Maya asked. She was far too close to my face, her white eyes studying me. Memories of how she’d killed me suddenly surfaced and I shied away slightly, trying not to offend her.

"Nowhere." I stood, gathering my satchel. "Let’s see if we can top off the bounty for today."

Among the ingredients for healing, I gathered edible plants and filled several water skins under the guise of needing it for the mixtures. "Some of these are easier to stomach with food." I lied. During the increasingly awkward dinners—which Maya attended this time—I did my best to slip portions of meat away, which I later cured with salt. The days slipped by like a ticking clock. I was all too aware of them, growing more anxious and stressed each passing evening. The longer I waited, the more likely I’d run into a search party as I made my escape—but also, the more likely Barion’s cage would be completed. I couldn’t rely on him taking the same amount of time.

Every evening after the meal, I took a walk around the grounds to clear my head and wound up in front of the small garden. It really was beautiful. A bounty of green tomatoes grew on trellises, and I studied them. Tomatoes never grew this late into winterscrest. I crouched in front of them, taking a leaf into my fingers gently.

The secret to growing crops in this accursed land is fertilizer. I only use the best fertilizer for my plants.

I removed my hand from the leaf as if I’d been pricked, feeling very ill. It was all too obvious, now, where that fertilizer came from. Suddenly, the thought of staying there one more night was unbearable.

"Do you dislike my garden, child?" Barion’s voice broke the silence. I whirled, turning to face him, my heart pounding.

Act normal, idiot.

"Sir Barion," I rubbed the back of my neck and smiled nervously. "You scared me." He inclined his head towards me but did not smile.

“You have been a bit jumpy as of late." He said. His steady gaze made me feel totally transparent.

Say something. I needed to say something. Something to take his mind off the fact that simply being in his presence had unsettled me.

"Do you believe in time magic?" I blurted out. Somehow I kept my face neutral, while internally screaming and metaphorically bashing my head against the ground. Why did I say that? Why the hells did I say that?

Barion’s eyes narrowed and his gaze intensified. "Quite the non-sequitur for a casual evening discussion, child."

I gulped. "I don’t meet many intelligent folk like yourself, Sir Barion, much less those who know much about the arcane. It’s… a personal obsession of mine." A few seconds later, "I read about it in a book once." It sounded so false and untrue when I said it aloud, some part of me feared that Barion would murder me on the spot.

Instead, his face suddenly softened. Mirth played across his features. "Allow me to guess: Percival and the Chrono-Sphere?"

I blinked. That had been the exact book I was thinking of when I threw out the excuse. It stood out in my mind not just because of the topic of the story, but the fact it had been the first tragedy I’d ever read. It seemed so unfair to me at the time, that despite all his hard-work and effort to the contrary, that the hero could lose.

"That’s the one," I admitted.

"Of course it is. Come. This conversation is too heady, my garden will start getting ideas." Barion beckoned to me and walked away. Fear lanced through me, thinking he might have finished his preparations early and intended to take me into the cellar, but instead he headed for the white gazebo off to the east of the cottage. We passed Maya on her way back from the Everwood.

"Maya, darling, would you bring us some tea? The chamomile if you would." Barion smiled winningly at her. The infernal grumbled something indecipherable in acknowledgement. A few minutes later we were seated in the heated gazebo.

"So, how does a young apothecary develop an interest in chronal magic?" Barion asked suddenly. But he’d made the mistake of changing locations instead of pressing me in the garden. There’d been plenty of time to shore up my excuses. Thaddeus gave me invaluable advice once, when I made up a wild story to cover for a night of drinking and was solidly walloped for it: the best lies are mostly truth.

"Wish fulfillment, I guess. I've always dreamed of changing the past. When... when I was very young, my mother died of a wasting illness."

It still hurt to say, even if she was still alive. I vividly remembered sitting at her bedside, trying to work out how to read and hold her hand simultaneously when the book was simply too large. That had always been our tradition, reading together. As I grew older and no longer needed someone to read to me, we began reading the stories separately and discussing them after the fact. There were so many books in the royal library with an extra copy. It must have cost a fortune. Then, when she could no longer read, I read to her.

One book became two, then became one again.

"What kind of wasting illness?" Barion inquired.

"Some sort of blood imbalance," I answered, slowly recalling things I drank for years to forget. "It was exceedingly rare. Her mana to blood ratio was upended. It had a name, though I couldn’t tell you what it was called."

"Nithia syndrome."

My head snapped up, the familiarity of the name rousing me from my memories. "You’ve heard of it."

"I knew a powerful mage once by the name of Yves—They call them mages in Panthania. I lived there for a time, studying the difference between their magic and ours. We grew close." Barion waved a hand, "I digress. Brilliant mind. But Yves was a bit of a braggart. He called it hitting the lottery twice. Despite having Nithias, which should have been a death sentence, as a mage, he was able to discharge the mana surplus. If anything, it only made him more powerful."

That was new information.

"Well, my mother was just a normal person," I said bitterly. It somehow felt unjust, describing her that way. "At first it was mostly manageable. Just a nosebleed every few weeks. But… as things progressed it became…"

The memory forced its way to the surface. Mother on her back, shaking uncontrollably, flecks of blood bubbling from her mouth and blotching her eggshell-white dress. A pool of black crimson blossoming where her head had cracked against the floor. Me on my knees, hands frantically trying to cushion her head and neck as she seized, flecks of spittle wetting against my cheeks and face.

"… More difficult," I finished quietly. "The doctors couldn’t do anything. It was only a matter of time."

"I’m sorry for your loss," Barion said. Strange as it was, it felt like he meant it. "I take it you read the book around that time? Towards the end."

"I did," I admitted.

Barion placed a hand on his head, looking aggrieved. "I swear, that book has a higher academic body count than Cyrus II and Walden of Tarn combined."

Huh. I was about to ask how when Maya arrived with the tea. "Giving Cairn a history lesson, Master Barion?" She asked with feigned disinterest. Had it not been for the tail twitching nervously, she would have looked completely composed.

"Thank you dear," Barion took his tea and flooded it with milk. "Come sit with us, Maya. Our guest has some questions about chronal magic."

Maya hesitated, then took a seat between us. She folded her hands beneath her. I could see her knee bouncing restlessly beneath the table. The absurdity of it hit me all at once and I had to hide a smile. A child-murdering monster, an infernal, and a reincarnated prince, all sipping tea together in a quaint gazebo and discussing time travel.

"Where was I?"

"The book with the body count." I prompted.

"Right. Well, other than proliferating the proletarian farce that all the rabble must do to raise their station is rise up and overthrow their betters…" Barion rolled his eyes, pausing to sip his tea. "The problem with Percival is that it just sounds so damn plausible. Almost malfeasantly so."

"I’m lost," Maya looked between the two of us. "What are we talking about?"

"Time travel and how it relates to a particular example of Hestrian populist philosophy thinly disguised as fiction. Do try to keep up." Barion said, with the barest hint of a smile. Maya only looked more lost, and I couldn’t really blame her. "Do you remember how Percival described the chrono sphere when he found it?"

I considered that and furrowed my brow. "It’s been a long time since I read it. If I remember correctly, it was a mixture of different magics held within a sphere."

"Not just any magics." Barion said. "Water. Earth. Stone. Air. And life." He glanced at Maya.

"Healing magic?" Maya guessed.

"Yes. Those basic elements, held within a spatial field. All arranged in the exact ratio of the elements in our world. The idea being to create a microcosm of earth herself." Barion explained. Maya’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "So you already see the problem."

"Now I’m lost," I said.

"The only reason a mage would create a simulacrum like that," Maya said, still astounded, "Would be to form a sympathetic link between the sphere and the Earth. But the power required would be…"

"Colossal." Barion finished. "We’re talking about real, world level magic. Literal fields of mana batteries as far as the eye can see. But once you’ve overcome the logistical nightmare of powering the thing, you still must deal with the sphere. The idea is you create a sphere so similar to the Earth in its ratios of elements that the only difference is scale. The elements are held within a spatial field, the sort of the spell used to fix expensive objects that cannot be replaced or repaired by traditional methods. Like with any direct link magic, the closer the link, the higher the likelihood to succeed. What, then, is the problem?"

"The ratios," I mused. "There’s no way to know if you got the math right."

"It is impossible to know if you’ve gotten the calculations right." Barion nodded in approval. "Even if a dedicated institution of magicians had teams on all four corners of the Earth, taking samples, and an entire team of mathematicians working on the calculations, at some point they would be guessing. And the only way to know for certain is to try."

Maya looked grim. "You could destroy the entire world."

"Yes." Barion said. "But only if your math is right. Astronomically improbable. More likely, you blow yourself to the seven hells and everyone else within a mile radius."

I sipped my tea, quietly pondering that. "So regardless of how powerful the magician is, it’s impossible."

"Sadly, yes." Barion looked at me sympathetically. "Given the author’s… thematic proclivities… it’s widely theorized that the point of making time travel seem so plausible was to act as a honeypot for the very elite it demonized. What better way to get petty revenge on your betters than to have them blow themselves up?"

"No one can change the past, try as we might," Maya said, in a faraway voice that gave the impression she was no stranger to this line of thought. "It is better to look forward."

It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it did clarify things. What was happening to me wasn’t the work of a single mage. There was something driving this on a much greater scale.

Sometime later, I gathered my things and prepared to slip into the dark.

12

EVERWOOD VII

It was the dawn of the tenth day, and I was prepared as I was going to get. Slowly, I went through the mental checklist, making sure to grab everything.

Food and water.

Rope.

White tree bark tinder.

The additional robe.

The surplus potions and poultices.

My sword.

After much consideration and going back and forth on the topic, I decided the best time to leave this place would be early dawn. In an ideal world, it would be better to leave at night to maximize the time my absence went without notice, but I had not forgotten that first harrowing evening in the Everwood and was under no delusions that such a venture would somehow work out better now. Worse, using the demon-fire would be a death sentence. It was practically a beacon in the forest at night and Barion could easily use it to track me. If Barion emerged at noon, that would still give me a six-hour lead, and I wasn’t about to squander that.

Now, tattered satchel over my shoulder, I crept down the stairs, careful to avoid the fourth and seventh step that squeaked horribly. The cottage was utterly silent and dimly lit by the first pale blue rays of morning light. I slowly turned the doorknob counter-clockwise and stepped into the brisk morning air of the clearing, transitioned the still-turned knob to my other hand and eased it close, every bump and squeak sending a stab of fear to my legs. I stood motionless for a moment to still the shaking. Then I slowly moved across the front of the house, careful with the placement of my feet. This was the critical moment.

At the edge of the wall, I leaned forward to look. The chains and padlock to the cellar were undone. Barion was down there. This was it.

Then the front door swung open.

Maya stared at me, her tail twitching from side to side. My hands clenched into fists. How? How did she know? Part of me briefly considered drawing my sword and attacking. But I knew what she was capable of. Even if I managed to wound her or land a killing blow, all she had to do was touch me once and it was lights out. Maya’s eyebrow raised, and I quickly moved my hand away from my sword. My initial panic subsided. It didn’t seem like she was here to bust me. In her left hand, she held a simple brown bag. After a moment, she looked over her shoulder at a nearby clump of trees then back to me, indicating with her thumb.

I followed.

As soon as we got to the patch of trees, she turned to me and began to speak, her words coming out in a tumble, her accent thicker than usual. "I packed you some meat and bread. It won’t keep for long, so make sure you eat it in the first few days. And Master Barion has a relationship with some creatures of the wood, so if you see anything that looks out of the ordinary make sure to stay out of sight. Not that you wouldn’t anyway. Also, I’m sure I do not have to tell you but do not use the demon flame. There is also flint and steel in the bag."

I was too shocked to speak a proper sentence. "Maya? How long? Why are-" Then I stopped. It made no sense.

"Let us walk so you may start building your distance." I followed her, our soft footsteps the only noise, the forest uncharacteristically silent. After a while she finally spoke. The words seemed halting and unpracticed in contrast to before. "You know what is in the cellar." It wasn’t a question.

"I… have an idea."

Maya drooped in shame. "When Master Barion first visited the enclave, he offered a way to help my people. A way to regain our old magic. His offer was simple: we would fund his research and once he saw results, be among the first to reap the benefits. Part of our support was to provide assistants. There were three of us, once." She said bitterly. "At first, we were all on board. The original subjects were animals. It was difficult what we did to them, but they were just animals. Then, one day, Barion brought home the first child." Maya shuddered.

"And things took a turn for the worse?"

"Yes," Maya nodded. "It is shameful, but at first I did not care. They were human, after all. Humans had only ever been a curse upon our lands, exploiting our weakness and extorting us ever since the human king broke our dimension gate. Among the three of us chosen, I was the lucky one. My power cannot be used to cause pain—or so Master Barion thought. The other two wielded water and air. And the things they were forced to put the children through-" Maya closed her eyes, "…they are things I will never forget. Eventually, I could not even hold on to my anger towards them. Human or not, they were just children." She hissed the last word.

"What happened to the other two?" I asked.

"They could no longer stomach what they were being asked to do. They had the same look in their eye that I see in yours. Their names were Conall and Teshur, and they ran. They tried to get me to come with them, but I refused. I could not justify leaving. We had done so much bad. For no good to come of it seemed wrong somehow. It all jumbled up in my mind. It seemed better to stay the course for a little while longer, until there were results."

"My tutor back home would call that the low road fallacy," I said quietly, trying to keep my voice free of judgement. "It’s seductive. Makes you feel like you have to keep going down the wrong path to justify choosing it in the first place."

"That became painfully clear when Master Barion brought them back." Maya said. "It was all too clear how poorly I had chosen when it was my people in the cage."

"I’m sorry that happened to you," I said honestly.

"Do not be sorry for me," Maya said bitterly, "I am a coward, and I deserve this fate."

I had no idea what to say to that. It was a feeling I knew all too well. I saw the boy missing the eye in my mind, staring at me, his face a silent condemnation. I hated the idea of leaving them. Even with the plan to bring the full weight of the imperial army down on Barion’s head, leaving the children to their fate for even one more day was too much.

"I believe Barion intended to replace me with you, killing me and severing the last living link to my clan," Maya said. I considered that, remembering how Maya had set me up the first time and sent me into the cellar.

"I’m surprised you were so friendly to me then, considering," I said, careful to keep the edge of irony out of my voice.

"It’s because I knew you would try to escape. The look in your eyes. The same as Teshur and Conall’s. That was when I decided to help you."

"What I don’t get," I said, stepping around a particularly damp section of ground, "is why Barion would even try to replace you. You’re a life mage. What you can do is far more valuable than any poultice or potion."

Maya’s expression soured. "Master Barion cares for obedience more than anything else. He wants me to heal only the injuries that leave them on the brink of death, letting them suffer as much as possible. Over the last few years, I have been less than obedient."

That’s all it took for my view of Maya to finally shift. I had been fighting to keep it from happening for a while, ignoring her small kindnesses and the kinship I felt with her.

I stepped in front of her and stopped, my conviction strong and intense. Yes, perhaps thinking I could make two allies right away had been foolish. But I could at least make one.

"Come with me," I said. "Leave this place. We can get away and bring help. I have connections. We can do this together."

Maya looked surprised, and her face softened. Her tail stopped twitching. She smiled so kindly it broke my heart. "Thank you, Cairn. I believe that you wish to help. But I cannot leave them. They are my children and I am their shield. I cannot abandon them to Master Barion. Now go. The road is about ten miles that way." She pointed deep into the forest. "I’ll stall for as long as I can."

I felt a swell of pain in my chest. "I’ll come back. On Elphion’s name, I swear it."

Maya raised a hand in a small wave. "Goodbye, Cairn." Then she turned and disappeared into the Everwood.

I watched for a few moments longer, hoping she would change her mind, knowing she wouldn’t.

It was rough going.

I used the direction of the moss to continue moving in the direction Maya pointed me in. I didn’t dare light a fire the first evening. When night fell, I climbed a tree, and using a rope I’d liberated from Barion’s supply closet, tied myself to the branches. Sleep came quickly, stress and adrenaline from the day fading away into black.

I woke sometime during the night to the sound of a large animal trampling through the forest. Very large. The trees themselves seemed to vibrate with it’s movements, it huffed and growled, tearing through the underbrush. I held my breath as it passed beneath, unable to see anything but the vaguest of silhouettes. Its body was massive, the size of two dire-bears put together. Only after it left did I allow myself to breathe normally, shifting in my makeshift perch between the branches and trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to sleep.

When I finally drifted off there was a battle in my dreams. A battle between two infernals, one that had brutally murdered my sister, and another that was sorrowful and kind. The two stark images of the same person warred in my mind, each threatening to overtake the other. What was the missing piece? What caused Maya now to transform so drastically into the Maya that murdered so cruelly without blinking?

I set out at first light, snacking on the bread and meat, my appetite spoiled from the restless night. There was so much about all of this I didn’t understand.

Up ahead, in the clearing, was the body of a dead panther. It was torn open, violently attacked by another animal. I kept my distance and circled around it. From a distance, I could make out a section of its fur around its neck had been burned away. I stopped.

Could it possibly be the same one?

It was too bizarre to be a coincidence. All at once, something felt horribly wrong. I backed into something warm. The impact knocked me forwards off my feet. Foul breath blew past my face in a fetid huff.

A massive thing leered down at me, twice my height. Its eyes were black, its face covered in dried red. A set of antlers cast shadows the size of small trees. Its body was semi-transparent, a mess of multi-colored organs visible below the surface of its gut. It opened its mouth, revealing dull blood-colored teeth and shrieked, its voice high-pitched and warbled. My ears popped from the sound and pressure, my hearing deafened.

Frantically, I stood to run, not caring for the direction, anywhere to put distance between myself and this monster. It lowered its head and shifted, the bone of its antler catching me in the side and flinging me into a tree. I hit with a crack, my left arm snapping, eyes watering as waves of pain washed over me. I shook my head, trying to stay conscious as the blackness threatened to overtake me.

"You stole from me." A familiar voice. Terror overtook me. I turned to see Barion standing before the creature as if it was not even there. It looked like a twisted Elk. It watched me as he spoke, mean and drooling. "I took you in. Fed you. Cared for you. And you stole from me." Barion said, his easy going manner gone.

"I didn’t," I said, hating the weakness of my voice, "I wouldn’t."

"What do you call the clothes on your back? That food in your bag?" Barion crouched down, his pale face cold and pitiless. "And to think, I had considered that with some work on my part, one day you could stand by my side, an ally. What a fool I was."

"Liar." I spat in his face. There was a surge of sudden defiance in my chest. I was tired of simpering and sneaking and begging for my life. Barion didn’t blink, the trail of bloody saliva moving slowly down his cheek. "Stand by your side my royal ass. You were going to imprison me in the cellar with the rest of your failures."

Barion reeled back from that, hand shaking as he used the sleeve of his robe to wipe his face. "Is that what Maya told you?"

I froze.

"Yes, I knew it was her. That’s the worst of your thefts, boy. Your gravest sin. My dear assistant. I have no idea how you charmed her, but I hope you’re happy."

"Is she-"

"Dead?" Barion asked. "Oh yes."

My stomach dropped.

Barion continued. "I have no patience for disobedience. Still, I tried to make it quick—she served me well for years, it was the least I could do—but she was oh so determined to fight to the last breath." He held up his right alabaster arm, showing a dozen jagged red scratch marks. My stomach turned.

Maya was dead because she helped me.

"I thought you were iron, boy. I would have molded you into steel. A force to be reckoned with. But I was wrong." Barion grabbed my hair and pulled my head up. "You’re just meat. Just like the rest of them. Offal. And I have only one use for offal." Barion threw my head back against the tree and stood. The impact sang discordant notes through my skull. He turned away to the monstrous elk. "Do as you please."

"Yesss." The elk’s mouth did not move, but I heard the word in my head as clearly as if it had spoken. It advanced on me slowly, savoring the moment.

Fight. You have to fight.

I called the spark forth. The hulking beast regarded me curiously, lowering its nose to sniff the magic held in my hand.

"Shall I tell you the one, massive weakness of demon-fire, child?" Barion said, still facing away.

In a blur of movement, the elk opened its mouth and chomped down on my entire arm up to the shoulder, flame and all. Its dull teeth ground. There was a horrible crunching noise coupled with a sucking sensation. Its eye watched me, dark and empty.

I screamed.

"It doesn’t work on demons." Barion finished.

He might have said something else, but I could no longer hear him over the sound of my own keening voice. The monster swallowed greedily, and through its transparent skin I saw the ruined remnants of my arm pass down its throat. It made a mewling noise and took a chunk out of my side. Then it bit again. And again. And again.

Again.

13

EVERWOOD VIII

Suffer. As I have suffered.

I screamed. I screamed into unconsciousness. I screamed as the deep dark drug me backward and the voices whispered.

Again

I screamed at the voice.

I didn’t want to go back.

Meat.

I was just meat.

Meat to be consumed by whatever happened to kill me next life. And the next. And the next. The demon’s face chased me through the darkness and into the light.

Gentle hands shook me awake.

"Boy-" Maya trailed off, flinching as I held her to me, my entire body shaking. I could still feel the teeth, tearing me apart. I could see the eye that watched, reveling in my pain.

"Sorry. I’m so sorry."

I wasn’t strong enough. I would never be strong enough. The gods chose poorly. This was it. This was all I would ever be. Teeth. I could feel the teeth. I felt the teeth the sword and the dagger the fire and they burned me and pierced me and tore me bled me dry until all that was left was a wretched husk of a thing I once was that screamed into the void begging for it to end-

Arms wrapped around me. They cut through the tempest of my mind. Maya held me. She didn’t know me, but she held me all the same. A soft hand stroked the back of my head, nails brushing my scalp. Nails.

I saw Barion’s arm, bearing the dozens of scratches. My chest tensed again, wrought with guilt.

"I shouldn’t have left you."

Maya knelt in front of me and touched my face. Her eyes were confused, but warm. "We have all left others behind. We can only move forward." There was such compassion in her face. It was almost enough to hold back the storm.

Almost.

The images began to return. I shook, my skin crawling. Maya released me and looked deep in my eyes, searching for something. Then her hand glowed green. "Peace now. Sleep, Ni’lend." Though it happened before in a very different context, I did not fear her. Her fingers brushed my forehead and I fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

"I don’t know what’s wrong. He was fine. Ate like a dragon and drank like a horse." Barion snapped. I could hear him talking outside my door.

"Well he is not fine now," Maya’s muffled voice countered, "Whatever happened, he is fragile. I will tend to him but you must give me space to do so."

"Fine, fine. This whole thing has been a waste of time anyway, what’s a little more? Fix him." Footsteps stomped away. Maya entered with a steaming tray. Her scowl immediately brightened when she saw me.

"You’re awake."

"I am," I said, easing myself up on my elbows. It was strange how much better I felt. "What did you do to me?"

Maya nearly fumbled the tray. She placed it on the side table and stood back, the savory scent of tomato soup made my stomach rumble. Maya held her hands behind her back, her cheeks pink. Her tail moved back and forth in a lazy half-circle.

"I am a life mage. Healing is my primary talent." She said. I took a spoonful of the tomato soup and found the warm broth delectably salty as it warmed my mouth and throat.

"That’s amazing. I’ve never met a healer before. You must bring in a killing." I smirked at her.

Maya sniffed, "Oh yes, all the room and board I could want." Still, she seemed pleased by my comment.

"I-" I froze, remembering the depth of my pain the previous night. "Why am I like this? The last time we spoke-"

"Your… mind was fractured. I have seen it before…" Maya wrung her hands. "Life mages are not limited to physical healing. We can also tend the mind."

Oh no. What had she done?

Maya must have seen the alarm on my face. She cut in quickly, "I didn’t change anything. You are still you. It is called psyo-genesis. When a person goes through a traumatic event, sometimes the mind gets stuck: they relive the moment, over and over. I would normally ask permission, but you were so…"

Broken.

She didn’t have to say it. I knew. I looked inward. It was still there, a dark mass roiling in my heart, but it no longer threatened to consume me. I could stand against it. I would stand against it. I would fight.

"Thank you," I said. It felt like a vast understatement.

"You are… not angry with me?" She looked surprised.

I chuckled and fell back against the bed, my hand on my forehead. "Angry?" As if I could be angry. It was hard to fathom. "You saved me, Maya. I will not forget it. I swear it to the Elder gods."

A heavy silence hung between us. That particular oath was not made idly.

"I will not ask what happened to you…" Maya said in a voice that betrayed curiosity, "but I do wonder, when I first met you, you mistook me for someone else."

"Yes. Another infernal."

"You have known others of my kind?"

"She was much like you," I said, wanting to be as honest as I could. Maya perked up at that, clearly holding herself back from barraging me with questions. Instead, she just asked one.

"How did you know her?"

I smiled. "She was my friend."

I strengthened my resolve. It was time for a change. I’d been going at this all wrong. For too long I had been on the back foot, relegated to reacting as things happened around me. That had gone on for far enough. Throughout my entire life before the invasion, I was a performer. Only Lillian saw the real me, warts and all. I took on different roles and thrived in them: A noble in the royal court. A commoner in the bars and taverns. A pretentious bastard usurped by his sister. Now, there was a new role to play.

A hero.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t feel like one. Acting a part was simple. You played at it, tweaked it. Eventually, it fit you like a second skin. If I was going to play the role of a hero, I wasn’t going to be one of those assholes that ran in blinded by his own shining armor. That was folly. It helped that I already possessed one heroic quality: I could plan like a bastard. And now I had all the pieces: Barion, the demon in the forest, the cellar, and Maya.

I knocked on Barion’s study door and made my apologies, explaining that I had such episodes since I was a child, but they were few and infrequent. He waved me off and told me not to worry about it. We talked about the poultices and salves he would need. Since we’d had the conversation before, I was able to suggest a few I knew he would want before he spoke them aloud, and by the end of the conversation he seemed comfortable and pleased, harboring none of the suspicion he held last time. There was just one more thing I needed.

"I have a favor to ask," I said, "It would help me greatly in my efforts, but I hesitate to impose on you further.

"An imposition to help you help me is hardly an imposition, wouldn’t you say child?" Barion set his pen back down.

"Very well," I said, careful to hide my nerves. "It would aid me significantly if I could have an extra pair of hands for the next week or so." My reason for asking was two-fold.

First, my preparations had to be done within the next week. Though I might have assuaged Barion’s suspicions for the moment, I had already lost three days. I had no idea when his cage for me downstairs would be ready, but it would be best to stick to the original timeline.

Secondly, I hated the idea of biding my time while Barion did unspeakable things to the children in the basement. My reasons were not entirely magnanimous—it would be a constant mental distraction and I needed every focused moment I could scrounge together—but I did not wish to resign them to any more torment than necessary if it could be avoided.

Barion stretched, mulling the question over. "It’s a tall order, but I suppose the more… intensive elements of my research can wait. You’ll need her at night as well?"

"I’m afraid so. Certain plants I’ll be looking for can only be gathered during specific windows in the evening. Given the volume you want, I could do it all myself, but it would take quite a while," I lied.

"How long?"

"End of Winterscrest, if I’m lucky."

Barion paled at that. "Good gods. You’ll eat me out of house and home by then. Fine. Fine. Take her." He waved me away and I left, reveling in grim satisfaction.

Maya seemed confused by the request, but not put out. If anything, she seemed happy to have a break from her usual duties, and who could blame her. I stalled for the first few days, falling back into the comfortable routine of gathering and preparing.

It was amusing how much better I was at compounding mixtures versus when I had started. In the beginning, I was flying almost entirely by the seat of my pants, putting skills to use that I had not bothered with in years. Now I was mixing with confidence, minding the temperature of the mixture and sunlight exposure. I added a few new concoctions to the list: a mild paralytic and poison. When Maya asked what they were used for, I just told her "intestinal distress."

Our conversations went much like the last reset—though Maya was more open to me now. It seemed the tone of our initial interaction changed much. I was at something of a loss in how to broach the topic that needed to be talked about to move things forward. After all, I’d spent significantly more time with her than she had spent with me. I had to be hyper-vigilant not to refer to things that did not occur in this cycle. For this to work she had to trust me completely. While I considered the best options, I went out of my way to treat her well. With what I knew about her now, it came naturally.

As it turned out, I had been worrying for nothing. We had just finished the evening meal with Barion. I had him howling with laughter, having told a thinly disguised story of the time Uncle Luther had gotten stuck bare-arsed on the roof of the training barracks escaping a cuckolded sword-master in the middle of a blizzard, when there was a sharp crack and shatter across the table. Barion and I both jumped. The shards of a ceramic cup fell from Maya’s hand, her mouth opened in a silent "O." Black blood trickled down her palm. Immediately, I understood what happened.

Barion was halfway up, but I beat him to it.

"Looks like a job for the resident apothecary." I gave him a false smile, then hurried over to Maya. She was fixated on the broken fragments. I took her hand and gently led her away. It took a few minutes to remove the glass and clean the wound. I was as gentle as possible, but it still looked like she was in a great deal of pain. If I was right, it had nothing to do with the glass.

Maya looked at me silently.

"The great irony of a life mage, right? You can heal everyone else in the world except for yourself."

There was a quiet, muted noise as she shook. A sob.

"Are you okay?" I murmured.

"I… am not," she whispered back.

If Barion saw her like this it was going to raise all the wrong questions. After a moment of thought, I palmed a small vial that I would have used to numb the wound.

I raised my voice just loud enough to be heard. "Nothing to worry about, but it’s a bit deep. Head to the guest room, I’ll meet you there and mix some fresh anesthetic." Maya hesitated for a second, then nodded and left.

I returned to the table to clear it as was customary after our meals. Barion ogled his dark-red wine, staring deep into it and swirling it idly. His mood had dropped, as it often did before he went into the cellar for the evening. I had just about finished when he spoke.

"Don’t grow too attached to her, my young friend."

I stopped mid-way through cleaning a plate. Barion never referred to me that way. It was always "Child" or something equally diminutive.

"Might I ask why?" I said, taking pains to sound vaguely disinterested.

"I fear Maya has grown tired of the work. She’ll return to the enclave soon," Barion said casually. I closed my eyes, pushing the anger away.

"Will you be alright, sir?"

"Why on Earth would I not be?"

"By yourself, I mean. With Maya gone back to her people and me in Whitefall." I clarified. I was treading dangerous water but could not resist the subtle jab.

Barion drained his glass in a single gulp and pushed it aside. "I am always alone, Cairn. That is the path I’ve chosen. Even now, with the two of you here. I am alone." His voice was low. I went to take his glass, but he put his hand on it to stop me. "Leave it. Bring the bottle." I did as he asked, hoping all the while that he would drown in it.

I found Maya pacing in my room. She turned to me, her eyes red. "You need to-"

She stopped mid-sentence as I held a finger to my lips, indicating the door. She shook, and shivered, and looked like she was about to explode. I grabbed a blanket, opened my window and stepped out onto the roof. Maya followed me, taking my hand as she stepped onto the bed and through the window. She folded her legs beneath her and sat, a silent tear running down her cheek. I covered her shoulders in the blanket to shield her from the cold. She cringed at the touch, then relaxed. Her breathing steadied.

I sat beside her. We looked out into the clearing and the sky above. For once, there were no clouds, and a thousand stars shined brightly. I thought of Annette and Sera, of my mother, and wondered if they were looking up at the same bright sky.

"Why are you so kind to me?" Maya asked quietly. There were many reasons. But none I could articulate.

"You sure you want to know?" I asked. "It’s heavy."

"I want to know."

"Well, you see…" I paused dramatically, trying not to smile as I saw her in my peripheral vision, shifting uncomfortably. I turned and looked straight at her. "This is all part of my master plan to seduce you."

The resulting silence was perfect.

"What?!" Maya squawked and leaned away from me.

"It’s true." I said seriously. "Now, I’m only twelve, and I haven’t gone through puberty yet, but I figure if I keep this up-" I nearly bit my tongue as her small hands pushed me viciously, nearly toppling me off the roof.

"Okay! okay, I give!" I held my hands up in surrender.

Maya started to giggle, quiet at first, then louder until her laughter echoed across the field.

"Gross. So weird." She said, wiping tears from her eyes.

"How you wound me, my lady." I held a hand to my heart. She fixed me with a long-suffering glare.

Then the levity was gone from her face, instead twisting into something painful.

"Cairn, you have to go."

"I didn’t think you’d take it this badly."

"I’m being serious," she said. "Barion isn’t what you think."

"I know," I said.

"He-" she stopped. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I know."

"Know what?"

"I know about the cellar. The children. I know he’s torturing them, trying to make them awaken."

"How?"

I thought about telling her the truth. But it was too much. It was hard for me to believe most days. "Let’s just chalk it up to me being a nosy bastard."

"Then why are you still here?" She asked, bewildered, "Why did you not run at the first opportunity?"

"I’m going to talk. Just lay some things out. Let me know if I get anything wrong." I leaned back on the palms of my hands, gazing into the night sky. "You take care of them. The children. You heal them and try to make sure Barion doesn’t go too far. You want to leave—this isn’t what you signed up for and Barion scares you, but you can’t because who will take care of them if you go? And somewhere, some part of you is terrified because you’re sure, one of these days, that you’ll be the one in the cage."

"How…" Maya sniffled beside me, arms wrapped over her legs, face tilted down. "Yes. That’s… all true. I should have fought him. Stopped him somehow. I’m a terrible person."

I reached out and pulled her into a sideways hug. "It’s not your fault. There’s no world where anyone but Barion is to blame for what’s happening here. You’re a kid," I said fiercely, surprised at my own conviction.

"You’re a kid." She rubbed her eyes with both fists irritably, "Why are you talking like you’re older than me?"

"My father always said I was terrible at acting my age."

"And you never answered my question. Why are you still here?" She searched my face, scared to hope.

"Because I’m not leaving you here, Maya. We get out together, or not at all."

"But I can’t," Maya said desperately, "I’m all they have, Cairn. As long as Barion is here I have to stay."

"Then there’s only one option."

I smiled at her.

"We get them all out."

14

EVERWOOD IX

There were three days left and the tension was mounting. I had an idea for how to take on Barion, but the issue was, it didn’t account for his outside help. There just wasn’t enough information there yet. So, absent better options I had started taking vurseng (the one that keeps you awake) to stop sleeping for the last two days. Not because I was concerned about Barion attacking me in the night—at this point I was confident he wouldn’t move on me until sometime after the tenth day—but because I needed to know the relationship between him and his demonic murder elk. Unfortunately, Maya had never seen it or even heard of it. There were three possibilities:

Barion could commune with demons and did so the night of my escape.

Or he had some sort of method to directly summon them.

Or the demon resided within the Everwood itself.

After considering it, I’d decided that the third was most likely. After all, I had seen the demon from a distance the first few nights in the woods. Unfortunately, I had no way of retracing my steps, which meant doing the one thing I had absolutely wanted to avoid at all costs: Following Barion into the wood. And of course, since I never saw him venture into the forest on his own during the day, he had to be going in the dead of night.

On the third sleepless evening, the opportunity finally presented itself.

I stalked Barion into the forest. He held a lantern out before him. Shadows of tree limbs and shrubs clawed upward like black tendrils. The vurseng kept me awake and alert, but nothing is free. On a baseline, average day it worked fine. When adrenaline hit and my heart was pounding in my throat, it made me stressed and edgy, jumping at shadows in the dark. And there were many shadows in the dark.

Moving from tree to tree I stepped softly, walking heel-to-toe and keeping my knees bent. The one upside to being so much smaller was that I weighed less, and with how thin-soled my shoes were, I could generally feel anything beneath me that might snap before it gave me away. So far, everything was going smoothly. I remembered my experience, alone in the dark of the Everwood, animals hounding me and nipping at my heels. This venture, by comparison, was borderline peaceful and I wondered if Barion was using some magical method to keep the creatures at bay. Then again, maybe they just smelled it on him, the monster he was, and knew well enough to stay clear. Then there was me and my dumb ass following him in the dark.

I grimaced.

I had a half-second warning before it happened, the slightest tug on my arm. A branch caught the fabric of my robe and snapped back, the whole branch rustling. The lantern in Barion’s hands swung around, darkness around me fleeing. I pushed myself up against the closest tree. The light stayed still.

Something touched my neck. Something long and chitinous with many, many legs. I pressed a hand over my mouth and reminded myself I was playing the role of a hero. Heroes did not make massive mistakes over little shit-bird bugs in the dark.

As if sensing the unspoken insult, the thing bit down just above my clavicle. I dug my fingers into my thigh, biting back the yell. Finally, the light moved on and I grabbed the thing off me. It was nearly the size of a snake, but with dozens of legs that pushed against my hand. Some part of me was grateful it was too dark to see. I reeled back and threw it into the forest.

Lucky bastard. If it were any other day I would have stomped you flat.

The skin around the bite was tender and hot to the touch. Poisonous then. Damn this forest. Everything was a nightmare, even the bugs. I’d have to break out the anti-venom as soon as I got back to the cottage.

When I caught up to Barion, he was standing before a narrow entrance to a large cavern. The way its natural formation extended upward resembled a manmade gateway. Barion knelt. I heard humming, a low gravelly note that shifted downward then stayed flat, then downward again.

The antlers appeared first. Then the rest of it emerged into the dull lamplight, Its semi-transparent skin shimmered in the light and its insides moved like worms in a fisherman’s bait bag. The cold hand of panic gripped my heart in my chest. It smiled at him, the smile wide and disturbing.

"Where is my offering?" It questioned. The way it dragged out consonants made my skin crawl.

"My apologies," Barion replied. "There is no offering today. There have been circumstances beyond my control."

It leaned down and turned its massive head to look at him. "We cannot… eat… your excuses."

"True enough. However, I will soon offer something much more to your liking."

"You… dare… to bargain with us?"

Barion’s voice was triumphant. "I do. Next week, I will have an infernal for you."

A numbing chill swept over me.

Even the demon seemed shocked. "You… would let us eat one of the masters?"

"I would indeed. She is weak and full of doubts. I have no further use for her, and we are far from the eyes of the enclave and council. No one will know." Barion smiled wickedly. "I won’t tell, if you don’t."

"One… week."

Barion refilled the oil in his lantern and turned around to head back. It was all I could do not to jump out and strangle him. All throughout the walk back, my mind kept trying to justify it.

What if it worked? You could end it all right here. Get him.

I shook my head. That anger would be the end of me. There were a million reasons to wait. I didn’t know what precautions he’d taken, he was almost definitely armed, and if for whatever reason I failed and he was not killed, I’d be resigning Maya to a fate worse than death. Those awful teeth came to the forefront of my mind. That was an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Not even Thoth.

No.

This had to be perfect.

After weighing the possibilities, I went ahead and told Maya what I’d discovered. She was less disturbed than I’d expected, instead turning thoughtful and inward. The section of the river we sat near babbled peacefully, blissfully unaware of the coming storm.

"Most demons would not turn down the chance to slaughter my kind, given the opportunity. All that holds them back is the power we hold over them. If such a murder were ever discovered, the demon would be killed and their entire legion punished severely. My people do not take their rebellion kindly, and they are not the sort that responds to anything else beyond harsh punishment." Maya said the last part coldly. There was definitely some history there. There were also a dozen questions I wanted to ask, but many were just ignorant, and some of them were simply too rude. Were the demon-kin and demons actually related? And if so, how did the infernals spin-off from demons only to hold power over them now?

I picked the least offensive question that plagued me. "So, the legions are like tribes?"

"Similar, just more brutal and incestuous. They breed for power alone. The weakest are left to die or simply murdered in their cribs."

"They can be killed, then?"

"Yes." Maya hesitated. "But you must be thorough. Every remaining piece must be sundered and obliterated. Otherwise, they will slowly recollect their essence over time until they can manifest once more.

I frowned. "That sounds difficult."

"It is one of the many issues my people struggled with after the great division. Our primary method to seal them away was lost to us. Thus, the two of us are quite lucky." She smiled at me, flashing pointed incisors.

It dawned on me slowly, but I couldn’t make sense of it. "The dantalion flame."

"Yes."

"But that doesn’t make any sense. They’re resistant to it."

"Only... while their soul resides in flesh. It is one of the first resistances they develop. Once the soul is vacated from their body, dantalion is used to bind them to the lower realm. But more importantly, how… do you know that, Cairn?" Maya’s face was a mask of confusion.

I froze. Damn. A huge blunder.

"Any chance of us chalking this up to me being a nosy bastard?" I offered her my most charming smile. She didn’t bite.

"Your excuse for much as of late."

"Look, Maya-"

Maya shook her head. "We are allies for now. All sorts of folk can band together under a common threat. That is basic political theory. But I have had enough of the lies and half-truths from the man we now hunt." She fixed me with a withering stare. "If we pull this off—and that is a sizable if—at some point after, there will be a conversation."

I sometimes forgot that Maya was young. In my case, it was understandable that I didn't act like a child, as I had a lifetime of experiences as an adult. I could only imagine how poorly this would go if I didn't. But Maya didn’t share my curse. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she was just a kid. What was her life like in the enclave? What had she been through that caused her to grow up so fast? Barion, obviously, but her intelligence and self-assuredness didn’t seem the sort of thing that developed over a handful of years.

"I still wait for your answer, Ni’lend."

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. Ni’lend—what did that even mean? Too many questions. When I thought about it, there was no reason not to tell her. After Barion was gone, we would go our separate ways. She had no idea who I really was. If she did, I doubted we’d be sitting here, having this same conversation. There was no issue with telling her the truth.

"It’s not a grand conspiracy. It’s just hard to explain. And to be frank, you probably wouldn’t believe me." It came out far more bitterly than intended. I studied the craggy earth beneath my feet. That was the problem, wasn’t it? I had all this information about what would come to pass. And no evidence whatsoever to prove it.

"At this point… there is little I would not believe," Maya said. "But that is why it is best that we save this conversation for after. If there is an after. Now, we have more pressing matters. May I see it?"

"See what?"

"The flame."

I summoned the fire. It danced in my hand. Had it gotten bigger? It was still small, but no longer the pinprick of light it once was.

Maya sucked in breath. "It is beautiful."

We’d have to disagree on that, I supposed. It was difficult to see it as anything other than a weapon capable of causing immense chaos and strife. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the halls of my home burning. Every time I brought it to bear, more than anything else, I wanted it gone.

That sparked a memory.

"When I demonstrated the fire for Barion, something else happened. Something I didn’t understand. It seemed to unsettle him."

"What?"

"No idea if I can do it again. Give me a second." I held the spark to a small, isolated tuft of grass. It burned quickly. Just like before, I pulled inward. The fire died.

Maya’s eyes were wide. "How?"

"That’s what Barion said," I mused.

"No. How do you feel?" She asked.

I looked inward, and found a small spark of heat in my gut. "That’s strange… I feel warm. I never noticed it before."

"And you have had no formal training."

"None."

"Swear it."

"On my honor," I said automatically, immediately regretting how that would sound. Commoners didn’t swear on honor. Like everyone else, they swore on the gods or on holy books. But Maya didn’t seem to know the difference.

Maya laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. "And father so defiantly believes there is no such thing as fate. Dantalion practitioners are not all created equal. The vast majority will never leave the first stage, which is also the most famous: Ignition. Summoning the flame itself.

That seemed disappointing somehow. "So most of them only ever manifest a spark this size?"

"No. That is part of what makes your case so confusing. Most of the time their ‘spark,’ as you call it, or ignis, is approximately the size of a fist. I am not belittling your efforts, of course." Maya’s eyebrows lowered in thought. "It is normal for one who has no training. That is the way of things. You study the flame along with whatever magical talent you happen to possess, and if you are one of the lucky few, you enter the second stage."

I was fascinated by her explanation. Magic was so rarely spoken off, and even more rarely did the explanation come from one capable of wielding it. "What’s it called? The second stage."

Maya smirked. "Cebir. Or in your language, Control. You are a rare breed, Cairn the apothecary. It is the ability to withdraw the flame itself, limit its effect." The magnitude of the statement dawned on me slowly.

"In other words, what you just demonstrated. When we have our talk, Cairn, you will also be telling me how such a thing is possible, and where and how you learned the flame."

I nodded, though for the first time, it was a lie. I didn’t mind telling her certain parts of my story. She deserved that much. But breaking down the fact that she herself had killed me was not something I was ready for. It still ate at me, every time I found myself enjoying her company.

Over the next three hours, Maya taught me the very basics of magic. How to use my hand as the focal point. After no small amount of convincing on her part, she got me to set a fire and stick my hand in it. I didn’t burn. It still felt incredibly hot and uncomfortable, but the fire did not catch. She warned me that this particular aspect was exclusive to demon-fire, and advised against sticking my hand in good ol’ orange flame.

After Maya had left, I set fire to the field. I let the fire burn until it extended several feet in each direction, then pulled it back in. The warmth I’d felt before was absolutely broiling now, and a bead of sweat slid down my face. I opened my hand and summoned the fire. It gushed upwards in an angry spout of flame a meter high.

As I watched the fire dissipate to strands of smoke, all the pieces fell into place. I knew how to beat Barion and the demon. It was an insane plan. Not to mention, it had a high probability of getting me killed. But it was the best I had.

15

EVERWOOD X

My rampant abuse of the vurseng continued. There was simply too much to accomplish and not enough time. My vision started to haze around the edges, and in particularly quiet moments I could hear voices. Small whispers of doubt and anxiety. I would need to sleep before the end, but for the moment, it was a luxury I could not afford.

I set out early in the morning, hauling the massive quantity of sleep agent we gathered and dumped it into the small creek I saw the demon drinking from on that day that now felt like ages ago. My intent was to sideline the monstrosity entirely, though that was a thin hope at best.

The date was set. Tomorrow at dawn. Maya helped me weave rope together into nets and sharpen stakes. We fashioned Maya a stave with a point at the end. I knew nothing about the construction of weapons, but she seemed pleased with the balance of it, spinning it in a practiced arc. We hid all our supplies deep within the Everwood.

From across the river, I gathered the sole patch of priceless laudenshade (the one that just kills you) I saw on that first day when Barion had sent me to the river, and mixed it with a paralytic, coating my blade. My sword wasn’t going to do much on its own. It was still barely more than a toothpick, it was the poison I was counting on.

That night, the vurseng finally left my system. I sat on the floor, utterly spent. My head kept nodding forward involuntarily, sleep nearly taking me before I snapped back awake. I ran through it in my mind, over and over again. Was I missing anything? Surely I was missing something?

But the vurseng had taken its toll. It hurt to think. Maya slipped into the room with a tray of tea, nearly dropping it when she saw me.

"Ni’lend," she hissed, slamming the tray on the floor with a clatter and rushing to my side.

"It's fine." I mumbled drunkenly.

"It is not fine. You told me you had been sleeping."

"I’m a liar," I said deliriously, "A dirty liar who lies."

"You need to rest." Her hands lifted at me. I brushed them away.

"What if we forgot something, Maya?" I asked. My voice warbled in my ears. The stress rolled down the back of my neck in prickling, radiating waves. "What if it costs us everything?" My breath came in short gasps, each smaller than the last.

"I am going to touch your mind again." Maya said after a moment of silence. It wasn’t a question. "If you do not want this, speak now."

I said nothing. Maya looked into my eyes and her hand glowed. Her hand touched the back of my neck. She breathed out, and I breathed out with her. In, then out again. The ball of stress and panic unraveled slowly, still there, just no longer overwhelming. The glow faded.

"My debt to you grows," I smiled ruefully.

Maya helped me to my feet, guiding me to the bed.

I awoke at the crack of dawn, anxiety and anticipation crawling in my gut. This room, this house, would no longer be my prison after today. I didn’t let myself consider the possibility of another reset. This needed to end. My senses all felt sharper and more vibrant. The crisp cool air chilled me and the sounds of the forest called. I strapped on my sword and laced my boots. Mentally, I reminded myself that the poison on my blade would only be good for the next few hours.

Maya waited at the door, fully dressed, her face set and determined. As much as I wanted this over, I could only imagine the feeling for her was a hundredfold.

"Sleep well, Ni’lend?"

"Thanks to you."

She opened the door and we were off.

First, we strung the chains and snapped the cellar padlock shut. The chains themselves were heavy and frigid to the touch. With any luck, Barion would not realize he had been locked in for a while. We retrieved the stockpile of weapons, then began the second phase: placing all manner of tinder and wood within the entrance of the demon’s cave. The wood had all been doused in rosewater so it would burn longer without burning out completely. We had chopped much of it over the last few days and piled it high, nearly reaching the top. Maya was confident the thing was nocturnal, and, unless called upon, would remain fast asleep until the late evening. If it worked perfectly and the cave didn't have a back entrance—unfortunately there had been no safe way to check—the fire would work as a barrier, hopefully killing the thing from smoke inhalation. At the very least, the barrier of demon-fire would at least keep it back until we dealt with Barion.

"They are immune to it, but that does not mean they do not fear it." Maya had said. "For them it represents a true death, something that they rarely face."

I lit the kindling aflame. We waited for a few seconds, to see if our actions had immediately roused the demon.

Nothing.

Excellent. That meant the sleeping mixture had done its job.

"Ready to run?" I asked her.

"Yes."

"Go."

Maya took off back towards the clearing.

Then came the second phase. With a dark, twisted satisfaction, I reached out, a spark held before me.

And within seconds, the forest was on fire. The flame spread quickly from tree to tree. The temperature rose to positively sweltering. I took some extra time to set several trees around the cave on fire, but by the time I’d come full circle it seemed mostly unnecessary: the fire leapt from tree to tree like a beast with a mind of its own. The edge of my robe started smoking. I had doused it in rosewater, but it seemed the rosewater only went so far. I began feeling light-headed from all the smoke and decided it was time to leave. Hopefully, this would be enough.

Stay in your cave, you bastard.

By the time I got back to the clearing, holding the spark out to light trees as I ran, I was dizzy and lightheaded. Anything that followed me would be much worse for wear. Maya held her spear and stood next to the cellar. It shook in her hands.

"Here he comes," she whispered. As if in response, the cellar door bashed outwards, the chains rattling. I saw a flash of something between the doors. A fiery red eye that didn’t look anything like the Barion I knew.

"What the hells is he?" I hissed.

"I do not know. Only that he is very old. But this strength… is inhuman," Maya answered. I held my sword out, bracing myself for the explosion of violence once Barion broke the chains. But Barion did not break out. The chains seemed to hold. Maya went to grab the nets. For a moment, I thought everything might go to plan.

We would kill Barion, and once he died, any pact he held with the demon would be absolved.

Then there was an angry roar, and the demon-elk exploded into the clearing. Bits of flame and smoke clung to its transparent skin before burning out, its previously glossy skin covered in ash. It looked from side to side wildly before its eyes locked on us. It raised its head and let loose that horrifying wraith-like howl. The thing that was once Barion continued bashing at the door.

"Oh no," Maya whispered.

"Okay. Okay. Go to plan three," I yelled.

"Got it." Maya ran to the side, distancing herself from me and the cellar, making herself a smaller target.

I unsheathed my sword. Every fiber of my being rebelled, screaming at me to run away. But I stayed firm. The demon staggered towards me, its movements awkward and wooden, still under the effects of the sleeping agent.

"Round two, motherfucker," I whispered. The terror pressed down on me. I could see it in my mind's eye, those horrible blunt teeth, rending my flesh.

At first, I could only take a single step.

Then another.

And another.

Then I was running, my sword held high, its small blade catching the light of the dawn, pure and raging. The demon picked up speed, the ground shaking as its massive hooves struck the ground. Moments before we clashed, it lowered its head, attempting to gore me with its antlers.

But I’d been expecting that. I crouched down and jumped to the side with the blow, managing to grab the protruding bone. My stomach flipped as I was yanked from the ground. A single black eye regarded me with rage. The elk shook its head violently and I felt my fingers slipping. I nearly panicked and dropped my sword to get a better grip.

Think.

The demon was interminably strong, but disoriented and weakened from the poisoned water supply. It moved inconsistently. Incredible bursts of strength and speed, followed by a second of muddled confusion. I waited until the creature slowed, then with a quick thrust of my hips, swung my legs up and locked them around the horn. From there I easily regained my grip. With my other hand, I flipped the blade upside down. And with all my strength, thrust it into the demon's eye.

It screamed that ethereal howl, and the hearing in my right ear faded into a dull roar. It snapped at me wildly, its teeth cracking together in a series of savage snaps. Then my whole body was falling. The horn I clung to slammed me against the ground and I felt something snap in my chest. I gasped out for breath, each inhale wet and painful.

Why was the laudenshade not working? It should have been unconscious by now, approaching total organ failure. Instead, it towered above me and bent down. Its mouth opened and it clamped onto my arm.

Was this it? The end of the line, again?

I was terrified, yes. But there was something greater than the fear.

Rage.

The thing was so damn stupid. It could have killed me in one bite, but instead it wanted to drag things out yet again. It was so stupid and petty and vile. The rage flamed up from within me. I grabbed it across its snout with my other hand, and, using the arm still held in its mouth as leverage, coiled my entire body and kicked its remaining eye. Something slimy and wet gave way beneath my foot. It dropped my arm and screamed.

Maya flew. Her pointed stave struck the ground, and she vaulted upwards. Her hands glowed green as she took flight like a valkyrie, the sun emerging from the clouds behind her. Her face twisted into a feral snarl. She landed hard on the demon’s back, the claws of her hands digging rivets into its translucent skin.

The demon’s howl modulated upward an octave. I watched in sickened awe, as one by one, the colorful sacs and roping entrails within the demon burst in an explosion of crimson. Within seconds, its translucent body shifted opaque, nothing visible but a deep red tint. It spasmed on its feet, sending Maya tumbling off the side. She landed badly, her ankle twisting, and crumpled with a cry of pain. The demon’s massive body slammed to the ground, raising a fog of dirt into the air. The surrounding smoke was getting thicker. I staggered to her, fighting through the agony in my chest.

In the distance, the sound of the cellar door was punctuated by the clatter of a chain coming free.

Maya tried to stand twice, before falling to her knees. "I thought we would have more time. I messed up, Cairn," she whispered.

"No. You did everything right."

She was about to try and stand again when I held her back and shook my head.

"But the plan." Maya wept, her voice raw. "The poison is gone."

I patted her on the head, projecting a confidence I didn’t feel. "There’s always another plan." But there wasn’t, really. Just a hunch and a hope. A hunch I’d bet the forest on. A sudden explosion of sound echoed out across the clearing, of iron tearing and chain shattering. My heart pounded. My left arm hung useless. I wrenched my sword from the eye of the demon and returned, pulling my final trick, the last contingency, out of my coat—a glass vial. I took a rag and dampened it with the tincture, coating my sword with it.

The thing that was once Barion emerged from the smoke. He was taller than before, and seemed to glide rather than walk, lifted by dark tendrils of shadow that elevated him beneath his robe.

"How long has it been since I have been challenged?" He watched me, as if seeing me for the first time. "I owe you an apology, my friend. It seems I underestimated you." Barion turned in a full circle, taking in the chaos and carnage, gaze falling on Maya and the fallen demon.

"You." Barion hissed.

"Leave her be. I did this." I took a step forward.

"Not without help, you didn’t." Barion chuckled then, low and menacing. "Live as long as I have, child, and you will find fewer and fewer surprises. They become priceless gems, invaluable glimmers in the darkness that forms the cave of your existence." He smiled without a hint of warmth. "Today, I am surprised indeed. Since you have shown me such a precious gift, I will make you a deal." He had moved closer, though much to my alarm I hadn’t actually seen the movement.

Barion reached into his robe and I tensed. He withdrew his hand and tossed something before me. The compass landed face up.

"If you follow that east it will take you back to the road. On my honor, I will not pursue you. All you need to do is leave me the girl. We have accounts to settle, she and I."

"He’s telling the truth, Cairn," Maya said weakly behind me. "Once he gives his word he holds to it—it’s why he rarely does." Then, after a quiet moment. "Whatever he is, he’s powerful. I can sense it. You should go. You can’t beat him. It won’t work."

I closed my eyes then. At the beginning of all of this, I would have taken such an offer in a heartbeat. I hadn’t owed her anything back then. The image of Annette’s unrecognizably burned body still haunted my every dream. So much had changed between then and now. Maya, pulling me from the darkness. Maya holding me as I cried, the one link tethering me from madness. Maya healing the tormented children in the basement, over and over, undoubtedly knowing how pointless it all was. Maya packing me supplies for my escape and stalling, something that cost her life in the end.

It finally clicked in my mind, the struggle vanquished. Maya was no longer the monster who burned my sister alive. Just as I was no longer the same person who ran, terrified, into the Everwood.

It didn’t matter how many times it took.

How much it cost.

I had to do this. I quieted my mind, set my jaw, and opened my eyes.

Barion cocked his head at me. His entire body was overtaken by shadow until only his mouth remained. It spoke, an otherworldly quality overtaking the voice.

"You should have taken my offer.”

16

EVERWOOD XI

"Get to the Cellar. There’s too much smoke. I’ll be right behind you," I commanded. The infernal pulled herself up, leaning heavily on her stave. I watched Barion closely, preparing to intervene if he pursued her. He didn’t seem interested. He simply waited, content to let the forest burn down around us.

"I thought you were iron, boy. I planned to mold you into steel," Barion said, a strange sadness in his voice. "But I was wrong. You were already steel. And I was a fool to not see it."

"I owe much to your teachings, Sir Barion." I held my sword upward in a mock salute, covering one eye. "But I am no longer yours to mold." I summoned the spark and set the rose oil on my sword aflame.

"Even to the end, you intrigue me."

He circled me. I was expecting another surprise attack from his rapier, my nerves balanced on the edge of a knife. What emerged from over his shoulder looked more like a scorpion’s stinger, angry and red, the tip dripping with dark ichor. It moved almost too quickly for me to track. A single blink and I would have missed it.

The stinger plunged forward.

Somehow, I managed to sidestep, batting it away with my flaming sword. It caught fire for a moment, but Barion quickly smothered it in darkness, leaving it unmolested.

He hissed in pain. The fire did hurt him, then. But Barion was much smarter than the demon. He pushed me backwards, strike after strike, each intended to kill. I dodged, throwing myself to the side, only to come up to another, swinging over my head. I back-pedaled, the heat of the burning forest growing hotter and hotter.

Barion leapt forward, his stinger plunging directly at my forehead. I ducked under it only to find myself face to face with him, his arm pulled back. There was no time. His rapier plunged through my gut. He cackled in triumph.

But this was hardly the first time I’d been stabbed. My wounded arm screamed as I grabbed his sword hand, trapping his arm. With a burst of strength, I swung my sword into the dark mass where his face should have been. The shadows retreated and Barion’s head was exposed. He screeched, throwing me backwards. His jaw hung off on the left side by a gruesome thread, fire scorching his face before the shadows rushed in to quash it.

He growled inhumanly, and his attacks grew much faster. But he didn’t try the rapier again, content to pick away at me from a distance.

Finally, I was pushed back to the forest’s edge. The flames licked at my back, setting my robes on fire.

Barion didn’t gloat. His stinger pulled back, preparing the killing blow.

"I yield!" I yelled, dropping my sword to the side.

Barion paused mid-strike, confused.

That was all the time I needed. The bright purple light around us suddenly died as I pulled in the flame. All of the flame. The fire I hated so much. I breathed it in and pulled and pulled until the fire was more of me than anything else. It leaked out the pores of my hands, my eyes, my very soul. If only for that moment, I did not hate the flame. It was capable of great cruelty, yes.

But it was more than that.

The fire was a part of me, and without it, I would have been lost long ago. So I accepted the flame, and the flame accepted me. Something rumbled, like a giant stone shifting deep within my soul.

I held my hand out, first, second, and third finger extended, then spoke the word that was now etched in the darkest depths of my being.

"Burn."

The fire rushed out of me in a great wave. The shadows fled. Once the robe was eaten away, Barion’s body was a strange eldritch mass of limbs and flesh. His many hands grabbed at me, spasming. He howled as the fire consumed him, skin sloughing off white bones into pink-black piles of limbs and charred, desiccated flesh.

Within the mess, a single golden amulet shined up at me.

I stared at the ruin of flesh beneath me and fell to my knees. Relief surged within me, a lifetime’s worth of tension and fear expunged.

We actually did it.

It was over.

It took less effort than I expected to stop the forest from burning. While the trees burned wildly, at some point, the fire seemed to stop. Given the otherworldly aspect of the forest, to some degree, this made sense. It’d be a little strange if a single spell were capable of destroying such an old and magical entity as malevolent as the Everwood. Surely, I wasn’t the first demon-fire user to let loose within its confines over thousands of years.

Still, the damage was significant, and a massive ring of trees around the clearing spanning a half-mile radius had burned, lending the cottage a suitably creepy air. The corpse of the demon remained. I eyed it warily before entering the cellar. Now that the moment was over, all adrenaline left me, taking my strength with it. I could barely lift the iron doors. Something tugged painfully in my gut, beyond the simple pain of where Barion stabbed me. Perhaps this isn't the best example, but all I could think of to compare it to were those lonely nights after Lillian, where I drank far into the morning light and woke up in the late evening, quivering and in pain, knowing I had taken on too much but unable to do anything about it after the fact. Only instead of a physical ailment, I felt it within my very essence—as if I had been on the verge of being torn apart.

From within the cellar, a spear pointed up at me. Maya stood firm. Her white, pupil-less eyes brimmed with rage. She hadn’t expected me to come back. That was okay. I hadn’t expected to come back. Not this time at least, not really.

"Going to finish me off?" I asked.

The spear clattered onto the floor, then rolled down the stairs with a resounding series of wooden bumps. "I... cannot believe it," she said, her mouth working as if the words wouldn’t quite come out. "You really killed him?"

My legs gave out on me on the second step. Just decided to stop working. My arms pinwheeled. Maya caught me—gods she was strong for her size—her hands grabbing beneath my shoulders. My chewed on arm ached. She grunted, leaning me against the wall and kneeling before me.

"He’s dead. If that fire didn’t get him, nothing will." I handed her the golden amulet. She took it, staring at it in disbelief, then held it to her chest, starting to cry. "It’s an anchor. For the demon. Iheia above. You saved us." She touched her forehead to mine tenderly. "This is my vow. I will never forget this, my friend."

"We saved us. It’s nothing," I said guiltily. My actions might seem like altruism in her eyes, but it had not come nearly so freely. I saved her. But I also let her die. If anything, my actions this final time had balanced the scales. Maya caught my discomfort, and seemed to misplace it, realizing for the first time the extent of my wounds.

"Ni’lend you are a mess!"

I snorted. "Prone to injuries, I’m afraid." Maya’s hands glowed green. She focused on the gut wound, a strange crackling sensation radiating from the wound into my spine, then focused on my arm. I flexed it experimentally, painlessly, then smiled. "You’re a miracle worker."

"Maya?" We both jumped at the voice. It was the boy I saw so long ago down in the cellar, missing the eye. Only, now he wasn’t. Twin blue eyes studied me, alert. He held her spear to the side and it towered comically above him. Five other children hid behind him. A weight lifted off me, seeing that they were more or less intact. Barion really had laid off them after I took his assistant out of play.

"Come meet my children," Maya smiled joyfully, tugging me up and pulling me after her. She introduced me to them, one after the other, and they crowded around us. There was Eliza and Fiona, two little girls who looked so similar they could have been twins. Victor was a large boy, taller than me by an inch though he was two years younger. Oscar was the smallest of the bunch, only coming up to my waist. Finally, there was Lucius, the brown-haired boy who held the spear. There was something about his bearing that I recognized.

It was a hunch, but I took a shot anyway. "What’s your house name, Lucius?"

"Timbermour," He replied automatically, then grimaced, realizing he’d been baited. "What’s your house name?" He eyed me defiantly.

Valen. But of course, I couldn’t say that.

"Lucius," Maya scolded. "Don’t be rude. Cairn isn’t a noble, he’s an apothecary’s apprentice. He doesn’t have a house name."

"With posture like that and shoes like those?" Lucius looked me up and down skeptically. "Royal apothecary, more like."

Little bastard was going to out me. Before Maya could think too long on that, I clapped my hands together. "Who’s hungry?"

There was a chorus of cheers in response. As we emerged from the cellar, there was a gust of smoke that sent some of the children to coughing. Maya instructed them to put their shirts over their mouths, and we escorted them to the house. Maya paused at the door, looking at the corpse of the demon still lying in the center of the clearing. I remembered what she said about regeneration.

"Should we take care of it now?" I asked, hoping she would say no. As I’d been too nervous to eat this morning, my stomach rumbled with every thought of food. But the discomfort of going hungry for a little while longer paled in comparison to the idea of having to fight that nightmare again.

"We should." Maya walked towards it slowly, lost in thought. "Cairn?"

"Yes?"

"If you think what you did in the cellar went unnoticed, it did not."

"Would it hurt you to miss a thing or two every once in a while, Maya?" I asked, grimacing.

"It would, actually." Maya said. "During my time with master-" she stopped, correcting herself. "With Barion. You knew him for little more than a week and probably already noticed he was prone to mood swings."

"That’s putting it mildly."

"Indeed. I had to be attuned to his every whim and emotion, or things would go poorly for me." Maya indicated the house. "And worse for them. So I became adept at reading human emotions."

"Whatever he was, Barion wasn’t human." I said testily. We had just won a great victory. Why couldn’t she let it go?

"Perhaps. My point is, I wonder what it is you hide. Especially now, after everything. If it is that you are not truly an apothecary, I do not care—though that would make me wonder how you learned the trade so thoroughly. If it is that you are a noble, that might even make me respect you more." Maya smiled. "A human noble, treating an infernal like a person—even an equal. It is the stuff of fae tales."

I ached at that because I knew that she wasn’t lying. But the one thing she couldn’t imagine was the truth: that my father was the king, and the sole engineer of so much pain and suffering for her people—her entire race. Still, I needed to tell her. I had faced down a demon and a monster, but somehow the prospect of speaking those words seemed so much more daunting in comparison.

I readied myself. "Maya, I-"

She grabbed my arm suddenly.

"Cairn."

"What?" I asked, off-balance.

Her eyes narrowed, staring at the body of the demon "It is still alive."

17

EVERWOOD XII

The massive demon’s gut rose and fell.

Impossible. I had watched it die, destroyed from the inside out. Yet it drew breath. I reached to draw my sword. Maya held an arm out, stopping me.

"Speak, demon, or be forever silenced," Maya commanded, her eyes hard.

A black eye the size of my hand opened. "Our apologies to the master," the demon said. "Gratitude, for freeing us from that foul thing’s employ." Again, the voice was not audible, just whispered in my mind like errant thoughts.

"Oh?" Maya challenged. "Such manners, from the infernal creature that dared lift a hand to one of the chosen?"

"We had no recourse." The demon pleaded. Its body continued to rise and fall in deep, labored breaths. "Our master ordered it."

"From what I recall, your master offered it." I said, crossing my arms, "As a boon. And you had no predilections otherwise."

"So, there was vermin scurrying in the dark that night." The demon looked displeased.

Maya nodded. "Once I return to the enclave, I will tell them all I witnessed here. The hellhound legion will be decimated. It will take decades to recover from the culling."

"Perhaps we may offer a trade? The key to defeating our master?" The demon said with barely veiled panic.

Maya held the amulet aloft. "The usefulness of that leverage is limited."

"He called for you, before he died." I said, unable to hide my hate. "He said, ‘where is that big useless bastard,’ then croaked."

The demon tried to stand and fell over, coughing. "The great and powerful Barion was killed? By two infants? How unsightly." He cackled out a weak laugh.

"I would not judge him too harshly, as you are about to share the same fate." Maya stepped forward, her hand glowing.

"Wait." The demon shimmied away from her.

"I am done waiting," Maya said.

"We offer you a blood oath!" It shouted, its voice echoing desperation in my mind.

Maya hesitated. "You would bind yourself to me?"

I didn’t like the sound of that in the slightest.

"Yes. To you and your line." Its massive form struggled upright, still resting prone on its haunches.

"What is your name?" Maya asked.

"This one is known as Kastromoth the Pitiless." The demon said.

"Give us a second big boy." I pulled Maya aside.

"What is it?"

"I know you’re a little more familiar with these things than I am, but you can’t seriously be considering this?"

She blinked. "Of course I am considering it. A blood oath is rare. At most, demons offer a writ of indentured servitude. I am just trying to decide how to impress upon him that if you were to wind up dead, it would be as if he murdered one of my people."

"That’s- wait. Why me?" I asked.

"Because I am about to insist he bind himself to you, rather than me."

All the blood left my face, and my palms suddenly went clammy. "Why the hells would you do that?" I hissed. Maya seemed confused by my reaction. In the background, Kastramoth looked between us, head bobbing back and forth like an oversized dog.

"My reasons are multifold. First, it would guarantee you protection, once we part. Second, it would repay some of my debt. Thirdly, he is not mine to begin with."

"You brought him down!"

"And you killed his master, making him yours by proxy." Maya insisted.

"He eats people!"

"Yes. Most demons do. It’s a preference, not a requirement." Maya turned back to the oversized elk, now sitting in an oddly tamed pose. "As part of our deal, demon, if I forbade you from subsuming human flesh, would that be acceptable?"

"… Yes," Kastramoth said.

Maya turned back to me. "See?"

"He hesitated, and he’s pouting!" I pulled at my face, suddenly feeling as if I was losing my mind.

"If you do not want him, I understand," Maya said seriously. "It just feels like a massive opportunity to squander." From behind her, Kastramoth widened his eyes and cocked his head, tongue lolling out.

If I was holding something I would have thrown it. Instead, I flipped him the raven. "Oh fuck off! You’re not cute! No part of you is cute!"

I swear I heard him whine.

What Maya was saying made sense. If she officiated the binding—whatever the hells that even meant—I might actually believe the thing wouldn’t harm me. Truth be told, given what was likely ahead of me I could probably use the power. But it wasn’t about that. It was about those teeth. About the monster that ate me always being close at hand. It tore chunks off of me-

"I am sorry, Cairn." Maya’s compassionate voice interrupted my thoughts. "There is more to it, isn’t there?"

I nodded, looking away.

Maya sighed. "Very well. I’ll end him, then. We’ll need the flame to make it permanent." She walked towards him, hand held out at her side.

Wasn’t this what I always did? Prioritized comfort and what was easy over everything else? How many opportunities had I wasted in my first life? How many chances to be better, be stronger?

Still, the teeth. It would drive me mad.

Perhaps there was a compromise.

"Wait," I said.

"Did you change your mind?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Not… exactly." I held my hand out. Maya placed the anchor in my open palm. I studied it. It housed an intricate spiral pattern of white gold. Such a beautiful, innocent object to be tied to something so hideous.

"If—and only if—you can be sure. If the oath guarantees it will not turn on the binder. And, if, and only if, there’s no chance of it getting loose and wreaking havoc…" I looked up at her, "I want you to have it."

Maya took the amulet back slowly. Her jaw worked silently. "It is too great a gift, Ni’lend. This is a greater demon. The value alone would be worth more than some family treasuries. If you were to sell it-"

"I don’t care about money." I said quickly, before realizing how privileged it made me sound.

"You actually mean that," Maya’s voice was raw. "If I take this, my debt to you grows. And it will no longer be just my debt, it will be my family’s as well.

I closed her fingers around the amulet. "As far as I’m concerned, I’m entrusting something dangerous I cannot make use of to someone who can. That incurs no debt at all."

Maya rubbed at her eyes furiously. "Very well." She lifted herself up and squared her shoulders. She turned and approached the demon. Kastramoth shifted between his hooves, seeming to sense a decision had been made. Maya held the amulet high. Though the sun was behind the clouds, it shone brightly. She spoke in a voice as commanding as it was cold.

"Pledge yourself to me."

They conferred in the demonic tongue—which hearing it for the first time sounded frighteningly evil—and at the end of it, Kastramoth bowed. The amulet glowed and the elk’s form slowly faded from existence.

We returned to the house and cared for the children. I found myself in awe of them. After all they had endured they could still laugh and chatter excitedly. I made them flat cakes doused with syrup, which they practically inhaled and begged for more. Occasionally, a child would grow sullen and quiet, retreating into themselves. Maya would approach them and whisper something in their ear, and the child would nod. With great care, she would bend down and touch their forehead. I recognized the same immediate relief I had felt.

She had kept them sane, all this time.

Of the group, only Lucius seemed continuously dour. I dropped another flat cake on his plate, and he glared at it, as if the cake itself interrupted his reverie.

"Where is home, Lucius?" I asked him casually.

"Kholis." He stabbed into the flat cake with his fork, tearing into it.

The name rang a bell. It was a few days to the south of the capital. An agrarian town if I remember correctly, ruled by a rather troublesome Duke. Ah. So that’s where I knew the name from.

"Strange."

"What’s strange?" Lucius challenged.

"That Barion would abduct the son of a noble. Most who prey on children tend to stick to orphans, or children of commoners," I said.

That rebellious fire in his eyes dimmed. "The Duke is not fond of me. He had dealings with Barion, and Barion did not like the results of those dealings."

I stirred at that. This was the first I’d heard of Barion being connected in any way, even if the link was tenuous at best. "Does your father have the talent?"

"The Duke," Lucius said the title correctively, "calls it dabbling. He has a fascination with the dark side of magic. I’m guessing that’s what connected him with Barion in the first place and got me into this Elphion blasted situation.

I frowned, "You seem to know a lot about this."

Lucius shrugged. "I read his mail. They talked about all manner of things before their relationship went sour. It was fascinating, though most of it went over my head."

"Do you remember what they talked about?"

"My memory isn’t so good lately," Lucius said dryly, pointing to a section of scarred skin where the skull had fractured. I winced.

"They had a seal they always used," Lucius said after a moment, "That much I do remember."

"Just a second." I went into what used to be Barion’s study and returned with a piece of paper and a pen. "Mind sketching it out for me?" Lucius gave me a considering glance, then nodded.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, not really. But the one thing that had been made clear to me since the first time I died was exactly how little I knew of the world around me. That needed to change quickly and thoroughly. If there was a rogue group of mages operating underground, committing atrocities under my father’s rule, I needed to know all there was to know about them, so I could eventually put an end to them. Lucius finished the sketch. He was decent with the pen: the symbol was an upside-down butterfly, impaled by two diagonal swords.

"Why a butterfly?" I asked.

"What’s the word for when they change? When a caterpillar goes into a cocoon?"

"Metamorphosis?"

"Yeah, that," he said. "They’re obsessed with it."

"Huh."

"Buncha weirdos," Lucius added with a scowl, not seeming at all bothered to be categorizing his father under that statement. I chuckled.

"Where do you hail from?" Lucius asked. "Seems only fair you answer, since you’ve been picking my brain dry." Maya’s ears perked up.

"Whitefall."

"Capital city. So you’re a fancy city noble."

"Hardly. My family plays a minor role in politics at best," I said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. For the most part, when something wasn’t in need of stabbing, my father took a back seat and let more experienced men lead the country.

"Military or mercantile?"

"Military." That was true enough. I was tiring of this game, however, and took the finished page off the table, tucking it in my bag. "Thanks for this." Lucius looked over towards Maya, a warmness in his gaze, then back at me. He didn’t have to say it. No one trusted a noble less than a noble.

Once the smoke had cleared, the children went outside to play. Judging from how sickly pale their skin was, it had likely been a while.

The immediate issue was getting them home. I had assumed my father sent search parties out to look for me, but knowing him, the opposite was just as likely. He’d see it as some twisted coming of age quest. The upside—possibly the only upside of what had happened up until now was that my choices were limited. All at once, the magnitude of everything came in to strangle me. I needed to get stronger. My fire was an excellent start. Even at the apex of my strength, before Lillian was abducted and I let everything go, I doubted I could have stood toe to toe with an enemy like Barion. But what did stronger look like against an enemy as interminable as Thoth? I could train from today until my coronation, and still get swept up in the storm of her invaders.

So, allies. But where to start?

The elves would be a hard nut to crack. They had been fairly isolationist before we gave them a reason to recede even further into their strange, reclusive tendencies. It would be hard to pull the dwarves away from the southern mountains. And the infernals were likely to suspect I had stolen their magic and blame me for what Maya had called "The great division."

And of course, there was the whole part where I was a child just over five feet tall. I remembered the height vividly because I stayed there for a while, not getting the final few growth spurts that pushed me a hair over six feet until later into puberty.

Regardless, I needed to go home. There were a bevy of reasons, but most of all, I wanted to see my mother and Annette with my own two eyes. From there, I would try to convince my father that there was a war coming. That was a hard ask, but no one loved war more than Good King Gil. It wouldn’t be completely unfounded, either, as there was the attack on the caravan on the way home—speaking of which, I hoped Uncle Luther was alive and heeded my advice.

My mood soured at that situation. I had run away and left him. Would I have died if not? Probably. But all cowards have excellent justifications for their actions.

Perhaps, I could claim to see visions? There were a few big events coming in the next few years. If I established veracity and made my claim early on, sure, I’d be mocked and laughed at, but as things started happening as I predicted, it would give me much better leverage when it counted.

Of course, that was assuming everything followed the same timeline. Which so far, it hadn’t. If time functioned the way it did for Percival in the Chrono-Sphere—a work of fiction, yes, but give me a break, it's not like I could draw from any actual accounts—Thoth’s simple act of stopping the Caravan and waylaying me would have massive and unforeseeable consequences. How much had everything diverged? More importantly, why had Thoth changed it? How had she changed it? Who the hells was she?

"Any deeper in thought and you might fall in." Maya stirred me from the whirlpool of reflection, sitting down on the log next to me. Eliza was running from Victor, laughing, taunting the older boy, though it was clear he could have caught up to her if he really tried. She followed my gaze to them.

"We did a good thing," Maya said.

"Yes, we did."

"Are you ready to have our conversation now?"

I bit my lip. I needed to get this out. Waiting was just going to make everything worse.

"Maya, I’m not who you think I am…"

I trailed off, catching a glimpse of movement in the forest. A group of a dozen rangers bearing my father’s sigil emerged from the broken treeline. The search party had arrived.

And my time was up.

18

CROSSROADS I

Maya bolted at the first sight of them, heading towards the children. A ranger burst out of the woods and tackled her. She yelped as she fell. The man must have outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds.

"Hey Karyk, I think I found our rampaging infernal." He laughed as she struggled. "Someone help me get the manacles on before she sets me on fire."

I stood, intent to run towards her before another ranger caught me by the back of my robe. "Easy lad." I twisted to try and free myself, but experience was on his side. He easily moved with me and tripped me to the ground, placing his knee on my back. He lowered his face so he could speak to me. "Whatever she told you, that one there’s part demon."

"Let me go," I commanded.

"That’s a big tone for such a little shrimp."

Maya scratched at them, angry and feral. The only thing that explained her reaction was that she must have recognized the sigil. One of the rangers backhanded her, hard. She spit blood onto the ground.

"Might be more trouble than she’s worth, this one." The one the other had called Karyk remarked to an old balding ranger with white hair who shook his head.

"Fuckin’ demi’s."

The amulet fell out from beneath Maya’s robe.

It was then, with horrifying clarity, that I saw it.

I understood.

How the compassionate person I knew changed into the person I met that awful night that changed everything.

This had all happened before. It happened a few years later, but I had no doubt it happened the same way. Maya spent years fighting a Cold War with Barion, protecting and losing children she considered her responsibility. Maybe she found a way to beat him, maybe she didn’t. Either way, Barion’s time eventually ran out and the rangers closed in. Maya spent years of her life trying to protect humans, and when help finally came, she was treated exactly the way she was treated now. As a monster.

Who wouldn’t be bitter?

And then the right person came along with a cause and a weapon. A person with a reptilian eye and a hell of a grudge. Thoth went to the infernals and healed the division—how, I didn’t know, but that didn’t matter—and brought back the fighters that had been sealed on the other side of the divide. And then they fought under her banner. Whatever the means, Maya acquired the flame.

And became every bit the monster they thought she was.

Fuck this.

"Cairn, don’t!" Maya must have seen it in my eyes. My father’s men looked around, confused, recognizing the name.

I reached back with my spark and set the ranger on top of me on fire. He screamed, falling backwards as the fire ran up his chest. With what felt like a massive exertion of self-control, I recalled the flame, holding it in my hand. That overstrained feeling in my gut returned. Two archers drew their bows, arrows pointed at my head along with a half dozen swords.

I stood slowly, nursing the anger deep in my heart, and spoke.

"My name is Cairn of House Valen. Son of Gil. Prince of Siladon. And you will unhand my companion."

The guard I set on fire moaned in the dirt.

To their credit, they let her go almost immediately. Maya slumped to the ground, her hands still bound together in the manacles. She stared at me in horror and disbelief. Then her face scrunched up in rage. Far angrier than I had ever seen her.

A hooded ranger walked past the bowman and signaled. They lowered their weapons. He stood before me and removed his hood. He was white of hair, his eyes a cool familiar blue. I recognized him. His name was Cephur, a captain in the rangers. When I was younger—older than I am now, but still young—I would follow him into bars and pester him for stories of the Everwood.

He had the folksy sort of accent you’d expect from a farmer, not an experienced soldier. "Well, your majesty…" He eyed my fire, the woods, and the bound infernal. "What we have here is one massive, honest to Elphion, gods damned mess of a misunderstanding."

I told Cephur the whole story from beginning to present. Nothing about my previous life, but everything from the Caravan forwards. Several rangers were speaking with the children. Lucius was particularly animated, pointing towards Maya and the man who had struck her, letting loose an impressive string of profanity that managed to drift as far as the table. Of course, none of them bothered speaking to Maya herself.

Cephur’s brow steadily lowered as I told my tale, and by the time I got to the battle with Barion and the Demon he was outright scowling.

"I’d have to look at the body to be sure, but that sounds like a dead ringer for a hells blasted revenant." Cephur said. He tugged at his ear. "Last one was sighted more than two decades ago. You sure you’re not spinning me a yarn there, your majesty?"

I sighed, spent. "Just go look. Count the arms if you don’t believe me."

"Naw, plenty of time for that later. Plus, it’s not the sort of thing you brag about, fighting a revenant. Supposed to be bad luck."

An unexpected laugh erupted from my chest. It was hard to imagine having worse luck. Maya glared in my direction, crushing the moment of levity.

"What about this demon you mentioned?" Cephur asked. I bit down on my lip. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

"It… caught on fire and sunk into the ground," I said lamely.

"The demon did."

"Yes."

"The flame resistant demon caught on fire and sunk into the ground."

"That’s what I said," I snapped. Cephur held his hands up in appeasement. The white-gold of the pen caught my eye. For a ranger, it was a very nice pen. He must take his scribing seriously.

"I’m not saying you’re lying. The revenant should be evidence enough to verify your story, not to mention all the little witnesses. I just need to make sure we don’t need to call for backup to take down a rampaging demon if it escaped." He scribbled notes down on his pad.

"It won’t be a problem."

"The flame resistant dead demon who died, caught on fire and sunk into the ground won’t be a problem?"

"Yes! For fuck’s sake!"

"Alrighty then." Cephur stood suddenly, snapping his notebook closed.

"Wait." I stood with him. "That’s it?"

"Nope." he drawled. "What’s next is I gotta go over there and give little purple missy an apology, cause from everything you’ve said, she’s the hero of this story, and we just took a direhog sized dump on y’all’s victory lap."

True to his word, Cephur apologized. He did so in front of his men as fitting of an officer. From where I sat, it didn’t look like a particularly good apology, seeing as how he kept pointing at the burned out trees and shrugging, but it was an apology nonetheless.

Maya never really thawed. There was an initial moment of surprise, but after that she pulled into herself like a coiled spring, arms crossed, knee bobbing up and down.

I sighed and went to Barion’s chambers. Considering the significant span of time I’d spent in this cottage, this was the one room I’d never been in. I had no idea what researchers did to protect their lairs, but it wasn’t a stretch to imagine he had some method to know whether it had been entered without his knowledge.

It was surprisingly spartan. A neatly made twin-sized bed was framed by two cherrywood end tables. On one of them, there was an artist’s rendition of a big, boisterous-looking man, hands on his hips, looking forwards with a wicked grin. Strange, I’d never taken Barion as the sentimental sort. There was a matching desk overwrought with parchment and various documents, though I guessed the most damning materials would likely be down in the cellar. Within the chest were a number of trinkets: an ornate silver sphere, a number of letters, and most useful for my immediate purposes, a bag of golden rods. It clinked as I lifted it, the rods within shifting. I counted them out, finding thirty in all. It was enough to buy a single nice house in the capital or around three in Topside. A pittance, considering everything we’d been through.

"So, you're the Prince?"

I turned to see Lucius standing in the doorway. He still wore the scowl he’d carried all throughout his interrogation, though it had lessened somewhat.

"That’s what they tell me." I sighed.

"I see why you were holding that close to the vest. All those myths about royal blood and what not."

I chuckled. "Myths? You mean you don’t think I hold the magical potential of a minor deity?"

"Pretty sure if that was at all accurate, we would have been out of here way sooner."

"Fair."

His eyes drifted to the window. "That was all kinds of horseshit. What your men did."

"My father’s men," I corrected, suppressing a sudden surge of anger.

"Yeah. That’s what I said," Lucius shot back. My anger fizzled. He was right. What good would any of my efforts be if my father was there to immediately undo them. I needed to get him on board somehow—or out of the picture completely. The ruthlessness of the thought surprised me.

"I’m not trying to give you shit. My nerves are shot. It’s still winterscrest, right?"

I thought about it. That sounded right. "I think so."

"Yeah, well, time moved differently in that cage. It was like everything slowed down. It’s only been about four months for me—Victor was here the longest—but it felt like so much longer."

"I know a little something about that." I said.

"Had some time to think. Unwound some tension while I was yelling at that ranger." Lucius walked in the room and took a seat on the bed. "It feels like you know something you’re not telling. What exactly do you think they’re up to, my father’s little cult?"

It was tempting to tell him to buzz off. I wasn’t in the mood for entertaining children and it only worsened the more I thought about the last few hours. But Lucius wouldn’t be a child a decade from now.

"Something big. I don’t have any direct evidence, but I think there’s a conspiracy to overthrow the throne."

Lucius chewed on that for a moment. "That’s big. Also vague."

"I have no evidence that they’re even involved. All I know for sure is that they may be linked to someone who is."

"Look, it all sounds a little unbelievable," Lucius said. I started to speak, but he stopped me. "But I owe you. You and Maya both, big time. Once I get home, maybe I’ll stick my nose in, see what I can find."

"Anything would help at this point." I held my hands out to either side. "Not much to go on. Yet."

"Defusing a plot to overthrow the throne. That’s gotta be worth an appointment in the big city, right?" Lucien grinned. Unlike my friends before the coronation, his words held a hint of irony.

"I rather think it would," I said.

We shook hands and Lucien wandered off.

I looked out Barion’s window. Maya still held herself tightly, eyes directed downward as the rangers milled around. I cared for her, but she represented a much larger problem. The infernals. They were a huge boon of power to the enemy. If there was a chance to take a single arrow out of Thoth’s quiver, I needed to take it.

The solution came to me slowly. If I could get the infernals to take me as a ward, that would be the first step. The enclave was widely known for its magical prowess. I could learn from them. Maya told me that they needed dantalion flame to reopen the dimension gate. If I did that myself, perhaps I could beat Thoth to the punch and acquire loyal allies in the process. They knew as well as anyone that King Gil would not be king forever. The biggest limiting factor was the timeline. I drummed my fingers on the desk violently.

I was twelve years old, about to be thirteen. My mother would die a few days after my eighteenth birthday. Giving myself a year buffer, that gave me approximately four years to spend with the infernals, ingratiating myself to them. That had to be enough.

When I opened the gate, I would cash in the rest of my residual goodwill to get Maya or another life mage to come back with me and heal my mother. I would meet Lillian again and do things right this time. Then four to five years before the coronation and the attack. It was tight, but doable.

But all of that would be for naught if my father waged war against the enclave to get me back.

With that in mind, I took a piece of paper from the desk, dipped a pin in Barion’s inkwell, and began to write.

Father,

It is with a heavy heart that I greet you. For years I have slept poorly, dreaming of a woman that would bring our kingdom to ruin. Within my dream, I saw her unite all the Demi-human races against us and burn the capital on the night of my coronation. I disregarded them as mere nightmares and did not speak of it, thinking my dreams were nothing more than childish foolishness.

This was a luxury lost when the woman who haunted my nightmares attacked the caravan returning from Inharion. I’m sure you’ve heard her description by now. It is not a face that one forgets. I assume that you will also have heard the rangers’ reports of what happened within the Everwood. You will be delighted to know I have developed an affinity for an element of magic, making me the second wielder of the arcane within our family. It is both fortunate, and unfortunate, that the element I have acquired—demon-fire—is exceptionally rare. Thus, I am in need of tutoring in my new talent in order to better aid the kingdom.

It is with this in mind that I head to the enclave voluntarily and of my own free will. I have no doubt that your first instinct will be to rally the banners and set siege against the demon-kin in an attempt to retrieve me. I would beg you to stay your hand.

You once told me a story of your time as a prince: Conquering of the mountain folk of the Elgan; How no one thought their mountainous strongholds could be captured. So, you rebelled against your father’s wishes and went to them as a man without a banner and learned their ways. Studied their strengths and weaknesses. And using that knowledge you were able to accomplish what no one else could.

There is a war coming, father.

I know it in my bones, as surely as the sun rises in the sky and the snow melts at my touch. Allow me to attempt to bring the infernals to our side as allies.

By now, you must think me a foolish child, driven mad by nightmares and putting himself in peril for no reason. So, I will give you another reason to stay your hand. A series of predictions, based on my visions.

Immediately, there is a scribe within the treasury embezzling funds. His name is Osiris of House Ren. He’s the sloppy sort of thief and should be easy enough to snare once you know where to look.

Within the next three months, there will be an uprising in Topside. It will be led by a merchant named Rian, and if left unchecked it will result in a massive loss of commoner lives. He is a charismatic leader, inciting dissent at will, so if he were to meet with an unfortunate accident, I doubt the rebellion would proceed the same way. How to handle it is entirely up to you.

Of more import, there is a certain plant that grows near graveyards. A golden flower. I would advise bringing it to the Royal Chemist and putting him in charge of putting it into mass production with help of the court alchemists and gardeners. When combined with zale root, it can be used to form a cure for advanced respiratory infections. This will be vital come the end of next year, when there will be an outbreak of gray plague all throughout Whitefall that results in a massive body count if left unchecked.

There is more, but hopefully this will suffice for now. Please verify my claims, and if you find them accurate, allow me to work to bring the infernals to my side.

I wish you the best of luck father.

May the frost wane at your waking,

Cairn.

I placed the pen down, wringing out my hand. My young self was not in the habit of writing letters, so my hand had begun to cramp almost immediately. It would have to do. If anything would hold my father back from a fight, it was the promise of a bigger fight down the line.

There was a knock on the open door. Cephur shifted comfortably, having donned his cloak and travel sack.

"Ready to go?" He asked. "I’ll leave some men behind to inspect the site, but I want to get these kiddos to the nearest town as soon as possible. From there, it’s you, me, and a couple others, straight back to Whitefall." He offered me a cheery smile. "Bet you’re ready to get home, huh?"

If only.

I sealed the envelope and turned to him.

"About that."

19

CROSSROADS II

Cephur was not pleased. His face scrunched up almost comically as I explained that I would not be going with them, rather, heading south, escorting Maya back to the enclave.

"Let me get this straight. Instead of going home, you want to take little purple across the land, through the shadow canyons, to the enclave where you’ll… what? Turn around and head back?"

I nodded and he scrunched up his face. "You have any idea what your father will do if we come back to tell him we let you run off?"

"I made her a promise, Cephur. Either we left together, or not at all. After everything we went through, I can’t leave her now," I said, trying to project determination and command. Apparently, immune, he looked at me like I was an idiot child.

"And I have a feeling, if I tell you no, like your father would want, you’ll be slipping away from us in the woods to get back and likely getting yourself killed."

"That’s a sucker’s bet."

"Gods dammit." Cephur pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Let me speak to my men."

I sat next to Maya as Cephur conversed with his fellows. He gesticulated wildly, and I was sure I heard the phrase, "This fuckin’ kid," uttered more than once.

"Will you be taking me back to Whitefall, your majesty?" Maya asked. There was more ice in her voice than the northern mountains. She didn’t look at me.

It stung more than I cared to admit.

"No."

"Then what do you intend to do with me?" She asked. There was real fear in her voice. I could imagine how it felt: finally getting away from one captor, only to find yourself in the grasp of another.

"I’ll be escorting you back to the enclave," I said.

"Sure. Just like how you are an apothecary, or the noble son of a minor military family with little to no standing in politics." Each word was heady and bitter.

"I will take you back," I said defensively, then added, "None of that was said to you directly."

"It doesn’t matter. You let me believe it." Maya withdrew into herself and maintained a stony silence.

That was true enough.

"Thanks for not calling the demon. That took a lot of self-control."

"I thought about it," Maya admitted. "If they hurt you or tried to kill me, I likely would have. But the children were around. I did not wish to put them in harm’s way."

I squeezed her hand, then released it. "You’re a good person, Maya. We’ll get you home. A couple of weeks on the road, and you’ll never have to think of this again." She hesitantly nodded, but the distrust in her eyes was plain to see.

Cephur approached with two guards, and surprisingly, Lucius, in tow. "Alrighty. I want it on record that I find our current course of action unwise. However, as I cannot use force to persuade you, and the king would have my manhood at best, my head at worst, if I let his only son wander into… hostile… territory alone, that narrows our options a bit. So, we’ve got ourselves a posse."

He indicated one of the rangers. One was a stout man, not so much fat as he was thick and wide. He carried a two-handed zweihander that reminded me of my father’s, though this man’s was slightly smaller. "This is Orben. He’ll be operating muscle for the rest of the trip."

"‘Ello" Orben said.

Cephur reached up on his toes to smack the man across the head. "That’s a prince, you lumbering dunce."

"‘Ello’ your majesty." Orben smiled sheepishly. For whatever reason, I liked him immediately.

Then, Cephur pointed to the other ranger. A woman, only about a head taller than me. "This is Tamara. She’s the best lookout a man could ask for and could shoot the filling out of a bear claw." Her dull brown hair was pulled back tightly into a strangely ornate bun.

She inclined her head to me respectfully. "Your majesty."

Next, Cephur indicated Maya, startling her out of her brood. "Little purple here goes by Maya. Just Maya. Not hey you, not "hey-pointy-head," just Maya. Be nice to her. If you’re nice enough, she may even heal you if we run into trouble." Orben and Tamara shared a surprised look. Cephur glanced at Maya and she raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. Council’s still out on that."

I was more than happy for the help. The idea of crossing such a large distance on our own was too daunting to think about.

"What’s the plan?" I asked.

Our path was straightforward enough. The rest of the rangers would escort the children north towards the capital. I gave one of the men the sealed letter to deliver to my father. Lucius would travel south with us until we got to Kholis. He assured us that his father would be grateful for his return and that there would likely be a banquet. It would also be an excellent opportunity to rest and stock up on supplies for the longer leg of the journey.

Maya said her goodbyes to each of the children before we left, speaking to each of them and hugging them goodbye as the rangers looked on, perplexed. The children looked gutted to lose her. I took what we’d need for the journey, around eight gold rods, and distributed the rest to the children. It wasn’t even close to restitution for everything they’d been through, but they should at least share in the spoils. I caught Maya studying me before she turned away.

We left the cursed cottage behind and did not look back, happy to be rid of it once and for all.

Of course, I would return there eventually. But that part of the story is a lifetime away.

It felt amazing to ride a horse again. The wind in my hair, the trees flying by, the oh-so-intimidating Everwood reduced to nothing more than a shamrock blur. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The beast beneath me felt huge. Orben had to lift me up into the saddle. There was talk of switching our horses when we arrived in Kholis but I wouldn’t hear of it. All I needed were lower stirrups.

"Your majesty, would you kindly get your royal ass back in formation?!" Cephur shouted, his voice faint.

I sighed and patted my horse’s side in apology. "I’ll find a chance to get you a good run eventually, my friend." The horse grunted in acknowledgement. I wheeled him around in an artful canter, having him slide diagonally back into my place at the center of the formation. Orben clapped at the display while Cephur just shook his head.

"Shocking. The prince of our fair kingdom is an equine savant." Tamara said.

"Hey, I know what savant means," I said, slightly wounded.

"In that case I meant genius, your majesty." Tamara shot me a savage grin. I noticed her teeth came to sharp points—all of them, not just the incisors like Maya. A Siladon ranger with elf blood. It was a natural fit, albeit a rare one. Perhaps that was part of why Cephur had picked her for this group.

"Just a reminder," Cephur called back to us, "We’re a small detail. Please refer to his-majesty-Prince-Cairn-son-of-Gil-first-of-his-name-protector-of-demon-kin as simply Cairn while we’re out and about. No need to tip off any ill-meaning ears that we have a high-value target."

There was a chorus of affirmatives. In my opinion, they sounded far too happy about it.

Maya was stooped down, talking to her horse. It pranced about nervously, ruining its already mediocre gait.

"Problem?" I asked.

She sat up with a frown, shifting uncomfortably. "I am trying to make friends with it. It does not wish to be friends."

"You can’t treat a horse like an equal," I said, trying to help. "You can be friendly, but not friends. They have to know you’re in charge, or they get uppity."

Maya looked at me dryly. "The same way your kingdom treats non-humans, then?"

There was a dull whistle as someone sucked in air and cleared their throat. Loudly. I fiddled with my reins and said nothing. It was probably best to stay that way. I wanted to be patient. But there was this blasted surge of irritation.

"Are you… uh… gonna be like this all the way to the enclave?"

"I don’t know!" Maya exploded. "You are trying to help, and I need your help, but I also don’t want your help, which makes me feel bad because you already have helped."

"… That sounds complicated."

"It is!" Maya’s horse jerked at the volume of her voice. She nearly lost her balance, but I managed to catch under her arm, then quickly let her go. She turned a light shade of magenta.

Lucius snickered somewhere in the back. "Mom, dad, please don’t fight."

"Shut up!" Maya and I snapped simultaneously.

"Folks, we are currently deep in the Everwood forest, known across the land for its high concentration of nasties. I’m gonna have to ask you to keep the bickering and cross talk to a minimum quantity and negligible volume." Cephur said, annoyance hidden behind the pantomime of civility.

We rode like that without incident. The Everwood seemed to go on forever. I found myself growing sleepy, tree after tree passing in a hypnotic rhythm. As time passed, our formation seemed to relax somewhat. Tamara pulled up next to Maya and the two drifted away from me, conversing in dull whispers so as not to aggravate our leader’s attention.

A strange feeling drifted over me. It took a while to identify it for what it was: security. I’d been living on the edge of a knife for almost a full month. It felt strange to just relax and let someone else worry about our problems. This was the coddled environment I grew up in and having been forcefully wrested from it for what I estimated to be around a month, I could see how it had weakened me and dulled my senses.

I could not allow that to happen again.

There was a sharp whistle. It sounded exactly like one of the many bird calls I’d heard coming from the forest, the only differentiator was it’s proximity, coming immediately from my left. Tamara took her pinched fingers from her mouth, playful attitude completely gone. Cephur cued his horse with a slight tug on the reins and conferred with her. In a neutral tone, the same sort one might use to make idle observations about the weather, Tamara spoke.

"We are being followed."

"Any idea what it is?" Cephur responded, just as casually.

"No. There’s only one. It doesn’t seem all that large," Tamara said, then added, "by Everwood standards, at least."

"Could be looking for stragglers." Cephur raised his voice slightly. "Alright folks. Tighten formation. If you can’t grab the person next to you, you aren’t close enough."

We pressed together. I was unable to see anything within the wood, despite looking in the same direction as the half-elf ranger. "How in the hells do you see something in all that?"

"It’s more straightforward than it seems on horseback," Tamara answered, never taking her eyes from the forest. "You can't look for specifics. Just relax your gaze and look for anything that isn’t moving."

I looked out and realized the wisdom of her words. Though I couldn’t spot it myself, if something was keeping pace with us, it would look motionless against the vignette of moving trees and green.

"Good tip."

"I live to serve."

Cephur sighed at both of us loudly, and we maintained silence after that.

After a few more tense hours the sun began to set. I sighed in disappointment. Despite knowing the size of the forest, I had hoped we would at least be close to the end by nightfall. We continued at a slow trot until we found a small clearing and stopped for the night. Tamara hadn’t seen any more traces of whatever had been tailing us. Orben walked the perimeter of the campsite, threading what looked like silver thread in a large circle around where we’d be sleeping. Maya pulled the binding from her hair and ran her fingers through it, then tied it back up and started setting up her tent. I was about to approach when Cephur caught me.

"Give her time, lad. You just turned her world upside down. Twice," Cephur said. I scowled, not because he was wrong but because he was right. I just wanted to fix it somehow. If she was still angry with me by the time we got to the enclave, I wasn’t sure what would happen. I glanced down at Cephur’s sword.

"That’s a cavalry saber, isn’t it?"

"Aye. I served. 23rd regiment."

I needed to get stronger.

"Would you train me?"

Cephur rubbed the back of his neck. "It’s an honor you’d ask, but I don’t know that I’m particularly qualified. My brand of fighting isn’t particularly noble."

"That’s better," I said immediately. "Much better. I have no use for pageantry." I had no desire to fight duels or prove myself in the arena. More than anything, I wanted to be able to hold my weight. I needed to be able to do what Alten did—size up an opponent, immediately evaluate their weakness, and cut them down as efficiently as possible.

"Is that right?" Cephur studied me, hand to his chin. "You know, you aren’t what I expected. Not at all. It’s like a completely different prince walked out of that cottage."

"Let’s just say I have new and pressing insights of the things that linger in the dark." I said grimly.

"There’s something to be said for that," Cephur admitted. "Alright. Tomorrow at dawn, before we set out for the day. I’ll put you through your paces. But I won’t be racing a broken pony. If you don’t wake up in time, that’s it. If you give up, that’s it."

We ate field rations around the fire, little square bits of dried meat and bread, then everyone retired for the night. Orben and Maya were the only two sleeping in tents. Cephur dozed lightly, propped up against a tree at one edge of camp. Tamara effortlessly scaled a large oak on the opposite side and relaxed there—she somehow made it look comfortable, though I knew from personal experience there was no way that was true.

I took the first watch. The vurseng still wasn’t completely out of my system. It was one of those annoying substances that stored themselves in fat, thus for the foreseeable future, every time I was overly active it would be harder to sleep. I stared deep into the dark of the wood and watched for movement. But there was surprisingly little activity. Perhaps it was simply because this group was larger, or we were just closer to civilization.

I found my mind wandering to Sera, of all people. The great downside of my plan was that it took me off the Whitefall board for far too long. Sera had elven blood. Her words had been vague, but I could read between the lines. At some point Father had an affair with an elf—at least I hoped that was it: a nice, normal, consenting affair—and he brought Sera back with him post-conquest.

And Sera clearly had knowledge of the invasion and was complicit in it. How far back did her relationship with them go? I was angry at her, sure, but if my options were saving my sister or killing her, I would much prefer the former. Plus, to some extent, I got it. I was the firstborn and legitimate son, and I had been ready to throw it all away and never look back. And Sera had to work so much harder for even a fraction of what I had. How much worse was it for her?

Maybe my absence alone might help. Perhaps with me not being there for a few years, Sera would step into a more central role, taking some of the responsibility in my stead.

Probably wishful thinking.

Familiar golden eyes stared out at me from the dark.

20

CROSSROADS III

I jumped to my feet and drew my sword. Tamara stirred above me in the tree, pulling her bow and nocking an arrow. I saw Cephur slowly reach his hand to his pommel.

A shadow panther stepped into the firelight. My heartbeat picked up. I held my hand out and prepared to summon the spark. Then stopped. There was a section of burnt fur around its neck. In the panther’s mouth was a bloody rabbit. My mouth dropped open.

"Well, I think we found our follower." Tamara said quietly from up in her perch, arrow still held to her cheek.

"Friend of yours, kid?" Cephur asked. He looked deceptively relaxed, face neutral, but body ready to spring forward the second it was required.

"… Acquaintance" I said slowly. I kept my sword out but didn’t make any sudden movements. The panther approached me carefully, eyes never leaving mine. It opened its mouth and dropped the rabbit with a meaty plop. Then it rolled the small animal towards me with its nose. It rested on its haunches, ears flat.

"Take it," Tamara whispered, "It’s offering tribute."

"Is that normal?" I asked.

"No."

I reached forward and took the rabbit. It was wet and sticky in my hand. Somehow, despite being completely lost, I knew what to do. Taking out the small hunting knife Cephur gave me earlier, I began to skin the rabbit. The work was shoddy and unpracticed but that didn’t seem to matter. The panther looked on in quiet intensity. I cooked the rabbit over the fire, a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead. Operating purely on instinct, because it felt right, I halved the meat and placed a portion in front of the beast.

The panther watched me silently. You first, it seemed to say.

I dug into the rabbit. It was a bit overdone and still raw in the center. Only after I took the first few bites did the panther begin to eat. My companions were all awake now, watching the scene in reverent silence. The panther consumed its portion greedily, then rose to its paws, slinking into the forest with deadly grace.

Cephur let out a long breath. "Ain’t that something."

I woke at the crack of dawn. True to his word, Cephur was already up. He polished his saber, the burnished steel shining in the early morning light. Wordlessly, he shifted his head, indicating behind him. I stood and followed him into the forest. For a man so verbose he was quiet now, almost reverent of the forest around us. We entered a small ring of trees. The ground was uneven here, but for the Everwood it was as good of a training area as one could hope to find.

Cephur drew his sword, and I followed suit.

He then proceeded to demonstrate exactly how poorly prepared I was. He moved swiftly with the grace of a dancer. I could barely touch his sword, let alone him. Every exchange ended with the flat of his sword whacking against a newly tender section of my body. In casual conversation, it felt like Cephur could speak forever without tiring of the sound of his own voice. In training, his words were as efficient as his swordsmanship.

Thump. The saber smacked painfully into my side.

"Square your shoulders."

Thump. The saber cracked against my ribs.

"Don’t telegraph."

Thump. The saber bounced off my lower leg.

"Keep your guard up."

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The last strike bounced off the point of my elbow, sending a shock of pain up my arm. I growled and walked to the side, trying to shrug it off.

"You’re angry." Cephur observed impassively.

"Frustrated," I answered, shaking out my arm, then returned to square with him again. We were drawing a small crowd. Orben had wandered over to us and smacked loudly on some rabbit meat from last night. Maya watched from his side, arms behind her back.

Another flurry of blows too quick to track and the flat of Cephur’s saber smacked painfully against my lower back. I walked it off, glowering.

"Why are you angry?" He asked.

Instead of answering, I darted forward with an upward swing. Cephur sidestepped easily; the saber smacked against my wrist on the way up and added to the force of the blow, unbalancing me and sending me tumbling backwards.

"Because I held my own against a revenant. I should at least be able to keep up with you."

"Apples to oranges, kid. Sparring and fighting for your life are two entirely different things."

That didn’t make sense to me. Functionally, the muscle memory and effort were the same. Sure, there was adrenaline to account for, but that should be moot gain as it affected both sides.

"I don’t really follow," I admitted, fending off an overhead strike only to be tripped with a sudden sweep. To the side, I saw Tamara wander in, stretching. That left only Lucius sleeping in, a noble through and through.

"A demonstration then." Cephur sheathed his sword in one smooth motion, easily stepping out of the way of my incoming stab. He turned to Maya. "Little purple, short of cutting Cairn’s head off, if I wound him, you’ll be able to heal most serious injuries, correct?"

Maya nodded slowly, not looking happy about it.

"Let me clarify. Will you stop him from dying?" Cephur pressed.

"Yes," Maya said, her accent thick and voice throaty from sleep. "I owe him that much."

"Well, you heard the lady," Cephur said, turning back to me. "Try not to die."

Cephur unsheathed his sword. But it was different from before. Something intangibly shifted. Something about his form, the surrounding air. Then his sword flashed incredibly quickly.

Down.

My mind suddenly kicked into overdrive. I ducked beneath his blade, rolling backward, trying to retreat. Cephur closed on me with a series of brutal stabs. I batted them away and stepped inside his arc, swinging my blade at his face. He took a quick step backward and I called the spark, going to one knee to set the grass on fire.

But Cephur just smiled at me. Tamara was clapping. I recalled the flame sheepishly. The strained numbness in my chest flared, then faded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maya breathe a sigh of relief.

"Hot damn. Benny, you ever see a kid move that fast?" Cephur asked.

"No," Orben spoke with spoke through a full mouth, "He’s a quick one."

"That’s how you beat the revenant, kid." Cephur put his hand on my shoulder. "Instinct. A lotta men train for half their lives only to crumple when they see real combat. Some handle it fine. Others excel. You’re the latter. Improvisation and instinct will only go so far though." Cephur winced. "We need to get you a heavier sword—one that’ll build more muscle, then work the seven hells out of your form."

It was such a small moment. And it felt strange, being praised. But I would replay it in my mind time and time again, every time I hit a wall. In a way, Cephur was my first real teacher, and I took his words to heart.

We spent another hour training.

Tamara brought the staff out from our campsite and tossed it to Maya. I hadn’t realized it before, but Maya was adept with the staff. She ran through a practiced kata, moving faster and faster until the wooden staff disappeared in a brown blur. Tamara used a small curved short sword in a way that made her opponent look slow by comparison, but Maya still put up a respectable fight. Tamara was a much kinder teacher than Cephur, pointing out openings without immediate corporal punishment. When Lucius had finally risen, as he was lacking a sword, he seemed content to just watch, stretched out on a nearby boulder.

By the time we got back on the road, the ice had been thoroughly broken. Everyone had bonded over the sparring. We continued a similar pattern over the next two days. The shadow panther showed up again in the evenings, carrying a pheasant as well as another rabbit. On the second night, it let me stroke its head and went to sleep in the camp with us. Tamara started cracking an endless string of jokes about me being a druid.

It was around the third day when it happened. The trees grew sparser and sparser, the road became more uniform and cleanly paved. All at once, the tree line ended, opening up into nothing but green. We made it to the other side.

I glanced at Cephur, asking the silent question.

He rolled his eyes and nodded.

I dug my heels into the horse’s side. He picked up the pace, accelerating into a swift gallop. The wind tore at me. I raced forwards, hooves of my horse beating against the ground.

Faster.

We tore off the path, curving towards a lake to the east. The small silver gem expanded, growing wider and wider across my vision until all I could see was blue.

Behind me, the wall of trees shrunk until they were nothing more than a distant memory.

We were finally out of the Everwood.

We took some time to clean off the muck and grime from the traveling. I couldn’t get over how much better I felt. So many terrible memories left behind. The claustrophobia of the Everwood became commonplace, but now everything just felt so open and free. Cephur complained until everything was packed back up, and we returned to the road.

Traveling went exponentially faster now that it was far easier to spot hazards. In less than three hours, we crested a hill, and caught our first sight of Kholis.

We paused at the hilltop. Cephur passed Maya his hooded cloak. "Probably best if you wear this. No need to ride in and cause a stir."

I was about to speak up in protest when, to my surprise, Maya took the cloak without complaint and thanked Cephur for it. With Tamara’s assistance, Maya wrapped her arms in bandages, until the last of her violet skin was within the hood itself. The image was capped off when Maya pulled a white-gray mask, bearing the crescent of the moon, from her bag of supplies, and placed it over her face. She was used to this. It occurred to me that I had no idea how the people of Whitefall would react, let alone Kholis, if an infernal were to ride into town and walk into a bar. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember ever seeing one within the city walls. Humans with Demi-human blood were fairly common, though admittedly looked down on in high society.

It all felt wrong somehow. I caught Lucius making a similar expression of displeasure.

It was impossible to not compare Kholis to the capital. I had lived there all my life, and it was naturally the measure I saw all other cities by. Still, it was great to see civilization again. There was a line of farms before the main gate. Swarthy men worked the winter-sparse fields, already beginning to lay the groundwork for the coming season. They seemed the friendly sort, stopping to wave at us as we passed, then returning to the task at hand.

The city itself was rustic, about the size of Topside with better pathing. Cobbled roads were framed with quaint buildings, most white with brown supports, few larger than a single story. Most of the roofs were thatched, Kholis being one of many smaller cities that had not yet adopted tiles or shingles.

Our party was stopped by a pair of guards at the gate. There were the beginnings of rust on their chainmail, their jerkins were lopsided and seasoned. My father would have pitched a fit.

"State your business," The guard said. He took us in, his gaze pausing at Maya briefly before sliding away.

"King’s rangers," Cephur answered. "Found a little something Duke Desiric might be interested in."

"Oh?" The guard asked, in a voice that sounded as if he very much doubted that.

"Rufus, you salty old bastard," Lucius maneuvered his horse to the front of the party. "Why aren’t you out there looking for me?"

"Young sir!" The guard cracked a smile and bowed immediately. "You finally made it home."

"No thanks to you lot."

"The Duke assigned his best men to look for you, sir. I’d just slow them down. Weak bones and whatnot."

"I’m sure he did." Lucius scowled.

"Oi!" The guard turned back towards the gate. A small boy peeked his head out, no older than seven. "Go tell the duke his son has returned. Quick now!" Nodding curtly, the boy scampered off towards the only building big enough to be a Duke’s home.

"Well, come on in, sir." Rufus smiled a gap-toothed smile. "Bring your friends. Take ‘em to the night market this evening. My wife will be there with the last of the winter’s crop."

"Osella’s got honeyed yams this year?" Lucius asked.

"You know it, sir."

"Wouldn’t miss it for the world then."

Lucius waved at random folk as we walked through the town and they crowded around him.

It occurred to me, then, that Lucius would make an excellent leader. He was haughty and full of himself with other nobles, but so approachable to the guards and common folk that he knew the names of their wives and details of their businesses. There was a surge of jealousy. For me, there had always been a separation. I could blend in Topside as a commoner, but only disguised as a commoner. If I went as Cairn, the Crown Prince, everyone gave me a wide berth, guards included. Perhaps it was my father’s reputation.

Or maybe it was much more likely that I had been an asshole.

We were ushered into the Duke’s mansion. It really was garishly big in comparison to the other buildings in the town. A butler came to take our coats. Maya shied away from him.

"She’s fine," Cephur and I said simultaneously. The butler shot us a queer look but did not comment. A minute later we were shown into a seating chamber.

"My boy!" Someone roared. Everyone jumped. Duke Desiric was a colossal, boisterous man with arms like tree-trunks. His massive belly hung over a long-suffering belt, and he was shockingly red of hair. He picked up Lucius and swung him around, laughing. Lucius’ face remained completely stoic.

It didn’t track. This was Barion’s fellow contact in the dark guild’s shadow society? I couldn’t imagine this man hurting a fly, let alone approving of human experimentation. Then again, I thought back to my initial impression of Barion. It was difficult, as I’d seen him as a monster for so long. He had seemed totally innocuous. An eclectic researcher, plying his trade.

My mouth turned downward. Perhaps I was too trusting. I would not be taken as a fool twice.

Desiric plopped Lucius down. "Are you well, my boy?" He asked.

"Quite well. Father, these are the people who rescued me." Lucius indicated Maya and I. The Duke somewhat blindly turned to Cephur, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "I can’t thank you enough, kind sir."

"Actually," Cephur rubbed the back of his neck, "We were just responsible for the escort. The Crown Prince and Maya rescued your son."

"Crown Prince?" Desiric’s presentation subtly changed in a way I wasn’t sure I liked. He turned to me. "You? You are Cairn, son of Gil?"

"Greetings, Duke Desiric." I offered him a false smile. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"The gratitude is mine, my Prince." Desiric bowed low, his belt creaking mournfully. "Had I known I would be receiving guests of such high regard, I would have made better preparations. And for the prince himself to save my boy… I offer my deepest thanks."

"It was nothing," I lied. "However, my role in this was limited. Were it not for my companion’s healing and intervention, your son would have passed long before I stumbled into that accursed grove." Next to me, Maya shifted uncomfortably.

The Duke bowed to me once more, then studied Maya. "Take off your mask, child, so I may look upon the face of my son’s savior." The tension in the room suddenly grew. Maya glanced at me, her blue eyes terrified. I nodded. She need not disguise herself in this place. The Duke wouldn’t dare mistreat the guest of a prince. Maya took a moment to settle herself, then removed her hood and mask.

The butler gasped. Duke Desiric’s face paled. "An infernal," He breathed.

Maya curtsied before him awkwardly. The Duke’s eyes flitted from her face, to her horns, to the bandages on her arms, completely taken aback. Then he sat down on an oversized chair that must have been designed specifically for him with a groan, rubbing his face.

Lucius started to speak "Father-"

Desiric held up a tired hand. "Very well, child. What price must I pay to recover my fool son’s soul?"

I bristled. The Duke was referring to something that anyone with sense discounted as an old Uskarian wives tale. Several legends followed the same basic plot. The infernals ransomed the souls of kidnapped children. The parents paid massive amounts of gold or traded their own souls in exchange. But they were clearly tales devised to frighten children.

Were these bumpkins really that superstitious? Slowly, the many ways I could leverage my authority to monumentally fuck up the city of Kholis began to run through my mind. My ire grew. I was about to voice it when Maya spoke. Her voice was measured and polite.

"I would settle with a loaf of bread and a room for the night, my lord."

I looked at her, surprised.

The Duke was silent. Then he began to laugh, and, to my companions’ credit, none of them joined in. "You shall have it my dear, you shall have it. There is room enough in my home for all of you. But we shall dine on more than a loaf. We must celebrate!" Desiric snapped his fingers. "Ganthar, have the maids make the preparations for a banquet. No, a feast!"

"Yes, your grace." The butler bowed curtly, all but running out of the room.

"We will need to restock before we set off on our journey tomorrow, your grace," Cephur said.

"Let me cover that. The Duke’s credit goes a long way in these parts." Desiric winked. Cephur bowed shallowly. We were shown to our rooms on the upper level. Once out of Duke Desiric’s sight, I saw Tamara grasp Maya’s shoulder approvingly.

As I unpacked my things, Cephur walked in behind me. "What did you think of our host?" He asked, tone pitched low.

So, he had seen it too. Duke Desiric played the part of a kind-hearted noble well. He was the picture of countryside hospitality and politeness. But no matter how animated he was, no matter how he laughed and smiled, his ash-gray eyes never changed.

They were the eyes of a dead man.

"The sooner we leave, the better," I answered.

21

CROSSROADS IV

Kholis had a refreshingly cozy atmosphere. It was the sort of place where everyone seemed to know each other, and news dispersed instantly. Vendors in the mercantile district jeered across the street at competitors good-naturedly, and the smell of baked goods and sizzling meat had my stomach rumbling. Because of its size, we’d been branded the rescuers of the Duke’s son almost instantly and given something of a hero’s welcome: a truly inordinate amount of food was thrust in our direction and Cephur and I had received enough collective hey-there slaps on the back to herniate a disk.

Maya constantly turned as she walked through the town, trying to take in all the sights, pausing at every vendor and inspecting every stall.

She leaned over to whisper to me. "They are just giving things away."

"So you’ll come back and buy more."

Maya put a hand to her mask where her mouth would be. "Oh. They do not realize we are leaving tomorrow."

"What they don’t know can’t hurt them," I winked at her. An older woman held out a gnarled hand to me as we passed. I received the proffered item automatically and looked down, shocked at my good luck. In the palm of my hand was a candied apricot, garnished with a salted pecan. I looked back for the woman, but she had already disappeared into the crowd.

I bit it and almost choked on the perfection. It was the perfect blend of sugar and honey, with just a touch of thyme.

"Elphion take me, that’s good."

"What is it?" Maya asked.

"Ever had candied fruit before?"

"I do not think so."

"Allow me to introduce you to the height of human engineering and achievement." I handed her the other half.

"This?" Maya said doubtfully, holding it up to her mask and inspecting it.

"Trust me." I grinned.

Maya lifted the bottom edge of her mask with one bandaged hand, careful not to show her face, and nibbled the edge of the fruit. She reeled back. "Sweet." She nibbled a little more. "Very sweet." Then she ate the whole thing, salted pecan and all. There was a temporary pause. "My mouth is confused."

"That’s how you know it’s good."

"You have strange tastes."

"Hey, any taste is an acquired taste if you try hard enough."

"If you live by these words, I fear for your stomach."

We bantered for a while. To be honest, it was a relief to talk to her normally again. She hadn’t exactly given me the cold shoulder, but she had been quiet and withdrawn. I’d been afraid that would be permanent. Eventually, we came across a blacksmith, who also happened to be the only blacksmith in town. Cephur pulled the door open. A small bell jingled from within.

"Come on kids, let’s pick out some toys."

I looked around, lost. Embarrassing as it is to admit, every sword I’d carried up to that point put aesthetics over function. Not to an insane degree—I’d never do something as stupid as wielding a gold-dipped sword or a blade that had holes drilled so gems could be socketed—but my pommels had all been gaudy, elegant things, more hip ornaments than true weapons, my blades coated with oils that made them shine brighter.

I didn’t even know what type of blade I preferred. My current sword was somewhere between a saber and a rapier. In my late teens I switched to a rapier, then to a curved sword when those came into vogue about two years before my coronation.

The blacksmith’s selection was unsurprisingly limited: as the only smith in town, I had no doubt that the majority of his work went to outfitting the guardsmen.

"Do you have anything with ascended steel?" I asked mindlessly, running my hand over the various pommels.

"Nope," he answered. The man took a long draw from his pipe and let the breath out slowly. "Just iron and regular steel around these parts."

"You don’t want ascended steel anyway," Cephur pulled a small blade from a barrel, hefted it between his hands, then replaced it, moving on to another. "Any benefit gained in lightness and strength is outweighed by visibility.

"Your friend has a point there, boy." The blacksmith said. I looked at him funny for a moment, then looked away. He might be the only man in Kholis who didn’t know who I was.

Cephur scowled, picking up several small swords and putting them back almost immediately. "Blacksmith, we need somethin’ combat ready. Not a little sword that’s meant to train with other children using other little swords.

"Sounds like you’ve got yourself a problem, then," the blacksmith said. But his eyes slid towards a dust covered barrel closest to the backroom. I approached it, and the man stood to his feet. "Nothing in there you’d be interested in-"

But I had already popped off the lid. Inside were a cluster of short blades. They were smaller than most short swords. In the hands of my father, they would have looked more like a dagger than a sword. I slid one out of the sheath, and stared, perplexed. It was not an attractive weapon. The blade’s metal had a dark base. It almost looked like iron, other than the oily green hue. Its double-edged blade was uniformly thick until it reached the tip, where it quickly tapered into a point. It had a rounded, decorative cross-guard. The spherical pommel came to a tetrahedron pointed end.

I remembered with great clarity the use Alten had put his pommel to—battering an attacker’s head with it when they pushed too close. It was such a small modification, but in practice, could be incredibly useful.

Cephur let out a low whistle. "Lowhil." He looked over at the blacksmith who was now leaning against his counter, visibly sweating. "You been doing some side work for dwarves, old man? Arming the enemy?"

"Of course not!" The blacksmith snapped, then leaned back, eyebrows pulled together so tightly it gave his forehead half a dozen vertical wrinkles. "Elphion take me, this is why I didn’t put them on display."

"It’s dwarven?" I asked Cephur, confused as to why that would matter. Cephur took the blade from me and weighed it, then took a few measured swings. "Not… exactly. I’ve held a few dwarven lowhil blades. Battle trophies. The weight on this is a bit off, but it’s mighty close. Lowhil’s a great metal. It ain’t pretty so it’s not so popular in human weaponry. You see it in a lot of daggers, though." He seemed to be considering something.

"It’s actually better," The blacksmith jumped in, his tone oddly elevated, "the dwarves are too fascinated with engraving. They think it lends the blades' strength, the simpletons. Too much engraving is what throws off the weight of the blade."

Cephur didn’t look convinced. "By a fraction of a percentile, maybe. Well, why do you have these, old man?"

The blacksmith looked down. "It’s a hobby."

"The swords made from lowhil, almost exactly to dwarven specs, are a hobby?" Cephur asked, in what I was beginning to recognize as his interrogation voice.

"Yes."

"And it’s just these swords. These specifically. You don’t happen to have, say, any elven swords lying around in the back?"

"No." The man’s head actually swung from side to side. "As if I’d be fool enough to work with ochite. My forge doesn’t get nearly hot enough and I’d much rather keep my arms and legs attached."

"But you’d be foolish enough to work with another type of metal. Say, pixie steel."

The blacksmith snorted. "Pixie steel is a myth." A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead into his beard. "They use xescalt, same as the infernals."

Maya had approached, a small dagger held gingerly in her hands. "That is not common knowledge." She said to Cephur. "I do not know what the pixies use, but xescalt is not talked about outside the enclave."

The man was visibly sweating now.

"Alrighty then," Cephur took a few steps to the side towards the back room. "I’m just gonna take a quick look."

"I’m not helping the blasted demis!" The blacksmith finally broke. "I just… appreciate their craftsmanship. My boys work in the mines. They sell me the unmarketable ore at a steep discount. I’m not helping them. I swear it to the elder gods."

"Now that," Cephur broke into a wide grin, "I believe. And with that sentiment I also concur. Tell you what, old man, this being a small town we’ll keep your secret. But let’s see that private stock."

As Maya and I followed him into the back room, I found myself reevaluating the Cephur. He had a gift for pressing people. Making them feel uncomfortable and pressuring them into revealing things they wouldn’t have dreamed of disclosing otherwise, all while maintaining perfect politeness. Come to think of it, maybe it was because he was so exceedingly polite he could push so hard. It might be something worth emulating in the future. I tucked it away for later consideration.

The blacksmith’s forge area held many regular swords I assumed were reserved for the guard’s armories, but on the walls there were quite a few weapons I recognized as classic Demi-human armaments. The man seemed to specifically have a thing for dwarven weaponry, with nearly a half-dozen assorted axes and hammers. He looked nervous. It occurred to me that this was likely the first time he had ever shown off this aspect of his work. Maya went to one side, Cephur the other.

Cephur plucked a small lowhil dagger off the wall, grinning. "Exactly what I was hoping to find."

I stepped beside him. "Sidearm?"

"Not just that," Cephur said, indicating a diagonal slot near the cross-guard. "This here’s a bonafide dwarven sword breaker."

"Really more of a sword catcher." the blacksmith said. "The sword actually breaking is something of a misnomer."

"Tell that to my last saber," Cephur said ruefully, "It got misnomered to itty bitty pieces."

The blacksmith sniffed. "That speaks more to its craftsmanship than the sword breaker."

I took the dagger from Cephur, hefting it in my hand. It was surprisingly weighty, thicker than most daggers would be. Its design was immediately apparent. It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d actively parry with; that would get you killed. Rather, if a sword was trapped against the ground or your enemy was off-balance, you could effectively grab their sword and create an opening.

The memory of my battle with Barion came back to me—specifically the moment he ran me through with his rapier. I’d done something similar with my own body. I was lucky Maya was there, of course, but if the weapon Barion used was anything other than edgeless, I may not have even made it back to the cellar for her to heal me. A shudder went through me at the thought, looking at the dagger in my hands. Yes. This was a much better alternative.

"I like it." I decided. "The sword too. What do you think?" I asked Cephur.

"I think they’re both practical. They won’t draw attention—most people will mistake them for iron at a distance, and you get a sword that’s only slightly weaker than ascended steel. Plus, I want one of those sword breakers," Cephur emphasized the word stubbornly, "for myself. We should both get one. One, they’re awesome. Two, you’ve been needing a good backup weapon for a while now."

I thought about the number of times up to this point my sword had been knocked away from me. He was right about that.

"We’ll take them." But the blacksmith was no longer beside us. He had moved over to Maya, who held a black staff.

"I’ve never seen so much xescalt used in a weapon before," Maya said in awe, holding the wooden staff gingerly. It was smaller than the crude staff we had made her, only about three feet long. On closer inspection, it wasn’t just wood. There were long segments of reflective dark metal in the bow. The closest analogue I could think to compare it to was a blackened bronze.

"Aye. My pride and joy, that one was. The infernal swords are notoriously difficult to get right," the blacksmith mused, "It was too much to justify making a mold for one. So, I made this instead. It’s not so different from military staves, only instead of a core of steel, I used xescalt. And that’s not even the best part." He took the staff from her, held it in the middle, and twisted. It came apart, forming two smaller batons.

"Amazing. Heretical, but amazing. The sort of weapon my family would never be able to afford." Maya said. Her statement seemed to confuse the blacksmith. "Well, yes. Xescalt is notoriously expensive and many would not pay much for a weapon that would be associated with demi-humans. Not sure about heretical though." He peered at her then, considering her mask, her bandaged arms.

"We’ll take it." I said quickly. "That and the dwarven sword and two of the sword catchers."

The blacksmith blinked. "I can’t sell these things, young master. They’re more art than weapons. And what would people say?"

"Cairn, no," Maya hissed.

"I beg to differ," Cephur said, "they’re fine weapons, blacksmith. Though I’m not sure I can justify paying what you’ll probably be asking for a sidearm." Cephur said, flipping the sword-breaker between his hands experimentally.

"Well, I can," I insisted. The blacksmith’s face looked pained. But you can never underestimate the effectiveness of greed. I held up my purse slowly and clinked it, the sound of the heavy rods within it shifting together. He looked at all of us and sighed.

With a bit of haggling and a promise to leave him unnamed, we left the smith one golden rod lighter. It was not an insignificant price to be sure, but the weapons clearly meant something to the man, and my mother had instilled in me early to never underpay for art.

There was a lightness to my step. Acquiring new items was always something of a palliative for me. No matter the situation or monetary value of the item in question, striking a bargain and leaving with something new always elevated my mood. Maya, however, lagged behind us for the rest of the afternoon, silent and unsociable. A part of me sagged at that. I had thought she was warming back up to me, finally, but that was apparently temporary.

It took a few more hours. We made sure the horses were being properly cared for and prepped to leave. My wardrobe was finally refreshed, and the clothes were serviceable. A step up from Barion’s robes, though significantly less glamorous than my usual attire. I bought a dark cloak not unlike Cephur’s.

The best purchase by far, however, were a pair of boots from a cobbler. I slipped them on, and my eyes nearly rolled back into my head.

Padding. They had padding.

Whoever the monster was that decided nobles should only wear delicate, thin-soled shoes deserved to be taken outside and bludgeoned with a giant stick. I laced the boots, then stood and rocked back and forth in them experimentally. A small moan escaped my lips. It was like standing on clouds. I would never take them off. Never.

Since I was clearly making the cobbler uncomfortable, I paid the man, and we headed back to the duke’s mansion. The shopping had taken longer than expected. I unloaded my new purchases on the floor and splayed out on the bed, delighting in the luxury of the mattress.

There was a knock at my door.

I opened it to find Maya. She stood there awkwardly with the staff held loosely in one hand, her tail wrapped around her wrist. Her jaw was set.

"We need to talk," she said.

22

CROSSROADS V

I was never great at keeping friends. Real friends, anyway. The reason was illusive and it certainly wasn't for lack of effort. Still, a pattern is a pattern. As the Crown Prince, I represented the future in more ways than one; it made sense that people would flock to me. Acquiring new friends was easy. Keeping them was hard. There was no contesting the fact that people entered and left my life with regular consistency, the only question was the quantity of time.

One specific example comes to mind. Feran of House Morrow. A hundred years ago, House Morrow was known for their fierce spearmen. With superior reach and unrivaled speed, they were the match of any swordsman, and the utter bane of cavalry. In recent years, they shifted away from warfare to scribing.

I met Feran at a royal ball. Both he and I were around thirteen years old and unengaged—I did not have a fiancée because my mother was opposed to the concept of an arranged marriage. Feran did not have one because, as the third son, his father had not bothered to secure a match. Thus, we huddled in the corner, sieged on all sides by a legion of noble ladies looking to take their proverbial shot. Neither of us were old enough to enjoy that type of attention, so when approached, we would go out, dance for a single song, then return to the corner, hoping if we remained completely motionless and talked in whispers, we would not attract the attention of yet another assailant.

Nothing bonds people together quite like commiseration. Feran and I kept in touch. He was a bit bookish for my taste, I had to nearly drag him to the stables to get him to go riding with me, but eventually, he did. Annette liked him as much as I did and would pester me to bring him to the pavilion, so we could all play Koss. They would talk of books, and I would try my best not to fall asleep.

It became wonderfully rout. Half our time spent doing what I preferred, usually exploring the city or riding, half spent doing what Feran wanted, spending time in his family’s library or in the pavilion with Annette.

But eventually, after maybe a year of this, the bounty of time we once had grew sparse. Feran claimed he was expected to take on more of his family’s clerical responsibilities. He was still perfectly civil and promised to make time once his schedule cleared.

But of course, that never happened.

At some point, tired of feeling like a child chasing after an errant pet, I decided I would let him come to me.

And he never did.

We still saw each other at various gatherings and events, and he was perfectly mannered, bowed, and always said something to the effect of, "It’s been too long, we must get together soon." And then we would return to our separate lives, as if our brief friendship had never existed at all.

It took two or three more painful repetitions of this incident with others for me to recognize it as a pattern.

"It’s just a thing that happens to me."

The words became a mantra. So, I stopped trying to make worthwhile friendships. I started spending more of my time with the sycophants and social climbers I so loathed.

Because, at least, if nothing else, they were consistent.

It was with all this in mind that I sat across from Maya. She had the same distance in her eyes that Feran had. Perhaps that sounds a bit silly, a prince, so dutifully concerned with the status of his relationship with an infernal. But it did matter to me, nonetheless. We had relocated to the Duke’s aggressively upholstered upstairs sitting room. Large parlor windows let in rays of cool winter light. Maya’s leg bumped up and down, the shadow bouncing against the back wall.

I braced myself. "So, what is it?"

"I am ordering my thoughts," Maya said quietly. The words left an uneasy feeling in my gut.

Then, a few moments later, she slid the halved staff across the table to me. Then she took off her amulet. "While I am grateful for everything you have done for me, I think it would be best if we went our separate ways."

I breathed a slow hissing sigh. That tracked. Of course she did.

After all, it was just a thing that happened to me.

"Can I ask why?" I said. My voice was cold.

"There are many reasons." Maya said. She looked away. "But mostly it is an issue of trust."

"Gods." I put a hand to my head, then gestured towards her. "We fought a monster together, Maya. We worked together and we brought Barion down. We saved your kids. We found you a demon—a good one from what you’ve said. What exactly do I have to do to get you to trust me?" My voice raised ever so slightly.

Maya put both of her palms flat on the table. The muscles in her forearms strained with each consecutive point. "Setting aside that you have lived comfortably within the walls of an ivory palace while my people have scraped and starved, ignoring the fact that the men we travel with would have likely killed me had you not interfered, and overlooking that you are the son of my sworn enemy…" She looked at her hands. Her voice quavered. "Setting all that aside. You have still not been honest with me."

"Gods above, you are completely unreasonable."

"It is not unreasonable, Cairn."

"It feels pretty unreasonable."

"What is unreasonable is being expected to just accept the things you do at face value and ask no questions." Maya’s eyes burned. "You knew what Barion was. You knew about the children in the cellar and my relationship with them. You decided, arbitrarily, on your own, that you would escort me, a less-than-human as your people call us—back to my home out of the supposed goodness of your heart-"

"I saved you." I cut in venomously, but Maya barreled on.

"So now it was you, and not us." Her eyes narrowed. "Most concerning of all, is that you hold the sacred flame—the lifeblood of my people—and offer no explanations for it."

"Oh, so that’s what it is. You want to know where the damn fire came from?" I said, my tone dangerous.

Maya held her hands wide. "Great. That is a great place to start."

In a past life, you killed my damn sister. You burned her alive Maya. She screamed like an animal as she cooked. I didn't even recognize her voice at the end. Burned me pretty good too because I carried her out to the fountain and tried to put her out. But I don't have to tell you how that worked out, do I? You're a fucking ungrateful hypocrite and you know what? I don't need you. You need me more than I need you, but here you are slapping my damn hand away so get fucking lost. Good luck getting back to the enclave on your own—

I clamped my hand over my mouth before the bile running through my mind could form into words. What an asshole I was. I almost said all that. To Maya. After everything she'd done for me. So happy to finally have a target for all my hate and bitterness and vitriol.

But then I saw the way she shook. The way she braced herself. The beginning of tears in her eyes.

I recognized it. Maya knew my pain. She was expecting a betrayal. Had been, perhaps from the moment we first met. And now she was trying to hasten it, to get it over with.

It was just something that happened to her.

Slowly, one breath at a time, I let the venom go. The vengeful, bitter person from my first life had no place in this one.

I sat down and began to tell my story.

Maya didn’t respond much during the telling. Her eyes gained this far away quality, and she fell completely silent. It was more of the truth than I would have dared tell anyone, leaving out her role in the sacking of Whitefall and the violence of our initial encounter. I told her that an infernal had murdered my sister to explain my exposure to the demon-flame, but I did not say who it was.

Little by little, I felt the pain in my heart begin to lift. Even then, I think, it had weighed on me heavily, this terrifying secret, knowing it was unlikely anyone would believe me. I told her about Sera, Annette, and Lillian. I told her of the many times Barion killed me, culminating with the reason I feared her demon so. Wet streaks trailed down my face, my vision hot and shimmering. The tears continued to fall, spattering on the table in an arrhythmic patter. Still, her face didn’t change, maintaining the same stoic stillness. I told her of the ravenous darkness in my mind after the demon consumed me, and how she had saved me from it.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"And so, that’s pretty much the long and short of it. I understand if you don’t believe me. It’s a lot. But believe this." I took her hand. "I’ll do whatever I can to restore your people, both now and when the crown passes to me once more. I swear it to the Elder Gods, Maya. All I want is peace."

Maya considered my words for what felt like an eternity. Then the glaze in her eyes finally faded and she exhaled. The breath sounded strange, like a cold wind torn from her lungs.

"I…" She looked at me, looked at my reddened eyes. She spoke, voice full of sympathy, "Ni’lend, why is it so hard to tell me?"

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. "What do you mean? Of course it was hard."

"Wait…" Maya reached up and touched her own face, gingerly, "What’s wrong with me." Then she turned to me. "I feel like I’m forgetting something important."

Black tendrils of fear clawed up from the ether of my subconscious and squeezed. I put my forehead in my hands and forced myself to breathe.

"… What’s the last thing you remember, Maya?"

"What do you-"

"Please Maya, please just tell me the last thing you remember."

"You sat down. And it looked like you were finally about to tell me the truth. Then you struggled… and I asked why it was so hard."

Suffer. As I have suffered.

"I didn’t speak?"

"Not until just now. Cairn, what is happening-"

You’re alone, little prince. So very, very alone.

I stood suddenly. The chair toppled. My heart pounded in my throat.

"I need to go."

As I ran, a memory swirled up unbidden.

Sera was in the castle training yard with sword-master Pitt. She was wearing banded leather armor and breathing hard, intermittently drinking from a water skin. I pulled myself up on the bench beside her. She studied me, annoyed, then ruffled my hair.

"Whatcha’ doin’ out here, Cairn?" She asked. The end of the question pitched downwards instead of up.

"Looking for you," I answered, happy she addressed me at all. I placed my small wooden sword across my lap.

"Go play with Annette."

"Annette’s a baby." I scowled.

"You’re a baby."

"Am not."

Sera let out a long-suffering sigh and stood, stretching her arms above her head and clasping her hands together.

"Ready to get back to it?" Pitt asked, placing his flask aside.

"Wait!" I stood, panicked.

I held my wooden sword up, pointed at Sera’s chest. "I challenge thee!" Sera blinked, then laughed, long and hard. I crossed my arms.

"I mean it!" I insisted.

"It’s not time to play, Cairn," Sera said. But it never was with her. I couldn’t remember the last time. But maybe Sera just got tired of baby games like tag. Sera liked to fight. If I showed her I could fight, maybe things would change.

"Not playing," I lied, "I want to learn."

Sera blew a long blonde strand of hair out of her face in irritation. "Schedule some time with Master Pit or some other Master and learn, then."

I looked up at her. It didn’t make any sense. Did I do something to make Sera dislike me? Did I say something that hurt her feelings?

"Alright, fine. Stop looking at me like that." Sera crouched down in front of me and poked my forehead. "Let’s play seek-and-find."

"Really?!"

"Yes. Find a hiding place. Pitt and I will have one more bout. By the time it’s over, you better have found a good one."

"Alright!" My chest was tight with excitement. I turned to run, then looked back, suspicious. Sera always found a way to cheat. "You can’t lose in like five seconds and come get me. It has to be a good bout."

"Fine, fine, you caught me." Sera waved a hand dismissively. "Better hurry, though."

It took five minutes to find the spot. One of my mother’s maids was on duty, so I slipped into her quarters. At the foot of the bed was a small chest. It was a snug fit, but I pulled my knees tight to my chest and managed to close it flush. Sure, it was uncomfortable, and after a few minutes my legs grew sore and my side cramped, but it was worth it. This was the perfect spot.

No one could ever possibly find me here.

And as it turned out, no one did.

Cephur was in mid-sentence with a street vendor, holding some sort of fried fish in his hands when I approached. The panic must have shown on my face because Cephur trailed off and immediately looked behind me, searching for the source of my disquiet. His hand went to his sword warily.

"Is everything alright, your grace?

The words came out in a panicked stream. "This is my second life. I died on the night of my coronation and came back, ten years earlier. This year. I’ve died so many times—that doesn’t matter. The woman who killed me back then is still hunting me. Hunting us. And when I told Maya this it just slipped from her mind, like…" Cephur’s face was strangely distant, like he was recalling some faded memory. "…like now." I whispered.

"What does that mean?" Cephur asked blankly. "What’s it like now?"

"Never mind." I took a few steps backwards, my chest aching, then turned and ran through the streets of Kholis, looking for another familiar face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear laughter.

Chef Emi left an unsigned note in my room, summoning me to the kitchen. She wasn’t there, of course, my father had a strict no-tolerance stance on the celebration of birthdays—he called them institutionalized coddling—and had fired servants in the past for even making note of it. Still, if she happened to leave a piece of my favorite cake in a covered pan and I happened to find it on a day that happened to be my birthday, there was no harm in that.

This had been our silent tradition for as long as I could remember.

I left the lamp unlit and ate my cake, savoring the zest of the lemon and the coolness of the whipped cream. She really was the best.

The door creaked open and I froze. A small form entered the room holding a candelabra. I watched in amusement as Annette snuck over to the pantry where Emi stored hard candies and malted confections.

"Bit late for sweets, isn’t it?" I asked.

Annette swore and jumped a solid foot in the air; one of the candles from the candelabra went flying in an arc of flickering light, extinguishing as it hit the floor.

"Elphion’s sake, Cairn." Annette held a hand to her chest.

"Just an observation. No need to get upset." I shoved another forkful in my mouth to cover a snicker. Annette grumbled indecipherably and relit her fallen candle.

"Is this some bizarre act of rebellion then?" She asked, looking at the contents of my plate. "Eating cake in the dark?"

"Specifically lemon cake," I said, "Acidity is at the heart of every insurrection."

"So dumb." Annette rolled her eyes. I couldn’t be sure from the dimness, but it looked like she was flushing red, embarrassed at being caught in the act.

"Get your candy. Not judging. I mean, look at me." I held both arms out to both sides. She looked hesitant, so I pushed a bit more. "Come on, come sit with me."

Annette shook her head. "My appetite is ruined." She turned to leave.

"Hey, Annette?"

"Yes?"

I flattened a small section of crumbs on my plate with my fork. "I don’t really care or anything, but I’m a little curious. Why did you stop coming to my room to read?"

"I was being a pest. Why does it matter?"

"I dunno. I guess it really doesn’t. It was just weird, is all. You came every day. For like a month. And then you just stopped. Guess I was wondering if there was a reason."

Annette slowly shook her head. "No. Not really."

"Oh. Okay then."

Having apparently reconsidered, Annette returned to the pantry and retrieved a handful of malted chocolates, rolling them up into a handkerchief and placing them into her clutch.

"Don’t forget about them," I said cheerfully, "If they melt it's gonna get everywhere."

"I won’t. I’m not a kid."

"Says the kid sneaking candy out of the kitchen."

"Shut up," Annette grumbled, and pulled the door open to leave.

"Hey, Annette?" I said.

"What?"

"You were never a pest. And… you’re always welcome to come back." I said.

"Okay." Annette said, after a long moment. And then she was gone.

I shoveled the final bite of the cake into my mouth.

It tasted like ash.

Tamara was idling outside the fletcher’s, testing a new gut-string for her bow. She had nearly tied it off; the pink tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth when I arrived. The string came undone at my sudden appearance, snapping and leaving a thin red line across the palm of her hand. I doubled over and put my hands on my knees, panting, a stitch in my side.

"Ow! Elphion that hurts." Tamara put her wounded hand to her mouth, glowering at me. "Is there a reason you’re running around like a headless seahawk, your majesty?"

"Yeah… just… hold on a second."

"Where did you even come from?" Tamara asked, looking around for a disturbance.

"The… Duke’s…"

"Not really that far." Tamara raised a judgmental eyebrow. "We need to get Cephur to work on your endurance."

I pulled myself upright painfully, stitch in my side still festering. It was harder to say the words this time, but the oozing fear pushed me onwards. There had to be a limit, right? All magic had limitations, that was one of the first things you learned about it. And Barion had said magic to this scale should be all but impossible.

"I’ve lived this life before. Everyone keeps forgetting what I’m saying. If I die, I don’t stay dead, I get pulled backwards to some point in the past…" I trailed off as Tamara’s expression mirrored the same lost, glossy expression, "Gods…"

"You know, I was thinking we might teach you the bow. It gets stressful being the only archer of the group." Tamara flashed me a savage grin. But I was already running, stitch in my side forgotten, the sense of doom only growing with each footfall.

My path took me in something of a loop, I found Orben in the Duke’s stables, combing his horse.

"‘Ello your-"

"I’m a time traveler," I started speaking before I even came to a full stop. "Like Percival and the Chrono-Sphere. In fact, I have a Chrono-Sphere. So, I know what’s coming in the future. Only, not the immediate future because I haven’t—well, it’s complicated." My attempt to vary my story was getting extreme. There had to be a limit. There had to be.

Orben’s eyes didn’t glaze over, only because that was how he always looked. He spoke after a few seconds. "Yeh. Most things are complicated for me, your majesty."

"That’s what I thought-" I stopped mid-statement, realizing what he said. "Wait, Orben, you heard that?" Some small part of me dared to hope.

Orben nodded. I couldn’t believe it.

"What did I say just now? Just tell me what happened."

"When?" Orben asked. He was thinking so hard I could see it.

"When I ran up to you. Just now, just tell me everything."

Orben’s eyes widened in understanding. "Ah. Alright then. So I came out here to comb out Merryweather’s mane. She’s a prissy lass, and if I don’t do it every day she won’t go faster than a trot when I need it most. So, I’m combing out her mane, just like always, and then she turned her head and nickered like she always does when she wants me to do the thing. And I tell her, ‘say Merryweather, I don’t wants to do the thing here. That stable-boy will see me and peoples will talk.’ But she’s insisting, you know."

By some miracle, I forgot my own troubles for just a moment. "Sorry, Orben, what’s ‘the thing,’ exactly?"

His cheeks tinged pink. "It’s… head pats and ear scritches, my lord." The palomino mare whinnied in approval. "See? Wants them nonstop. She’s insatiable."

"Get to the part where I come in," I said.

"Right. Well, you ran up, all upset like, and said, ‘It’s complicated.’"

I put a hand to my head. Of course. What a fool I was to even hope. "Never mind. Just. Never mind." I walked from the stables in a daze as Orben patted his horse. The viselike grip of isolation returned, growing tighter with the rhythmic pounding in my skull.

The physician’s mouth was moving, but for the life of me I could not hear him. He shook his head, face mournful and oh-so-understanding. With a wet rag, he wiped traces of red from his hands. An endless procession of handmaids streamed in and out of the conjoining room. A pair of them whispered quietly in the corner, glancing repeatedly in our direction. The physician finished speaking and looked at us with insufferably practiced sympathy, waiting for a response.

"I won’t do it, gods dammit. Elphion take you and your family." Sera’s face was a mask of rage. She stormed away, door slamming behind her.

Annette’s hand was clenched on mine, her small fingers white, her face devoid of the slightest emotion, completely impassive. Her nails dug deep. A tiny red drop welled up from where her third fingernail had pierced the skin.

"Annette," I said.

She released my hand suddenly. "Sorry."

My legs ached as I stood, having fallen numb for what felt like hours, my back and neck sore from staying in one place for too long. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept.

"I’ll do it," I said to the physician. My mouth felt strange as I spoke, as if I’d forgotten how. He nodded and took his leave. I looked at Annette. "Do you… want to come?"

She shook her head, a motion so small it was nearly imperceptible.

"Are you sure?" I asked. The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was badger her, but it was necessary. "There may not be another chance."

Another small shake.

"Alright. If that’s what you want."

I walked down the hall, my very perception of it seeming to stretch and warp. The end grew further and further away. There was movement out in the courtyard and I paused to look.

My father was out there, fighting the guards. This sort of sparring would have been nothing out of the ordinary, but today, he was unarmed and unarmored, while they used training jerkins and live steel. There were twelve of them. His muscled form strained as he pushed himself to the very limit, spinning, lashing out, spinning again. It was too many opponents for anyone to manage. A man rushed at his back, landing a shallow slash across his shoulder blades. Father spun, his face a mask of anguish and fury and charged full tilt at the man, grabbing him from beneath his legs and slamming him to the ground. Now atop him, my father’s fist pulled back and cracked forward, slamming into the man’s face. The impacts were audible, even from a distance. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five.

It took all of them to pull him off their fellow, pinning him to the ground until the rage faded. Father sat there, panting like a wounded animal. The man on the ground did not get up. My father laid back in the dirt, staring aimlessly up into the sky.

Coward.

With a deep breath, I stepped into the treatment room.

Maybe it was a trick of the mind, but for a moment I saw her as she once was. Queen Elaria: hair blonde and lustrous, her face full and beautiful. But as I approached the bed, the illusion faded. Her shining blonde hair faded to a sickly white. Her face thinned, gaunt and bony, wrinkled skin drawn tight. I pulled up a chair, taking the cup at her bedside and using the small sponge to wet her cracked lips. She didn’t move, her sunken eyes shut.

"Hello Mother," I whispered, then cleared my throat, banishing the weakness in my voice. "The physician seems to think things are… pretty bad. He said…" I cleared my throat again. "He said your body is shutting down, but for some reason you’re still hanging in there. And he wanted me to tell you something, but… I don’t think I’m strong enough." I stood and paced the room, looking out the window again. Father had disappeared. Why wasn’t he here for this? I paced back and forth.

"Aren’t you supposed to wake up? Isn’t that how it always goes in the stories? The parent regains consciousness, just before the end, and bequeathes some… piece of wisdom to the child. Anything. Even just a word. Something for me-" I cut myself off. "Something for them to carry forward."

I sat beside her again and took her hand. It felt so frail.

"Can you squeeze my hand, so I know you can hear me? Or move a finger?"

Nothing.

"That… that’s okay." I leaned back in my chair, spent and exhausted. The words came slowly, agonizingly. "You’re my touchstone, mom. You always were. You taught me how to think for myself, how to look at the world. I know… I promised I would be a good king. A kinder king. That I would rule with compassion and thoughtfulness. That I would be a better man than father. But I don’t know if I can... because…" The last sentence caught in my chest.

I’m so alone.

Somewhere in the castle, there was the sound of laughter. It was a light-hearted and carefree sound. As if the world itself wasn’t ending. I swallowed a sudden, irrational anger at the interruption.

I chuckled, low in my throat. "But this isn’t about me, is it?" I patted her hand. "What an asshole, right? It’s the end times… and I’m still sitting here talking about myself." I squinted my eyes shut, trying to recall everything I wanted to say.

"I was talking to a priest about the Elysian Halls. He said… he said it’s beautiful there. Peaceful. Golden fields of wheat extend as far as the eye can see, broken up by crystal towers that throw prisms across the sky. There’s no night, no darkness. Your sisters will be there: Salwen and Kaari for sure… so… you won’t be alone. There’ll be music and dancing. I can almost see it."

I choked, fighting to get through it.

"They’ll… they’ll give you a harp, mom. You’ll play like you always did, and blow them away. The worthy will gather from all over the astral plane just to hear it. And you’ll be strong. Just like you used to be." I placed my forehead on her knuckles.

"The physician told me that sometimes, when a person is very sick, they hold on for the sake of those around them. That they feel guilty leaving. He said that sometimes, giving permission helps. Saying goodbye."

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

"If you’re ready, it’s okay for you to go now."

Please don't go.

"Sera, Annette, and I, we all love you. We’re gonna miss you, but we’ll be okay."

It will never be okay.

I waited so intently for the slightest movement, a shifting of her head, a squeezing of her hand. More than anything, I wished her eyes would open once more, even just for a second. I begged the gods for mercy, every single one of them.

My shoulders weighed down on me as I stood. I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned down to kiss her forehead.

"Goodbye, mother. May the frost always wane at your waking."

"And that’s the whole story. I’ve gotta bring the whole continent together under one banner somehow, and you and I are the only ones who know the truth," I said aimlessly.

The shadow panther stared at me, intelligent eyes clouded. I had wandered out of town in a daze, directionless, my feet taking me towards a nearby patch of trees. The great cat had been napping in the sun, intent on following me for whatever reason but smart enough not to brave civilization to do so. I stroked its silken fur, letting my fingers run through it mindlessly. It licked my face. I poured some wine from a purloined wineskin into my palm and held it out. The panther lapped it up, then gave me a look that seemed to say: Really, you drink this?

"I do indeed. Why was I so scared of you, anyway? You’re a big softie."

It looked vaguely offended.

A twig snapped. The panther’s ears perked up. Another twig. And another. There was only one person I knew who was this bad at woodcraft. Maya appeared from behind a tree.

"I would think by now you would have tired of trees." Maya scowled at the surrounding woods.

"That’s true," the words slurred together, "But I had to confer with a colleague in their place of business." I held the wineskin up at her. "Want some?"

"No."

"Ok."

It occurred to me that, in my panic, I had rushed off without giving Maya her cut. That was likely why she was here. I pulled out my purse and began to count, then gave up and tossed the whole thing over to her.

"For your troubles. Should be more than enough to charter an escort to the magus enclave."

Her lips thinned. "See? That’s part of the problem. It’s too much. If this is going to work, you cannot keep trying to buy me, Cairn."

"I’m not," I said. Then I thought about it. The staff. To a lesser extent, the amulet. That had been exactly what I was trying to do. What I always did with my sycophantic friends—splash some gold around, and they’d follow me for days. But then the rest of what she said sunk in. "What do you mean, if this is going to work?"

Maya crouched down in front of me. Her face was thoughtful. "How did you put it? Ah, yes. ‘I am going to talk now. Just lay some things out. Let me know if I get anything wrong.’"

I blinked, reminded of that night on Barion’s roof, surprised to hear my words repeated back so accurately. "Go ahead."

"You know things. That much is obvious. Things you should not know. Things no one could know, yet you know them all the same." Her words were as sobering as a slap to the face. I sat up, mouth opening silently Maya continued, "But it does not come freely, your knowledge. It weighs heavy on you. In fact, I would bet all the treasures in my family’s vault that you are somehow cursed."

My chest tightened. She saw me. "But, how?"

"After you ran out of the Duke’s manor, I felt strange. There was this compulsion to ignore it. Were it not for the grandfather clock near the doorway, I may have disregarded the feeling entirely. But the clock had moved forward ten minutes."

"You were missing time."

"Yes. At first, I thought it was you. That you had cast some strange, unknown magic on me. Ridiculous, but you have done more ridiculous things." Maya smoothed her dress beneath her and sat down on the grass, reaching for the shadow panther. It growled, and she pulled her hand back, thinking better of it. "Then I followed you from a distance. I watched as you ran to our companions. I talked to each of them. None could remember the exchange. Then I watched as you spoke to the town-folk, each of them giving you the same empty stare.

"It reminded me of a legend my father once told me. An infernal politician summoned a powerful arch-fiend for the purposes of making a wish. He wished to be the most charismatic man in the world. But there is a reason why arch-fiends are better left alone. The arch-fiend granted the man’s wish, and took his voice as payment. The man learned to speak with his hands, but somehow his translators all interpreted his passionate words and inspiring statements in a flat tone, unable to express the music that made the man’s words come alive." She stopped, her face wilting. "You tried to tell me, at the Duke’s manor. You did tell me. But I cannot remember."

"Yes." I whispered, scared if I said anything more, Maya’s eyes would suddenly glaze over, and she would forget this conversation ever happened.

"You are not alone, Ni’lend." Maya knelt in front of me and touched my face. A knife long-buried untwisted in my gut, finally coming free.

Her face grew determined. "Tell me again."

"But you won’t remember," I said, terrified at the thought. Somehow, someone knowing that they didn’t know was less awful than that person being completely ignorant.

"Magic. Has. Limits." Maya emphasized each word. "Change your story a little each time. Lie if you have to, but keep your words as close to the truth as you can make them. We will do this as many times as it takes."

As many times as it takes. I smiled. That was poetic, in a way.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

So, once again, I told her my story.

23

CROSSROADS VI

The process of trial and error was tedious. The sun had just passed its zenith when we started, and now slowly climbed back down, halfway to setting. In this time we discovered much: anything to do with "time travel" or living through some version of the future triggered a wipe, as did mention of dying. But, as Maya had suspected, the so-called curse did indeed have limits. After a number of repetitions, I could finally communicate the gist of it.

Maya’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "So. There are visions. But there are two different versions of them. One is farther off, and less accurate. Sort of an overarching view. In this vision, you saw the invasion and the demise of your family. The others are more short-term and give you an idea of what is about to happen. Like with the children in the cellar. Is that… about right?"

I felt light, like the world was no longer crushing me. "Pretty much, yes." Some part of me was incredibly relieved, realizing since this version of the story was "allowed," that the letter I sent the king would still accomplish its purpose. It was lucky that I assumed he wouldn’t believe me had I told the truth.

"What’s the timeframe of these short-term visions?"

"It’s… hard to say." I thought about it. "When I first met you, I’d say about ten days? But that was the first experience with… the smaller visions. It’s also not a guarantee. I don’t always know when danger is coming. There’s a… triggering… event that has to happen first."

Her eyebrows lowered even further, then she groaned, laying back in the grass and staring up at the sky. It reminded me of some of the first time we spent together, lounging in the clearing around the cottage, recovering from the day’s work.

"Sorry," I said, "I know that’s not really detailed."

"It’s not you." Maya reached a violet hand towards the sky, closing her fist as if to grab a cloud. "I am just wishing harm upon whatever god afflicted you. Is there a human god of vagueness?"

I chuckled. "No. Closest would be Nemosis, goddess of mysteries."

Still, I found myself deep in thought. Ever since the Caravan, there hadn’t been much time to stop and really consider the larger implications of what had happened before. As far as I was concerned, there were two possibilities for what was happening to me. Neither was great.

The first was that somehow, Thoth did this to me. I remembered the way she had cut her hand open and cast something on the knife she used to kill me. But that seemed ridiculous, bordering on absurd. An incredibly powerful leader? Yes. But it made no sense that someone would expend so much effort only to restart everything. After all, she had already won. It wasn’t even close.

The second possibility struck me as more likely. I remembered taking off my crown and casting it into the fire. How quickly it was consumed. I wish to live, freely and forever. I shuddered at that. It would explain why a god was angry with me, but on this, Maya wasn’t entirely correct.

"It’s frustrating… but… I am grateful for it." I laid down next to her and stared into the endless blue.

"Why?" Maya rolled on her side to look at me.

"Because it gives me a chance to change things for the better. And not just for Uskar itself, though that’s a big part of it. In the… vision. I didn’t like who I became. The person I was."

"Were you like your father?" Maya asked hesitantly.

"No, not that. Never that." I ran my fingers through my hair. "But I was bitter and spiteful. Something precious was taken from me. Something irreplaceable. And I just let the loss consume me until it was impossible to think about anything else."

After a moment. "A woman?"

"Her name was Lillian, and she was the first to die. She was really something." I smiled. "In the vision, I mean."

"But, that long-term vision is not set in stone?"

My smile faded a bit at that. "True. It could play out entirely differently, but I hope it won’t. Her role in it, anyway. Other than the ending."

"Well, I am convinced." Maya sat up, her face set. "If anyone but you had told me this, it would be totally unbelievable. But I’ve seen it first hand."

I followed her as she stood. "So?" I asked.

"So, we are back on track. I will travel with you and the others to the Magus Enclave. Once there, I will introduce you to the infernals. I cannot promise anything more."

"Thank you!" I nearly hugged her then, barely stopping myself in time. Instead, I stuck out my hand. She stared at it for a moment and then shook it. Her skin was soft but her grip was strong.

Maya hesitated. "Fair warning, while they are fairly pragmatic, they may still decide to execute you. There is much emotion when the name Valen is involved."

"Eh."

"You will be in constant danger from those who wish you ill. There are radical factions that would like nothing more than to add you as a symbolic notch in their belts."

"What else is new?"

"And on the off chance they actually let you into the school itself—which is going to be unlike any sort of institution you might be picturing—it will be a lonely venture, and many will go out of their way to sabotage and harm you. You will not have many allies."

"What does it matter?" I bumped her shoulder lightly as I walked past her. "I have you."

Maya’s face reddened at that, and she scowled down at the grass and grumbled as we began to make our way back towards town.

"Cairn?"

"Yes?"

"How close did we get? To the truth?" Maya’s ponytail bobbed up and down as we walked, our feet crunching on fallen leaves. "I know you cannot be specific, but I would like to have some idea."

I considered the question.

"Close enough."

We arrived back at the Duke’s mansion as the red-orange sun touched the horizon, just in time for the feast. The smell of steak and roast vegetables and a half-dozen other miraculous creations floated through the air. The Duke had apparently either made an announcement or sent men to speak to everyone individually because Maya was allowed to take off her mask and bandages. No one screamed. As the guests of honor, we were treated to many gifts and thank you’s, along with a constant line of handshakes. Well, I was. No one went out of their way to shake Maya’s hand, but they tried to look her in the eye and speak kindly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

There was wine, but I ended up drinking lots of water instead. One of the most upsetting things about being young again was that my alcohol tolerance, once magnificent and beautifully maintained, was now entirely gone. The quarter of a wineskin from earlier had nearly blasted me out of my skull. It took hours for it to fade even somewhat, leaving me with a dull throb in the back of my head.

Tamara sidled up next to me, holding an oversized goblet filled with wine. Earlier in the afternoon I might have been jealous. Now, even the sight itself was enough to make me nauseous.

"So…" She said.

"So?" I answered grumpily.

"Where’d you go after our chat earlier?" She ran her finger over the rim of the wine goblet. "I thought about coming to look for you, but Cephur said to leave you be."

I was grateful for that. Cephur might not have understood my words, but the man was a master at picking up on subtext. If they had come looking for me, in the state of mind I was in, there’s no telling what sort of nonsense I might have said.

"Went into the woods to clear my head. There was a lot on my mind." I shrugged.

"But you and Maya came back together."

"Yes, she was with me."

"I see." There was a long silence. Her green eyes peered at me playfully.

"…What?" I finally said.

"Nothing. The optics are interesting, that’s all."

"What optics?" I took a sip of my water.

Tamara chose her words carefully. "You snuck off to the woods with an infernal. The same one you moved heaven and earth to ensure we escort across Uskar. For the whole afternoon. Then both of you came back together."

"So?"

"And I just finished picking the grass out of her hair."

I spat my water out, coughing, her implication suddenly made clear. Tamara waited patiently for me to recover.

"I’m twelve!" I glared at her irritably. Actually, now that I thought about it, as of today, I was thirteen, but that didn’t seem relevant. Not to mention, there’s nothing more insufferable than telling a group of strangers that today is your birthday, so they can awkwardly congratulate you out of duty.

Tamara laughed heartily, "The fact that you even realize what I’m saying is an admission of guilt."

"She’s an infernal!"

"She’s a young lady," Tamara corrected, "one who was just saved by a dashing prince."

"You’re really barking up the wrong tree here."

"It’s a little early, sure, but there’s no shame in exploring-"

"Please stop."

"We have a long trip ahead of us yet. I’m just saying, if you have any questions, it’s one of my many areas of expertise-"

I put a hand to my forehead. "Yes, yes, you will be the first person I come to. Gods damn it."

Tamara sauntered away, eyeing me smugly. Elphion’s beard, that made me uncomfortable. Not to mention, she was completely wrong. Maya was wonderful, yes. An observant, clever, compassionate, wonderful person. My gaze scanned the room until I found her. She was sitting next to Lucius, intermittently laughing and spooning soup out of a bowl.

It was funny how easily I’d grown accustomed to her more alien features, after daily exposure in relative isolation. Her violet skin no longer seemed strange to me. The spiral, segmented horns atop her head, framed with long dark hair, were just another feature in my mind, like her ears or duchess nose. And her white eyes, though lacking any pupil or iris, were as deep and expressive as anyone’s, perhaps more so.

No. Tamara was completely wrong. And Lillian was waiting for me in Whitefall.

But can you afford to marry for love, this time?

It hit me like a punch to the stomach. I pulled out a chair and sat down, feeling completely at a loss. Someone patted me on the shoulder and greeted me with a handshake, their face and words entering and slipping from my mind almost immediately.

I couldn’t, could I? The path forward with the infernals was clear enough. I was essentially following in Thoth’s hypothetical footsteps, leveraging their support from reopening the gate. The Dantalion flame would be key, and it would be as much in their interest to teach me as it was in mine. But everyone after? The light elves, dark elves, dwarves, pixies. It was a lot. I would have only a fraction of the time. It would be impossible to get them all.

And a very straightforward way of aligning two peoples and resolving bad blood was through marriage. An old, familiar bitterness clawed at my heart. I pushed it down brutally. No. I would find a way. I’d start planning early, and learn as much about the other races as I could during my time with the infernals. That was who I was, wasn’t it? A planner?

I sat down with Lucius and Maya, toasting them with my goblet, allowing the fear and anxiety to slip away. It was time to revel in our victory. We had earned this, at the very least.

Still, I couldn’t fight the feeling, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Lillian was already slipping away from me.

Later that night, I returned to my room. The Duke’s strange demeanor was at the forefront of my mind. I did not feel safe. I suspected I never would again. Looking at my plush bed and silken sheets longingly for a moment, I instead turned to my rucksack and reached inside. I pulled out the tobacco pipe I had purchased from the market as well as my vurseng. It supposedly left your system faster if it was smoked, rather than eaten. It was time to put that theory to the test. I doused the lamp, pulled up my chair to the window, and sat, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary. This was going to be a long night.

It was a little after three in the morning that I saw a massive, shadowy figure leave out the front door.

I stood, sliding open my window and throwing my cloak over my shoulders. The Duke was on the move.

24

CROSSROADS VII

I slipped out the window and into the night. Some part of me had wanted to wake Cephur or Tamara, but by the time I got them up and moving, Desiric would be long gone. It would have been wiser to communicate my intentions earlier, perhaps one of them could have slept in my room instead, but to be honest, I was exhausted from the emotionally draining element of the day and not thinking entirely clearly. It had felt like paranoia, staying up all night in the house of a fellow noble, suspecting foul play. But now, of course, that paranoia was vindicated, and I was once again on my own.

The streets of Kholis were strangely empty: it was not uncommon for small towns like these to have little to no nightlife, but in Kholis, apparently even the taverns closed early. There was next to no one on the street. A low full moon reflected off slick cobble and there was a chill in the wind, whispering of a looming cold front. More discomforting, now that I thought of it, there were no beggars at all. In my experience, that was either a good sign for the health of a town, or a very bad one.

Following the Duke in Kholis was very different from tracking Barion through the forest. While it was much easier to keep sight of him, by the same coin, there was significantly less cover. I had to follow at a much greater distance, moving between barrels and darting into the small side streets between houses. Every time I moved, all he needed to do to spot me was simply turn around. My heart hammered in my chest.

After a few minutes, he stopped, seeming to pan the surrounding area. As he turned to check his back I dashed left to stay out of his sightline, rolling into the open mouth of a nearby storm sewer. A cluster of rats squeaked and darted away from me, further into the drain. I counted out five seconds and then peeked out, revealing as little of my head as possible.

The street was empty.

Duke Desiric was gone.

I frowned. There was no way a man that big simply vanished into thin air. I kept low to the ground in a crouch, slowly walking up to the spot I’d last seen him, approaching a decrepit-looking house. From within, I heard voices. I crept up to one of the lit windows, spying beneath the curtain.

"I’ve had enough." The Duke’s voice. He was talking to a tall, spindly man with slicked-back hair.

"Relax," the man said.

"I will not relax," the duke thundered. "You told me you would get my son back. That all I had to do was keep an eye out for anyone new on the road.

"And lo’ and behold, your son has returned to you," the man said, his voice dry and mocking.

"Returned by Prince Valen himself!" The Duke hissed. "Do you have any idea what will happen if he calls his father down on our heads? Forget about the town and my son. I’ll be lucky if I leave this place alive."

"My benefactor accounted for this possibility," the man said condescendingly, "and it will take more than a kidnapped child to move Oath-Bane himself from Whitefall."

"Why are you speaking for her, anyway?" The Duke griped. "Why doesn’t she say anything? She’s just sitting there." He turned to someone out of view. "Well, girl, what do you have to say for yourself?"

There was a blur of movement. One second, the Duke was standing in the center of the room; the next, he was slammed up against the wall, a familiar dagger to his throat. A woman in banded leathers with white hair pushed the knife forward, letting it bite into his flesh.

"Who, exactly, do you think you’re talking to?"

Thoth.

I clamped a hand over my mouth. The ringing in my ears returned, full force, as Thoth’s aura darkened the room. She was here. She’d been here the whole time. On the wrist that held the knife, I could see the tattoo, an inverted butterfly pinned by two swords.

"Please, have mercy." The Duke shook like a leaf, all bluster and arrogance gone from his face.

"My lady," the spindly man said, "Desiric still has a part to play. It would be wise to leave him be, if only for the moment."

"We don’t need him," Thoth smirked, pressing the knife in further. The Duke’s neck was bleeding. Both his massive hands clawed at her wrist, fight or flight response taking over, but she was utterly immovable. "We already have a perimeter. There’s no need to drag this out any further."

"As you wish." The man said. "But if you keep leaving bodies-"

Thoth slit the man’s throat. Blood spattered the wall and floor. Desiric fell to his knees, gurgling, hands pressed against the wound. It was like trying to hold water in a sieve.

"-someone is eventually going to take notice," the man said with an irritated sigh. His gaze flicked to the window and I ducked down, my heart racing. No. No. I just got away from Barion. There was no way I was doing this again.

"We take them at dawn. Pay off the guards. Make an example of one, so the rest know what happens if they talk."

"If it isn’t broken, I suppose there’s no meaning to fixing it." The man sighed.

That was more than enough. Carefully, barely even breathing, I snuck out to the street, counted to five, then started sprinting back towards the Duke’s house.

Cephur’s room was closest to the door. I burst through it, my shoulder smashing into it clumsily and burning from the impact. The door hit something, and was immediately smashed back towards me, sending me tumbling back into the hallway. My back impacted the wall with a hearty thump.

Cephur stood before me shirtless, his cavalry saber pointed out the door, eyes blazing. He saw it was me and immediately lowered his sword. I noticed the pillow and blanket on the floor behind him. It was an old mercenary trick. If you’re in enemy territory or the town seemed strange, sleep on the ground with your feet jammed up against the door. Smart.

"We gotta go. We gotta go right fuckin’ now." I whispered furiously, pointing repeatedly towards the door. There was the sound of footsteps coming up the hallway. Likely one of the servants had heard the commotion. Cephur glanced inside his room and back at me, hefting me up under the arms and dragging me into the room before the servant arrived.

Being easily picked up by another person was such a weird sensation.

"What’s up, kid?" Cephur asked. I found myself surprised. He didn’t tell me to fuck off, didn’t ask me if I’d had a bad dream; he took me seriously from the start. But that didn’t matter for shit if Thoth caught up to us.

"The woman who came looking for me in the caravan is here. Her name is Thoth, and she just killed the duke, and if we don’t get out of here she has men in position to kill us at dawn."

In the background, I saw a person rise from the bed. I nearly jumped out of my skin but it was just Tamara.

Oh.

She slipped into her tabard and I looked away, blushing.

Cephur studied me and made a snap decision. He released me and began to dress. I noticed that both his and Tamara’s bags were still packed.

"How’d you find out?" Cephur asked. Short. Clipped. The same way his voice changed when we were training.

"I saw the Duke leave and followed him. He met with her-"

Smack. Cephur’s open hand slapped me across the top of my head.

"Ow!"

"You can have me executed later, your majesty," Cephur said coldly, "But that won’t matter if you’re dead because you did not do something as basic as communicate. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Cairn, bow." Tamara said. I grabbed it off the nearby dresser and tossed it to her. She caught it in one hand and prepared it quickly, her fingers nimbly threading the gut-string and tying the knot. "Wake Orben. Tell him to get three of the horses and not be seen, then get Maya up."

"Got it."

I knew the rangers were good, but I didn’t know how good. Within five minutes we were packed and leaving the Duke’s home. I whispered a silent apology to Lucius—he would be getting that promotion to City Lord sooner than expected.

There was a single guard at the gate. Cephur moved like liquid silk. He snuck up behind the guard and grabbed him in a chokehold, pulling his other arm back with what looked like a black sap with a wider, swinging weight on the end and smashed it into the guard’s skull.

Elphion. He’s not waking up anytime soon.

Orben heaved the gate open as quietly as possible, but it was an old construction. The hinges complained loudly, creaking echoing across the cobblestone. We all froze, waiting for guards to shout and torches to appear.

Nothing.

Maya and I doubled up with Tamara and Cephur, respectively. We had only opened the gate enough for the horses to go one at a time. Orben squeezed through first. Across the street, from the house closest to the door, a lantern appeared. It illuminated a little old woman wiping sleep out of her eyes.

"Rufus?" She called out. "Rufus? Rufus, I heard something." Then her bleary eyes locked on to us, darting between us, then to the guard on the ground. For a moment, there was total silence.

Then she started screeching. It was more of a harpy’s call than anything one would expect from a human throat. One after another, lanterns in the nearby houses were lit.

"Aw hell." Emphasizing the second word, Cephur kicked the horse. "Go, go, go!"

We were off, galloping into the night in an upward trek, following the road more by feel than vision. Behind us, there was a perfect view of Kholis coming alive. But something was bothering me. I tapped Cephur’s arm. "What about the perimeter?"

He shook his head grimly. "Can’t worry about that now. The guards back there are gonna be on us any second. Slowing down while our mystery men are still ahead of us and the guards pushing up from behind is a great way to get pincered. No choice but to punch through.

He was right.

The horse grunted, galloping at breakneck speed, the only source of light the stars and the moon. From Tamara’s horse, Maya glanced back at me, eyes wide with fright. I tried to give her a comforting smile, but it probably looked as false as it felt.

There was a whisper in the dark. Tamara stiffened, turning back to shout.

"Archers, get down! Get off the path-"

There was a rapid series of whizzing sounds, followed by half a dozen sickening thumps. White-hot pain blurred my vision as something sharp and fast took me in the shoulder. Our horse toppled, sending us flying into darkness. I landed on the gravel and slid, skin scraping against it. The wind was knocked out of my lungs. I laid there panting, trying to get it back but it wouldn’t come. A series of seven torches lit up in the field to our left. Ten men rushed in our direction. One of them, a short man with an evil smirk was heading straight towards me.

Get up, Cairn. You have to get up.

My hearing was deafened with the sound of yelling and dying horses. I saw Orben in the back, the only party member that had remained on his horse, being peppered with arrows as he took off a man’s head with a savage one-handed swing of his zweihander.

A bit closer to me, Tamara pulled her bowstring back and took six shots in the span of ten seconds. One of them sank into a bandit’s throat, and he went down. The rest of the arrows connected but bounced off. It looked like they were wearing leather armor—but there was something stopping the arrows from penetrating.

The short man was almost on me. I pulled myself to my feet weakly, still gagging on air, ignoring the arrow shaft emitting from my left shoulder. I managed to get the sword out of my sheathe but still couldn’t breathe.

At once, Cephur was there. He vaulted over my head, landing in front of me. The man swung. Cephur battered the sword away ruthlessly and stepped inward, hooking his leg around the other man’s ankle and bashing into the man’s face with his shoulder. The bandit went down. Cephur followed up with two downward strokes that sent blood flying across the gravel.

"You okay?" He shouted, grabbing my shoulder.

"Just winded. Go, help Tamara," I wheezed.

Cephur nodded at me once.

My breath was slowly returning. I summoned the flame and it came easily—then stopped, horrified. I didn’t know how to use it in this situation. With Barion it was a question of simple firepower. But I didn’t know where Maya was, and the grass was tall. Friendly fire was a real issue.

An arrow impacted near my feet and I jumped.

No choice. I’d keep it as controlled as possible until I knew for sure that Maya was safe. On and off. No brushfire.

I set the grass on fire and pulled.

The fire filled me—and then something inside me tore. I howled, driven to my knees. My vision doubled. The color seemed to go out of the world around me. The orange of the torches turned dull monochrome gray. It hurt worse than being stabbed in the stomach, worse than being set on fire.

What was wrong with me?

Wait, I’d felt this before. After killing Barion I hadn’t felt well, like I over tapped myself. I’d assumed it was just temporary.

And that assumption was going to kill my friends.

I staggered towards the battle like a reanimated corpse, pushing my body to pull it together through sheer willpower. Four bandits chipped away at Cephur. He could have handled three, I think, but four was one too many. He would dodge, and block, and parry, and the fourth sword would hit him, drawing blood.

It was the same as Alten, brutalized in front of me while I did nothing.

No.

I staggered towards them, circling so I approached from the same direction Cephur backed away from. In the background, I could see Tamara fighting two men with her short sword, tearing them apart.

Time. Cephur just needed time. Tamara could help. Just buy time.

I reached the closest man. For this to work, I couldn’t risk hitting him anywhere that was armored. I drove my sword upwards in the gap between his upper thigh and ass. The blade went through disturbingly easily, vibrations resonating through the handle as tendons snapped. Blood spurted down the black-green metal of my blade. He let out a sharp shriek and collapsed. I fell on him, driving the tip of my sword into his terrified face. On the third strike I felt the tip scrape against the back of his helmet on the other side.

I still couldn’t see straight. In my double vision, two Cephurs fought six men, using my temporary distraction to dispatch one. My vision started to normalize. There weren’t that many left.

We could do this.

An arrow hit one of the remaining bandits in the neck. Tamara.

Another arrow flew straight towards the last man—but it curved. There was a strong gusting wind and the flight path altered unnaturally.

The arrow slammed into Cephur’s eye. He just stood there for a moment, surprised. He reached up, his glove brushing against the shaft, then fell to his knees. The spindly man I’d seen with Thoth earlier emerged from the shadows, hand outstretched.

I saw Orben topple, his horse finally brought down, four men with spears stabbing downwards at where he landed.

Tamara’s scream was heart-rending. She fired arrow after arrow, each movement a blur, shooting faster and faster. But the spindly man held his hand out and simply caught them.

Slowly, they rotated in the air, points turning to face Tamara. She dropped her bow, chin raised. There was the sound of whistling arrows again. Her body flailed as they struck her.

But still, she stood. Slowly, she turned away from the mage, as if dismissing him entirely. She lurched towards Cephur. The thin man seemed to lose interest, and dropped his remaining arrows. For a moment she wobbled, then fell to her knees. After several halting sobs, she put her hand to her chest, withdrawing what looked like a small orb of light. It didn’t look like a spell, or anything else I had ever seen. She reached out, about to hold it against Cephur’s heart.

Then the arrow took her in the side of the head. Tamara fell over limply.

"Elves. Such idiotic superstitions," the spindly man said, his voice smug and superior. Hate flooded me. I could feel it circulate through my veins like an acid. Dying was awful. It never stopped hurting and it was excruciating and traumatizing. But I could survive it.

This was something else.

He held his hand out, plucking two arrows from the ground nearby and pointing them at me. "Put the sword down, prince."

Sure thing, pal.

I dropped the sword.

"That’s a good prince." He walked towards me with a silky gait. "My benefactor has waited a long time to see you. You’ve been quite difficult to find."

I staggered towards him.

"Oh, what have you done to yourself? What a mess."

I tripped and stumbled

The spindly man caught me.

I pulled the sword breaker from behind my back and stabbed him in the gut. It sank deep, and he gasped in a pain I knew well. I knew exactly how it felt and I wanted him to feel it. Even as the floating arrows pierced me, I pulled my arm back and stabbed, over and over again.

Somehow, he managed the strength to shove me away. I fell, the arrows in my back shoved deeper by the ground. The spindly man held one hand to his stomach, the other outstretched towards me. "I don’t know what she sees in you," he growled.

The wind itself picked me up. I had the sensation of floating on clouds before it slammed me against the ground, headfirst. Somehow, I stayed conscious. It slammed my legs down a second time and I felt my ankles break, the bones pulverized. Then it lifted me up in a spinning tornado, even higher than before and slammed me down one final time. I landed on my spine. Everything cracked. My left retina detached, the eye filling with blood. And then there was nothing.

25

CROSSROADS VIII

I floated through the dark once more. But it was different this time. I was not immediately yanked backwards and summoned to the land of the living. In the darkness, a figure came into focus. Not a person, but a great beast. It regarded me silently, malevolence focused on my very being.

Why are you here? It asked.

I wanted to tell it that I did not know. That it was not my intent to be here, that it was beyond both my agency and my understanding.

But I had no mouth with which to speak. It turned away from me, and I was yanked through the darkness once more.

The goblet of water slipped from my hand, pinging across the floor. Lucius pulled his feet up, irritated. "What the hells, Cairn?" But Maya’s hand was on my arm almost immediately.

"You are pale," she said worriedly, placing a cool hand against my forehead. Her brow knitted. "And running a fever, I think."

"Vision," I whispered.

"A bad one?" Maya asked.

"They’re all bad. We gotta-"

But then, I stopped. The sounds of the surrounding feast slowly filtered into my awareness. We didn’t actually have to go yet. The moment for panic and adrenaline had passed. This was different than with Barion. The starting period was much closer to the crisis point. I didn’t have days to prepare, I had hours. I felt the gears shifting in my mind, cold wheels of pragmatism beginning to turn.

Cephur, shot in the eye.

I pushed it away.

Orben, mobbed and murdered along with his beloved horse.

I buried it.

Tamara, shot full of arrows, killed moments before performing what looked like some sort of last rite.

I let myself feel that one, just for a moment. Cool rage flowed through me like the wind of a hurricane. And then I buried that too. I looked up and surveyed the room. At a table by the corner, I saw the short man from the battle watching me. There was another behind us. Of course, Thoth’s people were already here. It made sense.

I couldn’t afford to panic or show anything that tipped my hand. Instead, I acted normal. With a sheepish laugh, I reached down and retrieved my cup, making apologetic remarks towards the serving girl who had come to clean up the mess. I tipped her a silver and she plied me with a surprised, "Thank you, milord!"

"Of course, of course, thank you for accommodating my clumsiness." I smiled.

Lucius looked back and forth between Maya and I, looking for all intents and purposes like someone had given him whiplash.

"What the hells is happening?" Lucius whispered.

"We’re still in a cage, my friend. Still in a cage." I winked at him. His eyes widened in realization. Then his face relaxed and grew smug. It wasn’t perfect, there was still tension in his forehead, but it was damn close.

"And how do we rectify this situation, Prince Cairn?" Lucius asked. The way he used my title was intentional. He was deferring to me, expecting me to take the lead.

Maya’s eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room. I took her chin in my hand and tilted her head towards me, the same way my older, more amorous self might have done with a blushing maiden.

"Don’t panic." I said, staring into her white eyes, trying to imbue comfort, though I felt anything but comfortable. To anyone around us, it would have looked like I was laying it on thick. "We are being watched. The situation is difficult, but not unsalvageable. Now push my hand away and laugh like I just said something really awkward."

Maya pushed my hand away and giggled. "Flatterer."

Perfect. It was more than convincing. I shifted back in my seat to face Lucius. "Hypothetically speaking, how many guards in this city would you say are loyal to you?"

He cocked his head, confused. "All of them."

"No. Specifically to you. If, say, there was some sort of conflict with your father." I’ll give him credit, his face didn’t waver, though there were a million questions cycling behind his eyes.

Lucius thought on that. "Five. Six at most."

Not many. But better than what we had before. I leaned across the table with barely withheld enthusiasm, as if I was about to drop a particularly clever observation. Lucius leaned in towards me.

"Wait fifteen minutes to make your exit, after a few dances. Then gather them. Make sure they’re in your corner. We’ll need them before midnight."

"What dances?" Lucius started to ask, but I was already pivoting.

We needed a buffer, something to happen between Lucius speaking to me and leaving the hall. The serving girl was young, probably sixteen or seventeen, pretty. But I had recognized something in the way she lingered at the fringes, waiting to see if we needed anything else: Opportunism. That was ideal. With a drunken flourish, I gestured to her to come closer and whispered in her ear.

"See my young friend over there?" I asked, pointing to Lucius. He said nothing but his eyes were furious and cheeks were red. The serving girl pushed a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. "Yes milord. The Duke’s son."

"Of course you know him." I chuckled at myself. "But what my young friend just confessed to me is that his father has not yet hired someone to instruct him in dance."

The serving girl blinked. "That’s a crying shame, milord."

"So, you agree with me." I called over my shoulder, "She agrees with me, Lucius!" His face was tomato red. If I lived through the next day, I might have to worry about Lucius coming to murder me in my sleep.

"What’s your name, girl?"

"Millie, my lord."

"Millie, are you thinking what I’m thinking?" I asked the girl conspiratorially.

We both shared a look at Lucius, then back to each other. Her eyes calculated shrewdly. "I think I might be, yeh."

"Can you dance, Millie?"

"I can, milord."

"Tell you what," I reached in my purse and retrieved another silver rod, placing it in her palm. "Don’t worry about your duties. I’ll take full responsibility for distracting you. If someone as beautiful as you were to teach my young friend over there to dance tonight, and made sure he had a good time, I’m sure it’s something he’ll always remember."

"Two or three, you think?" Millie glanced down at her blouse.

"Elphion’s sake, woman, two. We don’t want to give the poor boy a heart attack." I winked at her. She winked back and undid her blouse by two buttons. I liked Millie, but now, I felt a little bad for unleashing her on poor, actually-thirteen-years-old Lucius. It would provide an excellent reason for him to storm out embarrassed, however.

Millie approached Lucius with faux shyness, then took his hand, dragging him towards the dance floor.

"I assume you had a reason for doing that?" Maya asked dryly.

"Of course!" I said, "Come, dance with me."

Maya’s eyes widened. She stood and took my hand with a full smile, leaning in to whisper, "If I find out you are playing with me, I will retire your liver."

I grimaced. "A terrifying threat, but no." The musicians were playing a ballad. I led her in a simple waltz, and she followed me easily, not stepping on my feet once, despite not knowing the dance. It seemed her clumsiness in the wood did not translate to other things. Across the floor from us, Lucius glowered at me, his face held tight to Millie’s bosom. I chuckled, despite myself.

"The man at the table behind ours. Another in the back left corner. Do you see them?" I spun her slowly and she panned the room, then pulled her back into my arms.

"Yes." Maya said.

I counted them up in my head, struggling, my memories of the battlefield chaotic and hazy. "According to the vision I just had, there’s at least fourteen others, maybe fifteen. There’s also another strong magician. Air magic, I think. And Thoth is here."

Maya paled at that. "How does she know where to find you?"

"Hells if I know." I swung her around. "It gets worse." I thought to the throbbing pain in my core—better than it was when I had recalled the flame, but still worse than when I lived through the banquet the first time. "There’s a problem with my magic." Maya started at that, nearly tripping. I caught her smoothly.

"When I tried to draw in the flame—in my vision, I mean—it caused me a great deal of pain. My sight doubled and something tore."

Maya’s grip on my arm tightened almost painfully. "Ni’lend. You are describing soul damage. Are you feeling pain now?"

"A bit, yes."

"Why did you not tell me sooner?"

"I didn’t recognize it for what it was until after… what I saw."

"Promise me that you will not use it again." Maya said vehemently, entirely focused on me now.

"… I can’t, Maya. Not with everything that’s coming."

"You could die," Maya stepped closer to me. I lost myself in her imploring eyes for a moment.

It was strange how much my perspective had shifted from a normal person’s. I feared death, yes. But I had also come to accept it. Death was inevitable. But for everyone else, it was the hard stop. There was no coming back. I shook off the thought, not letting myself think about Tamara and Cephur again.

"Fine, I promise. How do we fix it?" I asked grimly.

"There is no quick fix. Damage to the soul is not some simple thing that can be treated with a potion or healed by a life mage," Maya shook her head. "The Enclave can help you, if they agree to your proposition. Some of your human institutions might be able to assist, but I do not know of them. I only know the enclave."

If the infernals did decide to help me, that would mean starting my time with them even further in their debt. Not great. But that was a long-term problem, I needed to deal with more immediate issues.

Cephur had left his table with Tamara and was approaching us. Somehow, even in the middle of a banquet, he knew something was off. The man’s instincts were uncanny.

"Can you pass on the word to Cephur?" I said quietly. "Let him know the general situation. That my magic is sidelined. We’ll regroup at the Duke’s house at midnight."

The music picked up.

Cephur reached us and was about to open his mouth when I spun Maya and released her, sending her spinning into his surprised arms.

"Uh," Cephur said.

"Teach Maya this dance, would you?" I flashed him a smile. "The faster ones were never really my thing."

I left them and headed towards where Tamara drank alone at her table. In the upcoming sequence of events, she had the biggest role by far.

I idled in an alley, several streets down from where I’d first heard the exchange between the Duke and Thoth. I fiddled with the two copper rods in my pocket, trying not to think of what I intended to use them for.

Everything had gone smoothly up to this point. With the guards Lucius provided, the coup went quickly and easily, but this was a small town, so that was to be expected. Duke Desiric was held hostage in his quarters, clearly unhappy with the series of events, but transferred command of the town guard to Lucius, and by extension, us. We kept it relatively small. The guards involved were instructed to stick to their usual duties, then meet us at the gate at the chosen time, a little after four in the morning.

Only, it had been an hour and a half now. My teeth chattered from the breezy chill in the air.

There were two different ways this could go:

If Thoth came out first, it was the worst outcome. Less likely but entirely possible as she’d shown herself as completely unpredictable, time after time. If that happened, we’d cut our losses and evacuate, heading back towards the Everwood.

If the thin man came out first—sent by Thoth to look into the Duke’s absence from the meeting—then it was game on. There was no winning against Thoth. But the upside was, Thoth seemed to be taking a hands-off approach. She hadn’t shown up at the ambush point, the spindly man had. If we could isolate her from her allies and make the whole thing seem like more trouble than it was worth, maybe that would be enough to dissuade her, at least for the moment.

The unfortunate fact was, if we did it right, no one was coming out of this clean. I hadn’t forgotten the way all three of the rangers had looked at me, their eyes troubled and uncomfortable. Thankfully, Maya had been there to vouch for the veracity of my visions, citing the encounter with Barion, so they didn’t think me mad, just…

What? Dishonorable? Monstrous?

I didn’t know. That was okay. They hadn’t seen what I had seen. This had to be done.

But so far, neither of them had moved. They were both still in the house, and I was freezing my ass off in an alley.

Sharp and crisp, the call of a night lark echoed from somewhere far away.

Finally. That was the signal.

I took in several deep breaths, centering myself, then stepped out into the open.

The spindly man stopped in his tracks. I took off my hood. We stood across from each other, maybe fifteen feet apart, only the moon illuminating our presence. I was careful not to make any sudden movement, anything that would spook him.

Then, I spoke the words that would both ensure victory and forsake honor.

"This is a bit unfair, but… I’ve lived this life before."

26

CROSSROADS IX

"And that’s the end of the story." Mother flipped the book closed and kissed me on the forehead. She poked at my cheek when I didn’t respond. "What’s wrong, darling?"

I frowned, fiddling with my bed sheets. "Why didn’t Sir Savien just kill the bad guy earlier, before he hurt everyone?"

"Well, Sir Savien couldn’t be sure. The villain made threats and boasted, but many people do such things." Mother shrugged.

"But it was so obvious," I groaned. "By doing nothing, Sir Savien practically killed those people himself."

"Now, that is more of a question for a philosopher than it is for me," Mother said wryly.

"It just doesn’t make for a very good story," I insisted.

"If Sir Savien had killed Lord Astra outright, he wouldn’t be the hero of the story, he would be the villain, a man willing to strike out with violence at the first sign of opposition."

"But what if he knew? Really knew. Beyond a shallow of a doubt."

"You mean a shadow of a doubt?"

"Yes," I grumbled. My mother set the book aside on the nightstand and sat me up, looking deep into my eyes.

"Darling, one day you will be king. You may have to make decisions that decide the life and death of others. In the moment, such decisions are never easy. It is one thing to slay an opponent in battle. Another entirely to murder him in his bed. And another still to inflict pain on him when you know he is beaten.

"Even if you know that he’s evil?"

"Even if. You must be better than evil men, child. Even if that decency costs you dearly. You must be better. Otherwise, the only difference between a hero and a villain is the lens they are viewed with."

"This is a bit unfair, but… I’ve lived this life before."

It wasn’t as effective as I would have hoped. The spindly man’s eyes glazed over for just a moment, then snapped back, alert and alarmed. There was a blur of motion as he reached up to his right, his hand forming the focal point. He caught an object thrown at him, a large rock, slightly bigger than a fist.

But he missed the arrow. It shot from the opposing alley, less than a foot from the ground and blisteringly fast, piercing his ankle. He looked down at it and blinked in confusion.

Then he collapsed to the ground. The paralytic worked fast, but such a small dose would be out of his system just as quickly. Orben jumped down from the rooftop, landing with a dull thump. Tamara stood, brushing off the detritus she had camouflaged herself with. With no comment or fanfare she grabbed the reed-thin man from under his armpits and dragged him into a nearby alley.

For once, Orben was not smiling.

I didn’t blame him. There was no honor in this. Orben kept watch from the mouth of the alleyway as Tamara drug the man deeper in. I pulled the two copper rods from my pocket. Cephur patted Orben on the back as he entered the alleyway, his blue eyes cold and hard. He had served as the lookout for our little ambush and given me the signal.

"Let me do this, your grace," Cephur said slowly, "this isn’t a burden a boy should bear. Even a prince."

"No." I gritted my teeth, kneeling before the man’s paralyzed form. "This was my plan. Let my soul bear the price."

"It will haunt you."

I nodded, as if I understood. But my heart raced and my stomach twisted. I had killed before. A handful of demi-humans during the invasion. Barion. But all of those occurred in moments of chaos, where the alternative was letting myself be killed or worse. But I knew what would happen if we did nothing. Kholis didn’t have the resources to hold this man, and I, myself had seen what he was capable of. Turning the tide of a battle single handedly. Slaughtering my companions without a second thought. Worse, he had wanted to capture rather than kill me. If he had succeeded, hadn’t lost his temper, all would be lost.

The reset point being so close to my death was a wake-up call. I had hoped it would be consistent. That every time I died, I would have approximately the same trailing ten days, as I had in the Everwood, to fix things. Much can be accomplished in ten days. But that was proven wrong with disturbing clarity. I had no idea how many times I could come back. Worse yet, there was a very real possibility of being stuck. If Thoth had captured me, it was entirely possible that I would not have died again for weeks, even months, rendering my companions—including Maya—gone forever.

Every risk had to be calculated and measured carefully. And even with my mother's treatise on decency swirling in my head, in situations like this, mercy was an extravagance I couldn’t afford.

The spindly man stirred. He took in a deep breath as if to yell, stopping pre-exhale as I held my sword-breaker to his throat.

"Quiet," I said. Then, "What’s your name?"

"Tusk," he answered.

"How many men are there in the city, Tusk?"

No reply. I wasn't really expecting an answer, not from someone Thoth held so close at hand.

"Do you have any family?" I asked. From the side, I saw Tamara shudder.

"Oh yes, my lord," Tusk smiled wickedly, but his dark eyes belied panic. "A crippled wife and seven children. Whatever will I do if you threaten them?"

I kept my voice calm. "It’s not like that. If you have family, I’ll take care of them."

Tusk’s eyes rolled, his head turning to look at Cephur. "What kind of slipshod butchery is this?" Then his focus returned to me. "If you’re going to do it, just do it already."

"What is your real name?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters." I said, holding up the two copper rods. If I was denying this man his chance at Valhalla, I could at least pay the toll so he could cross the ethereal river to the underworld itself. But to do that, I needed his name.

"Ah. This isn’t about me at all. You want me to make you feel better." The man mocked. "Give you a little morsel of comfort to help you sleep at night after you murder me. I’ll give you a word of advice, kid. There’s nothing waiting for us on the other side. No afterlife. No Elysium Halls. No Valhalla. No Hades. Nothing but darkness and the great black beast."

His words disturbed me, not for their cruelty—though that was not easy—but for their accuracy. The darkness and the great beast. It was a precise description for the thing I witnessed in the jet-black nothingness between lives.

The man’s dark eyes leered at me. "You’ve seen it, haven’t you? You’re like her. You both have that same faraway look. All you have to do is come with me, boy. She can answer all your questions."

"Cairn." Cephur warned.

"I’m sorry."

I plunged the knife into the spindly man’s heart. He gasped, then fell silent. The light behind his eyes flickered out, his mouth open in a silent "o." Blood trailed down from the knife and trickled onto the ground.

It was done.

I felt sick.

Not fully understanding why, I placed the two coppers in his pocket anyway. While I could not offer the tribute properly without his name, maybe the gods would understand.

We found the encampment in a little more than an hour. Cephur instructed Maya and I to wait and only intervene if things got out of control. The four guards Lucius had drummed up had switched from their plate into leather reconnaissance armor and trailed behind the three rangers. Tamara popped up from the tall grass and pulled one of the lookouts down with her, and Cephur grabbed the other’s mouth roughly, sword emerging from the man’s chest.

Then someone shouted and the battle began in earnest. The four guards had nowhere near the combat training of the rangers but still held their own against the bandits, many of whom seemed to have never been in a real fight. That in and of itself surprised me. I’d imagined Thoth to be this immovable force, capable of bending thousands to her will, but her initial forces seemed… weak. It was strange that neither the giant nor the man in the cowl had shown up either time.

One of the guards was toppled by a bandit. He was under attack by the short man from last time, the one that was also spying in the corner of the banquet hall. I rushed forward to cover the man, feeling the weight of my new sword in my hand. Before he could stab down at the guard on the ground, I swung wide. He stepped backward just in time, his arms waving wildly, trying to regain his balance. Then he took in my diminutive form and grinned. He raised both arms overhead and brought the sword down in a vicious blow. Had it connected, it would have split my head open.

But compared to Cephur, this man was slow. Almost painfully slow. I shifted to the side, watching the blade pass me by analytically. There was something wrong with his movements. Then it hit me.

His sword was too heavy for him. Not by much, maybe half a pound at most, but the unwieldy weight led to a clumsy follow-through. That gave me a clear weakness to exploit. He swung at me again and I ducked underneath, feeling the steel whistle over my head. I baited him into another overhand strike, and as soon as he was fully committed to the blow, swung my sword upwards towards his descending head. The dark-green blade caught him in the throat, and he went down soundlessly.

The glow faded from Maya’s bloodied hands as she finished healing the guard. He stood, nodded at her, and rushed back into the fight. Only, it had shifted so far into our favor it was hard to call it a fight. Nine men had already fallen, and five more struggled. An arrow took one in the throat. Cephur hounded down a fleeing archer mercilessly, cutting him down at the knees and slicing through the point where his neck met his skull. Orben punched a bandit with his gauntleted arm and the man careened face-first into the muddied ground.

The two remaining men threw down their weapons and sprinted away, retreating towards the forest. Tamara pulled her bowstring to her cheek, preparing to fire.

"Let ‘em go, Tams." Cephur said. He wiped his sword on the grass, cleaning off the red. "They’re beaten." He took one more look around and turned to walk towards Maya, who had retreated to the small hill overlooking the clearing.

Slowly, Tamara released the tension from the bow string and replaced the arrow into her quiver.

I looked around at the bodies and the carnage. Twelve of them. Unbidden, memories of Inharion village came to mind. This was different, I knew that. They had been out for our blood. If given the chance, they absolutely would have killed us first.

A dull moan carried to me on the wind. I followed the sound across the battlefield and came across a heavily wounded bandit that clutched his chest. His eyes were wide.

"Help me," he said. "Please help. I’m cold."

I pulled my sword breaker and helped him in the same way Alten had aided me, ending the night of the invasion. There was no denying that I hated these men and the woman behind them. But there was no need for them to suffer.

After I’d cleaned my dagger with an old rag, I nearly turned back to the others when my eyes crossed over a shadowy figure, camouflaged almost perfectly in the darkness of the night, standing completely still. I started and drew my sword.

"Who’s there?" I asked. But in my sinking heart, I knew the answer even before I saw the eye.

"You’re different this time," Thoth whispered gleefully.

27

CROSSROADS X

It's funny how drastically a single digit can alter the whole. The difference between a hundred slivers of gold and a hundred-ten can be what separates a good deal from a great one. The importance of the number increases exponentially depending on the topic at hand. Two thousand soldiers lost, versus three thousand; both numbers, while harrowing, are somehow dwarfed in the raw magnitude of losing one child, or two.

That night was the source of my compulsion, I think. You see, these days, I count things. There are thirty-two iron bars on that cell wall for instance, thirty-six if you count the cross beams. There are one-hundred-twenty-five tiles within this cell, thirty-four of them cut down to fit the perimeter flush, eight of them warded. It's just something a part of my mind does naturally, now.

What I learned that night was that I could not afford to be imprecise. And the gap, between fourteen people and fifteen, could make all the difference in the world.

"You’re different this time," Thoth repeated, her serpentine eye glowing slightly in the dark.

I gritted my teeth. Despite everything I had done, every calculation, here we were again, faced off once more. Fear poured down the back of my neck in waves, prickling my skin. The thick black aura radiated from her.

Further down the field, Tamara’s lithe form appeared, bow drawn and pointed at Thoth’s back. I shook my head at her minutely, hoping the fabled elven keensight was more than a folktale. Somehow, I knew, even now, how easily Thoth could slaughter us. Tamara kept the bowstring taut to her cheek but did not fire.

Thoth stepped forward into the firelight and I backed away, maintaining the same distance. The sword in my hand suddenly felt useless as a child’s toy. Her expression was strangely troubled.

"I’ve never seen you like this, not this early." She contemplated as she spoke, almost chewing the words. "You always change. But not like this." Her cold eyes searched me, and wordlessly, I could feel that an explanation was demanded.

Of all people, Thaddeus’s words came to mind. A small piece of advice he’d given me years ago:

Deny, deny, deny.

"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked, letting the mask of the arrogant noble slide into place. Thoth blinked, then laughed. It was a harsh and acrid sound.

"It still catches me off-guard, even after all these years. The little stage-plays you put on in your head. No. You know me."

Deny, deny, deny.

"I know you attacked my caravan, forcing me to flee into the Everwood. And that you have some sort of relationship with the Duke’s little torture cult. Other than that, I’m a little lost." I smirked at her, though the expression felt trite and forced. "Perhaps if you just told me what you wanted, I could help you."

"I do not need help from the likes of you!" Thoth’s anger flared. It was a terrifying outpouring of emotion that seemed to blacken the night itself.

I took a half step backwards. It was the first time I’d seen her truly enraged. Even when she’d murdered the Duke, it had never felt so explicit. Instead, it simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the moment it could finally catalyze and turn to deadly violence. But now she wore that violence like a shroud.

"Okay." I said, changing tact. Glibness could only hurt me here. Instead, I donned the same sort of reverent deference I used when I approached the shadow panther. Her anger flagged slightly, shifting into confusion.

"You’re becoming quite a thorn in my side, Cairn." Thoth’s anger mostly dissipated, gone as quickly as it had come. She paced back and forth around me in a half-circle. It was all too reminiscent of that first encounter in the pavilion. I tried not to think of it. The way she killed my father. Annette’s skin, bubbling. My fingers breaking as I slammed my fists against the ice of the fountain. The knife in my chest.

Tamara had picked up on my signal to hold and did not approach. But where were the others? I turned my head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of their locations—

"Don’t look at them. Look at me," Thoth commanded. I obeyed, eyeing her silently. She froze in mid-pace, unsettled by my reaction, then returned to the movement, lips pulled down in a scowl.

"No witty rejoinder? No jokes? No angry declarations or pointless diatribes? It’s all wrong. No. You’re different. You know something."

I stayed silent. There didn’t seem to be much I could add to the conversation, other than potentially angering her. The best course of action seemed to be continuing to plead ignorance.

Thoth suddenly grabbed me around the neck and held a dagger to my throat. The steel bit in lightly. I saw Tamara stir in the corner of my vision, taking a step forward. Again, I minutely shook my head. Thoth’s eyes searched mine, her face perilously close. She smelled of death and white roses.

I didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. I held her gaze, letting the rage and rebellion seep through me. Go ahead. Cut my throat. Chances are, I’ll make it back. But eventually, you’re going to die, Thoth. And no one will mourn you.

"Oh…" Thoth’s voice was enkindled with a grisly lust. "Oh this is going to be good." She pushed me away with a savage shove. "I don’t even know who you are anymore, prince." I fell backwards, catching myself painfully. She scampered above me, and shifted her dagger towards my face, razor point dangerously close to my eye. "When you killed Barion, it rather upset me, if I’m honest. He was mine. I had plans for him this time. Figured I’d let him play with you a few months, then kill three birds with one stone. Then you went and killed Tusk. And that was even more frustrating. Things go much smoother for me early on if I have someone slimy and sociable by my side—but, the way you killed him." Thoth ran the edge of her dagger down my cheek. It scraped, the metal whispering as it lightly bit into my skin. "That spoke to me. On a spiritual level."

I stiffened at that, trying to keep the surprise from showing on my face. Thoth had been watching. Observing. And not just in Kholis. That initial ambush was suddenly reframed in my mind. It wasn’t a coincidence. She stopped my caravan at that particular spot on purpose.

"You lured me into the forest," I said quietly, remembering the strange, ethereal hand that had summoned me, making up my mind in which direction to run.

"Guilty as charged," Thoth said slyly, "Did you think it was some friendly god, intervening to offer you guidance?"

I said nothing and she laughed that cruel laugh again. "The gods are dead. I am your god, Cairn. Me. There was no question you’d run. Cowardice is your most reliable trait, my sweet. But everything after… was new. So delightfully and wonderfully new."

"What happens now?" I asked, overwhelmed and numb.

She stepped away from me, shadow overtaking her face. All that was visible in the shadow was her yellow, snakelike eye. "Call it curiosity, but I'm tempted to let this play out. Let you do whatever it is you’re planning to do. I’ll come for you eventually, anyway, and I suspect you know when."

The coronation. I kept my face blank.

"Fighting you at the apex of your strength will make it so much more satisfying," her voice crooned, almost manic, "to grind your soul beneath my heel. However, that leaves us with a problem."

"... It does?"

"Showing mercy would be terrible for my reputation. So, it's time to make a choice. Option one." She held up a clawed finger. "I kill you here, and subsume the chaos as Uskar tears itself apart in the vacuum. Always a treat. Or option two." She extended a second finger. "I let you live, and as payment, I will, eventually, take something from you. And you will wish that you had died."

There was a dark promise in those words.

"It doesn’t have to be like this." I tried, desperation seeping into my voice, "I don’t want to fight you."

Thoth cocked her head. Though I could not see her, I could almost feel her disappointment. "And there’s the milksop prince showing his true colors. Always so reasonable, so quick to bend. You’ll want to crush that weakness, Cairn. We will fight, as we have always fought. And you will die, as you have always died. Broken and alone. Try to make a good showing of it this time."

What the hells was she talking about? I stood, suddenly very aware of the sword in my hand. I found myself coming to the same conclusion I had the night of the invasion.

Thoth was mad.

But it was the dangerous, megalomaniacal sort of mad. She would be ready for me the night of the coronation. And worse, the element of surprise, arguably my strongest advantage, was practically null.

"More importantly." Thoth’s gaze roamed past me, settling over my shoulder. Her terrible, pointed smile returned in full force. "You missed one."

I spun. Cephur was speaking to Maya on a sloping hill next to the battlefield, illuminated from the light of the torches they held. They were intently focused on the conversation, so much so that Cephur did not see the one remaining bandit hiding behind a tree, his sword reflecting the torchlight.

"Behind you!" I screamed. Only the words died in my throat, a strange buzzing settling in my vocal cords. I spared a glance backward. Thoth’s gloved hand glowed muted yellow. "Make your choice, little prince," Thoth said coldly. Her golden eye loomed.

Somehow, I regained the presence of mind to take a half-second to look at Tamara and point to the bandit, hoping she picked up on my panic.

Then I ran, my legs pumping, the air itself seeming to fight me. There was the twang of a bow and an arrow arced over my head towards the man. Temporary adulation rose in me, only to come crashing down as a malevolent gust of wind sliced the arrow in half. You had to be kidding me. Thoth was an air mage, on top of everything else—sound, was that even an element—and possibly demon-fire. Magic had limits my ass. I tried to yell again but the same buzzing sensation cancelled my words, the only sound emitting from my mouth my panting breaths.

Fear washed over me anew, the realization I’d come to with the last reset stripped bare. We had won this battle. There was no one left to kill me and reset things if I was too slow.

Unless you kill yourself.

The thought was so sudden and intrusive I nearly lost my footing. No. I had no guarantee killing myself would even work. Even the thought of it sent pale beads of sweat down my back.

Another arrow arced over my head. This one stopped, twisting in the air and plunging towards my feet. I spun away from it, tripping, bloodying my hands as I pushed off the ground and scrambled up, trying to regain momentum as quickly as possible.

Come on, dammit.

My legs were so damn small and slow. The bandit stepped around the tree smoothly, his sword raised high, threatening to strike down at Maya and Cephur any moment. My heart sank. I was still twenty, thirty yards out. There was no way I’d make it. There was a sudden blur of light above me as a fiery arrow shot through the air. This time it wasn’t aimed at the bandit, rather shot up in the air as high as possible.

A signal.

Cephur’s head jerked upwards, towards the beacon. The bandit paused at the light and sudden movement.

At that moment I could have kissed Tamara. She could have her pick from the royal treasury. A writ of nobility. Anything she wanted.

But the sense of relief only lasted a moment. Cephur turned in the wrong direction to look and the bandit—now assassin, raised his sword, preparing to strike at Maya.

Too far away. So close, but still too far. Even if I used my demon-fire it wouldn’t make a difference.

Or would it?

I remembered, in those few precious seconds, everything I had seen during the invasion. The infernals hadn’t been touching their targets. The fire streamed from them sometimes, but mostly, it was sent forth with pinpoint precision, almost like a whip.

Of course, that meant I’d be breaking my promise to Maya.

No choice. I summoned my spark and set a trail of grass on fire. I braced myself for the pain, the utter agony. Then I pulled. The sensation of tearing ripped through my chest like my skin was being flayed to the muscle. I screamed, my voice still soundless.

Somehow, I held the flame within me still, even as it ate at me hungrily. Cephur finally spotted the man and drew his sword, preparing to leap forward, but he was too slow. The bandit’s sword came down. Maya stumbled backward and fell. I thrust my hand forward and visualized a tunnel, almost a cylinder connecting the focus point of my fingers to the man’s head.

A flash fire broke out on the man’s skull. He opened his mouth to scream but the fire was too concentrated. His head seemed to shift and lose shape, spontaneously turning to ash.

Darkness closed in on me, my vision tunneling. But it did not matter. I made it in time. Maya looked at the man and back to me, horrified.

"Cairn, no!"

A flood of foul-tasting liquid gushed from my nose and mouth. It was thick and tasted of iron. I held a shaking hand to my dampened face and looked at it, my vision doubled. Blood. My blood, mixed with something dark and blue.

Not good.

I looked behind me. There was no one else but Tamara jogging our way. Thoth was gone.

I smiled at Maya then. She was safe. They were all safe.

"Sorry… I lied…"

The weight of standing suddenly became too much. I slumped to my knees and coughed. My vision left me as I crumpled to the ground.

28

CROSSROADS XI

My vision faded in and out. One moment I was beside Cephur, Maya under my arm, supporting me as I staggered towards a horse. I blacked out. When I came to, Orben was carrying me on his back through the city walls. Through the blurry haze, Tamara saw me open my eyes and waved a small wave, her face rife with concern. I tried for a smile, but my vision faded once more.

Thoth’s parting words needled at me, lurking in the dark parts of my psyche, taunting.

I’ll let you go. But there’s a price. I’ll take something from you, and you won’t even know what it is until it’s gone.

It wouldn’t be an object. Sad as it was to say, there really wasn’t all that much in my life I cared for. That left people. My father was unlikely. Our antagonistic relationship was a matter of public record. Lillian was just as unlikely, albeit for a different reason. She just wasn’t that well known. Our courtship was very private, and until the night of the coronation most had never heard her name. Maybe Sera, if Thoth didn’t know me as well as she thought she did. But my Mother and Annette came to mind immediately as the most likely targets. The thought of losing either of them, after everything I’d done to survive up to this point, was staggering. But there was a third possibility. Thoth seemed to have future knowledge. She constantly referred to it. It was entirely possible that she would take steps to eliminate something that could help me in the future. But worrying about something as nebulous as that would drive me mad. I needed to send another letter to the capital, get my father to increase the guard detail around my sister and mother.

If only I could stay conscious long enough to do so.

A single lumen lamp floated above me, bright and uncomfortable. I was supine on a physician’s table, unclothed from the waist up. The man poked and prodded at me with frigid hands. My consciousness ebbed and flowed.

"—massive internal bleeding. You’re saying magic did this?"

"—severe soul damage," Maya’s voice. "—cobalt phosphorus, anything to staunch it temporarily while we travel—"

Despite the pain, I smiled a bit. Excellent diagnosis. Maya had really taken the apothecary lessons to heart.

"That ain’t happening." Cephur cut in. "I was fine with this little quest of ours until the Crown Prince of Uskar started bleeding out of his eyes—"

"At this point, we’re closer to the magus enclave than we are to any other institution," Tamara said, "It’s three days from here if we push it. The closest human institution would be the Magician’s College, and that’s fourteen days of crippling horses from hard riding, the sort of trip that would be tough for a child even if he wasn’t injured—"

"—That won’t matter if they just kill ‘em." Cephur said vehemently. "Sorry little purple, but your folk and mine haven’t exactly been on friendly terms over the last century—"

"—I won’t let them!" Maya shouted. The arguing quieted at that, all voices ceasing.

"You’re young, Maya," Tamara said in a soothing voice. "It wouldn’t be your call."

"I will stake my life on it." Maya snapped. There was a foreign sensation. I looked down to see her tail had wrapped around my ankle protectively. "My family is politically neutral between the factions. If I bring him in under the Rite of Shaliat, then that would ensure his life, at least long enough for him to recover."

Orben had turned away from the others and studied me thoughtfully, seemingly the first one to notice I was awake again. "What do you think?" He asked me. I thought of what I’d done to the man in the alley.

"We’ve come too far to go back now." My voice was unsteady. My chest hurt from the vibrations of simple speech. I pushed myself up with one arm, ignoring the flaring pain. "Cephur, the infernals are the closest thing to an authority on the soul that Uskar has. Beyond that, it’s hard to explain, but please trust me for now. There are things I must do there. It’s too important to play it safe."

"Is it more important than your life?" Cephur challenged.

"Yes," I said immediately. What good was my life if I lost everyone around me?

Cephur stared for a moment, then shook his head and chuckled. "What kind of kid are you supposed to be, anyway?"

The physician gave me strained poppy for the pain, as well as cobalt phosphorus for the bleeding. I could walk, but it was as if my legs had forgotten the motions. The slightest distraction or change in elevation and I would lose my balance, threatening to topple over.

Lucius outfitted a carriage for us personally, waking a wheelwright to make modifications to the interior to make the ride smoother. He grabbed me by the arm to help me into the carriage.

"I’m going to need you to get better. There’s no honor exacting revenge on a sick man," Lucius said.

I started to laugh, then immediately groaned. "Here I thought you were going to offer a different sort of payback. Come on, I did you a favor. She really took a shine to you."

A pause.

"You think?"

I looked at him dumbly. "Lucius. Don’t fall in love with her just because she was the first woman to pay attention to you."

He blushed scarlet. "I’m not in love!"

"Sure, sure."

"I’m not!"

"Okay, alright, I believe you." I lied.

Lucius cleared his throat. "Seriously, though. Get better. Come back through here whenever you return from the enclave. I swear your second visit will be less stressful than the first."

I clasped his arm. "Will do. Relying on you anyway. See what you can find out from your father about the metamorphosis cult. I intended to stick around for a bit, but all this happened." Then I hesitated. "Be careful. Don’t put yourself at risk."

"Trust me, I have no intention of being captured twice," Lucius said darkly. "Take care of yourself, Cairn."

Had I known how miserable the ride south would be, I doubt I would have sounded so confident. The floor of the carriage was flush with thick blankets and pillows, yet I still felt every bump and jostle like a lance through my back. Beads of sweat pooled on my forehead and dripped downward from my neck to my spine. My blood felt like it was on fire. It was completely irrational, but I couldn’t help but imagine the demon-flame, slowly cooking me from the inside out.

The shadow panther lounged on the opposite side of the carriage like an oversized house cat. It had chased us into the open road until Cephur finally slowed down, then when he’d opened the door to ask me about it, it had jumped in as if invited.

Tamara reached down and dabbed my head with a damp handkerchief. My companions had been taking turns in the wagon, monitoring my condition. She pressed the back of her cool hand to my forehead. She frowned. "You’re sweating. That should mean the fever is broken, but you don’t feel any cooler. If anything, you’re heating up."

I hacked, heavy and full. Tamara leaned me on my side so I could spit bloody phlegm into a nearby bowl.

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"Fuckin’ awful," I shuddered, settling back.

"Well, you look pretty awful."

"Thanks." I settled back down on my back, only for a bump the size of a small child to jolt me. I moaned.

Tamara winced. "Sorry."

"Just, distract me," I said through grit teeth, "Talk to me about something, anything."

"Well…" Tamara said slowly, amusement creeping into her voice, “if you want to talk about Maya—"

"I’m reporting you for child abuse."

"Fine. But you’re kind of putting me on the spot here."

"Anything." A thought occurred to me. "Tell me about the elves."

Tamara fell silent at that.

"In pain and intoxicated. Sorry if that was rude."

"It’s not rude, it’s just… strange." Tamara said. "People usually just ignore that side of me. Or they focus on it completely."

Ignoring it I could see, but focusing on it seemed strange. "How so?"

"There’s the racists, of course. And then there’s… never mind. I’m not explaining fetishists to a twelve-year-old."

"Ah." I cringed. "Yikes."

"See, you act all innocent, then something that should be very over your head comes up and you react like that." She leveled a condescending look at me. "I’m not buying it."

"Nine through eleven were my wild years. I’ve calmed down since then."

Tamara rolled her eyes. "Elphion save me, when is my shift up?" She slapped her knee. "Alright. So. The elves. What do you know already?"

I thought back. "I know it’s a tribal system. Light elves don’t really mingle with dark elves. They’re isolationist, even amongst themselves. Their take on magic is much more eclectic and spiritualistic. They claim it isn’t even the same system, though many of the powers seem similar.

"The magic is different." Tamara must have seen the question before I could speak it. "No, I don’t have the talent. But I’ve seen it. Before my parents brought me to Whitefall. A village shaman’s son disappeared in a mountain cave. They looked for him for days. No one could find him."

"A locator spell then?" I asked, not really getting it. Applied magic beyond the basic elements was rare, but not entirely unknown. The enclave was famous for it.

"No," Tamara smiled, shaking her head in amazement. "She took the mountain down."

I blinked. Surely, I hadn’t heard correctly. "She did what?"

"She stood at the base for hours. Tree, dirt, and stone were sundered as if torn by massive invisible hands. She tore it apart, layer by layer. Slowly, a mountain tall enough to blot out the sun until early morning was brought to the ground. Eventually, she found him stuck in a deep passage. They would have never found him otherwise."

That sounded like someone I wanted on my side. "What happened to her?"

"She died the next day."

"Damn."

"The average age of an elf used to be just under a thousand years old. Now there’s only a few of them over a hundred. And most shamans with that level of power were well over a thousand. Most of them…" Tamara looked away. "Well, you know."

I did. My father was as thorough as he was cruel, and the elves had put up more of a fight than any other race. He had responded the only way he ever did. With brutal efficiency.

"Do you still have any contact with them? Your tribe?"

"No. They’re not a fan of half-breeds, less so half-breeds who live in the city, and utterly antagonistic to those who mingle with, ‘the enemy’" Tamara emphasized the last two words with air quotes.

Quietly, I thought on that, a newfound respect forming for her. It can’t have been easy. It made sense that she’d ended up with Cephur. They were both fish out of water, in a way. The image of Tamara kneeling over Cephur’s body crawled up from my subconsciousness.

"Tamara..."

"Yes, Cairn?"

I thought through my wording carefully. "I’m going to ask you something, but before I do, I want to give you permission to tell me to fuck off."

"Fuck off, my lord." Tamara smirked.

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. "I mean you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to."

"Ah."

"Is there an elven last rite?"

That wiped the smile off her face. "What do you mean?"

"It was…" I thought up a lie, "It was something I saw at Inharion. My father brought me there to watch the raid, before the caravan was attacked. It was awful."

"I heard something about that, yes." Tamara said grimly.

"There was an elven woman tending a dead man. She reached to her chest and withdrew a glowing sphere." I paused as Tamara took in a quick breath. "Then she placed it over his heart. It didn’t look like any magic I’d ever heard of."

"The woman was a fool," Tamara said harshly, startling me.

"What was it?"

"For the record, you owe me for making me talk about something so awful. Alright. Fine. According to our religious texts, the elven soul is infinite. Unlike humans, our goal isn’t to make it to Valhalla, or Elysium. Living well is the goal. Until then, we are destined to be reborn with no memory of it, over and over. Only when we achieve enlightenment can we fade away to nothing. The closest word in your language would be a ‘cadence.’ Though that doesn’t really capture the whole."

Some parts of what Tamara was describing were too close to home to be a coincidence. But I still didn’t understand. "So, what was the significance of what she did?"

"She tethered her soul to his. My mother called it the ultimate expression of love. I would call it foolishness."

"Why?"

Tamara looked at me sadly. "Because there’s no guarantee it works. You give up reincarnation to be with someone forever. But if the one you love doesn’t make it to Elysium, or Hades, or whatever the dwarven equivalent is—gods spare that poor couple—they are reborn, while your soul is lost, stranded in nothingness forever."

A sudden anger washed over me at the utter cruelty of what Tusk had done.

There was no question in my mind that Tamara and Cephur were good people. They had died for me, even if they couldn’t remember it. And they also had a hard road ahead of them. There was the fact that Cephur was an officer while Tamara was not, but that was dwarfed by the racial divide. It would cause them both no end of grief. I thought long and hard. They were the sort I would need the night of my coronation, when everything came to an end. An idea started to form. A solution to my absence in Whitefall, and a way to reward them.

"How close are we to the enclave?"

Tamara blinked. "Cephur said we should be there by the end of the day."

"Get me a pen and some paper. A bunch of it."

29

CROSSROADS XII

My father laid the scroll before me with the tenderness you might use to handle a kitten. He placed it right on top of the sketch I was mapping of the castle, immediately annoying me. But even at the age of eleven, I knew better than to voice any irritation with him. I placed my pencil down and took the scroll, unrolling it cautiously. It was filled with large words and jargon I didn’t fully understand.

"What is this?" I was almost fearful of the response.

"That, young man, is a document of conscription."

My name was clearly printed at the top. "I’m being conscripted?" I asked, utterly confused.

My father blew air out his nose, stirring the long brown strand of hair that accented his regal ponytail. "I do not suffer fools, Cairn."

I said nothing to that. It wasn’t my fault he could never be bothered to use more than ten words to describe a concept, and those words could often be taken multiple ways.

My father grunted. "The first son of every respectable noble house in Uskar has his own Battalion. A thousand soldiers that are recruited and trained to answer to ten officers, who in turn answer to one man."

I pointed to myself, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Of course not." He shook his head. "You are the first son of House Valen."

I breathed a sigh of relief at that.

"One measly battalion is not nearly enough for a noble of your stature. You’ll need double that. A full regiment."

Talking to my father really was like being under the influence of verbal whiplash. A bolt of anxiety went through my gut. "Two thousand men?"

"The boy can count!" My father slapped me on the back entirely too hard. "Consider it a gift."

I picked the document up gently. Gifts from my father were rare and precious things—but that didn’t change the fact that they were almost always dull and entirely utilitarian. The Kossboard I had used twice, and the sword that was too big for me were the only two that came to mind, though there were surely others.

"Father," I said carefully, "I think I might be too young to command men. They won’t listen to me."

"You are the Prince. They will listen if you project authority, and if they do not, you must project terror instead."

My father seemed to interpret my reticence as a lack of enthusiasm. He put a hand to his forehead in frustration. "This is my son? Elphion. This chinless idiot?"

"I’m not chinless!"

My father’s fist came down on the drawing desk with a loud bang, unsettling a nearby inkwell which tipped over, seeping a puddle of black all over my drawing. I didn’t dare reach for it, not while his anger was peaking. Instead, I sat very still.

"Then prove it! Take responsibility for once in your damn life. By the time you’re fifteen, I want that regiment fully filled, trained, and exemplary. Surely, you can manage as little as that in four years."

"Okay." At that point, once his ire was starting, I’d say practically anything to appease him if it meant he would leave. "Yes, father."

King Gil stood, his disgust plain as day. That was my father in a microcosm. He never wanted children. He wanted miniature nobles that emerged from the womb fully formed and swinging, ready to go to war and command armies.

"Get it done. If they do not meet the standard within the allotted time, if you’re a man under two thousand, I’ll reabsorb the men into my army, and there will be consequences."

He strode from the room, his crimson cloak wafting behind him.

There was a period immediately after where I took to the idea. I ran around the castle, recruiting hapless servants and irritated guards for my regiment. But the number never grew larger than two dozen. Eventually, the men quietly went back to their original postings. My ambivalence to the order was, perhaps, my first act of rebellion.

Surprisingly, by the end of the time limit, my father never spoke of the injunction. Outside the never-ending conflicts on the plains, Uskar had been peaceful, and many of the smaller houses had disbanded their tertiary regiments, those amongst the first sons as well. Though he never mentioned it directly, his manner grew much colder towards me, as if the lack of war was solely due to my disinterest in preparing for conflict.

It was a mile out from the enclave when I finally put the finishing touches on the documents, pricking my thumb and pressing it next to my signature on all three. It was crude, but I didn’t have my stamp. A clerical magician could easily verify it as legitimate. Now, all I needed to do was sell my companions on the idea. It would not be an easy sell. Mainly since I needed them to agree because they wanted to, not because an arrogant noble was asking them to uproot their lives. Cephur pulled the carriage off the road, and we gathered around a fire. Maya was glued to my side, supporting me as I walked, my steps still tenuous and unsteady.

This would be a hard enough task coming from a normal child, let alone one that looked like he might pass out at any moment—and very well could. The rangers were seated on a fallen tree, looking bemused and exhausted. I turned and whispered in Maya’s ear.

"I may need you for this."

"I have you." Maya said immediately. Her tail curled around my arm. She flashed me a quick smile and touched the back of my neck. My mind cleared, the shroud of fog retreating somewhat. Her confidence in me was infectious, though I wasn’t entirely sure I shared it. At the Duke’s house, I had explained only what was necessary to Cephur and the rest, as time was sparse. Though my predictions had proved correct, this would be much more difficult. I just hadn’t had enough time with them. My loyalty to them stemmed largely from watching them die for me, an experience that now we no longer shared.

Still, I had to try.

Maya released my arm and stood to my left, within arm’s reach in case I fell. I took them in one after another. Cephur. Tamara. Orben.

"When we started this journey, you volunteered to escort me. Despite Cephur’s assurances to the contrary, you did not have to come. Lesser folk would have simply spun a tale of my escape into the Everwood, eschewing all responsibility. Lesser still would have simply not reported finding me at all."

"We thought about it," Tamara said, grinning. She bumped Cephur with her shoulder. "But this old goat’s too set in his ways. Honor and duty and what not."

"Let the boy speak, Tams," Cephur said, entirely focused on me. Orben shifted uncomfortably, as the log was a bit too small for him.

"I am little more than a boy," I agreed, looking at each of them in turn, "But for this single moment in time, I would ask you to ignore that. What I’m about to tell you is a secret that less than a handful know." I’d thought on how to pitch this for hours, and now it was finally time to take the plunge. "I am spirit-touched."

They visibly reacted to that. Tamara studied me with new eyes and Cephur let out a low whistle. Orben leaned forward.

"You’re a seer." Tamara said, shocked. Her reaction wasn’t unexpected. The seers of Lothturn were a notoriously secretive group that lived in the high reaches of the mountain above Uskar. They rarely descended, but when they did, it was always with tidings of woe.

I hated lying to these people, but I needed them to take me seriously.

"That’s how you knew about the attack?" Cephur asked slowly.

"Yes. However, my power is limited. You have already seen one aspect of it, my ability to see immediate danger. But there is another." I crossed my arms behind my back, keeping my body language open and fighting the urge to pace. A little over a month ago, I was given a vision of the future."

I described the attack to them in vivid detail, leaving out a few aspects, including my behavior at the coronation, and of course, Maya’s role. To my surprise, they did not laugh. Their demeanor grew sullen and focused as I described Thoth in detail.

Tamara started. "The woman in the field. That was her."

"Yes," I grimaced. "I suspect she has foreknowledge of some sort, though I cannot imagine the means. I have no doubt she could have slaughtered us easily, but from my experience with her, Thoth is egocentric and overconfident. She wants me to know she’s coming—I think she prefers it that way, as it makes her potential victory all the sweeter. In many ways, she is not unlike my father."

"What’s your history with her then, yer grace?" Orben interjected. It was an excellent question, one that I still had nothing remotely resembling an answer for.

"All I know for sure is that she hates me enough to burn down the entire kingdom out of spite."

"I’m sure you see how this is all a bit difficult to believe?" Cephur said. The doubt in his face was clear. "If you were any other noble, I’d smile and nod, and call you daft behind your back. But I like you, kid, so I’m trying to tell it to you straight. No one’s heard from the seers in over fifty years. There’s no way to verify your claim."

"I get it." My vision swam. I sat down before them, pushing the nausea down. "Trust me, I understand how ridiculous it all sounds."

"You believe all this, little purple?" Cephur said off-handedly, lost in thought.

"I do. His visions speak for themselves. Regardless of whether an attack comes to pass, I believe Cairn wishes for a unified Uskar." Maya squeezed my shoulder.

Tamara chuckled and leaned back. "I can’t even imagine what that would look like."

Up to that point, it all played out the way I suspected it would. I’d made them think, opened a sliver of doubt. Now was the critical moment. I had to trigger a buy-in.

There’s a maneuver in Koss called the Carthien Gambit. You force your opponent into a position where their only option is to surrender advantage. If it were my father, he would have coerced obedience by offering two bad options, one markedly worse than the other. I suspect, in my stead, he would have capitalized on Cephur and Tamara’s relationship, using blackmail to force compliance. But that wasn’t the sort of ruler I wanted to be. I didn’t want compliance. I wanted loyalty.

So instead of offering two bad options, I’d do the opposite. I handed all three of them the papers I had prepared.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

"This is a writ of nobility," Orben said, numbly.

"They all are." I answered. Something Maya had said came back to me. "Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t a bribe, or an attempt to buy you. We’ve only been together for a short time, but suffice it to say I have no doubts in your loyalty."

"You’re high. That damn physician screwed up the dosage." Tamara shook her head in disbelief.

"Trust me, it’s not that effective." I closed my eyes briefly, my head swimming.

"And what will you be chargin’ for this benevolence, your grace?" Cephur asked. There was a dangerous edge to his voice, one I’d heard many times. Nobles didn’t have a reputation for giving things away for free. Writs of nobility were rare. There was always a price. And he wasn’t wrong, it just wasn’t as nefarious as he thought.

"The cost is simple, as is the reasoning. My father charged me to fill a regiment by my fifteenth birthday. And I want you as a regiment leader."

Cephur’s eyes went wide. "I ain’t even close to qualified."

"Look, you’re tired of the Everwood. We both know it. Worst case, you get a few years vacation to corral and slap around some recruits, and head back to the rangers with your noble title intact.

"And you’d just… let me do that?"

"No questions asked. It’s more harm than help, forcing a man into a position he doesn’t want." I turned to Tamara and Orben. "That goes for the two of you as well."

"Well…" Cephur hesitated, sparing a split-second look towards Tamara. "Since you’re effectively formulating another noble house, I assume you have some sort of match in mind for me?"

Ah. So that was why he was so guarded. Writs of nobility were rare, but they did happen. Every so often, a noble would effectively adopt a commoner into their family. As a noble of the royal house, I couldn’t elect a commoner to house Valen, so he was correct in that I needed to formulate a new one. My father had done this sort of thing a handful of times, using the formation of smaller houses to pull away upstarts from larger houses, effectively breaking up any house that had grown large or powerful enough to eventually form a threat. Normally he’d raise hell over something as blatant as his son elevating commoners, but not if he thought it meant I was taking his mandate to form a regiment seriously.

I had to hand it to Cephur, though. Even with the offer of nobility and a salary that dwarfed whatever he was being paid now, his first thought was for the woman next to him.

Still, it was an excellent opportunity to have a bit of payback at a certain someone’s expense.

"Yes, I have a match in mind," I said. Tamara grew very still. "She’s a warrior. Beautiful. But a terrible personality."

"I... see." Cephur responded, his accent thick.

"It can’t be helped, but really, her personality is awful. She’s terrible with children. She’s also a notorious lecher. Though you might find that to be a good thing."

Cephur actually started sweating. Tamara was staring at her hands, so she missed it when my eyes flicked to her, but Cephur did not. He broke out in a wide grin.

"Does she have a little somethin’ I can hold onto?" He asked with a playful southern twang.

Tamara’s head whipped up to look at him, her eyes furious.

"Mmm. Decent looking. Maybe a little flat. I’d say she makes up for it with personality, but..." I shrugged. "Who am I kidding."

"Alright kid. Who’s this fine noble lady you got for me?"

Tamara looked between us suspiciously, finally clueing into the fact that she was missing something.

"Actually, she’s a new noble as well."

"How new?" Cephur’s eyes twinkled.

"A noble as of..." I looked up at the sun, musing. "Around fifteen minutes ago."

The half-elf next to him fell off the log, her face a mask of surprise.

Orben’s head shifted slowly from Cephur, to Tamara, to Cephur again, his mouth open in unrestrained excitement. He helped Tamara up and leaned into her ear. "I think he’s talking about you." His voice barely qualified as a whisper. Tamara was visibly stunned.

I stood again, letting the levity go. "All joking aside, no arranged marriages or interfering with your lives. But what I’m offering does have benefits. As regiment leader, you report directly to me. That means you’re immune to scandals affecting your rank. Meaning that, should the need arise, you can marry whoever you want, with no fear of it affecting your standing. That’s a promise."

Tamara covered her mouth.

Cephur stood across from me, his smile gone, expression filled with silent gratitude and understanding. He gripped my arm, and I gripped his.

"I think I can get behind that."

I found myself filled with a strange satisfaction I’d never felt before. Maybe this was what it felt like to be a leader. To use my power and position to forge allies, not from tyranny, but cooperation and loyalty.

Then a grim weight settled on my shoulders. There were no delusions. When Thoth invaded the capital, people would die. My people. I needed to stack the odds infinitely higher in my favor to protect them. I could not afford to turn down power, as I had with Kastramoth. There was no choice. I had to be better.

Tamara jumped up and hugged me fiercely, and I stifled a groan. Orben slapped me on the back, and that did elicit a groan.

Maya shooed them away.

"If you kill him before we reach the enclave, I will be very unhappy," she said. I nodded a silent thank-you. She squeezed my arm, her face proud.

"You aren't planning to come back to the capital anytime soon, are you?" Cephur asked.

I glanced at Maya. "It’ll be a couple of years, at least."

"Welp. That’ll give me some time to whip the men into shape."

"The best you can find. And I don’t care about their backgrounds, Cephur. I have no doubt there's plenty of talented soldiers with mingled heritage that have been held back. I want them. As many as you can find."

He nodded

"Hey!" Tamara seemed to realize something, her face outraged. "Who do you think you’re calling flat?!"

30

ENCLAVE I

I gave them each a smaller, more specific assignment. I tasked Cephur with the rather odorous task of finding Alten, with little more to go on than the likelihood a boy by that name would be enlisting in the Royal Army at a young age—possibly lying during the recruitment process to get in earlier. He rolled his eyes at me.

"You have any idea how many commoner children do that? And Alten ain’t exactly an uncommon name."

It was a fair observation. I shrugged and asked him to do his best, recommending he leverage Thaddeus to assist with the search.

I gave Orben carte blanche to find me the perfect horse; a hybrid between the war-horses my father was so fond of and something more mobile.

But again, the most vital task went to Tamara. I explained Sera’s situation in broad strokes and how isolated she was, hinting at, though not specifically stating, how vital it would be to sway her to my side. Archery would be the way in. Sera was obsessed with learning to shoot, and constantly complained about the incompetence of every man and woman who tried to teach her. I was confident she wouldn’t have the same issue with Tamara. In truth, though, I didn’t expect much. Sera was always going to be a hard nut to crack. Gods knew I’d failed at it for years. Still, it might help her to have a friend.

The rangers bickered amongst themselves, already debating the best way to approach things when they returned to Whitefall. It surprised me to find that I had nothing but faith in them.

There was a dull pastel to the scene that matched the bittersweet melancholy. My sense of color hadn’t fully returned, washing everything in muted tones. This wasn’t what I wanted, not really. I wanted Tamara to teach me to shoot, and to race with Orben. I wanted another year of sword tutelage from Cephur.

But it wasn’t meant to be. I wandered over to the shadow panther, who stood at the edge of the forest uncertainly, as if it sensed this was the end.

I reached out tentatively, and it nuzzled its head against my hand and made a sound in its throat. It wasn’t so much the creature itself, but everything it represented. Helplessness. The way I had struggled against it and nearly died, back when I didn’t even know I could come back. Finding the strength to fight, even when the odds were against me. An enemy, somehow, miraculously turned into a companion.

Slowly, I crouched down achingly in front of it.

"You can’t go where I’m going, I’m afraid."

It cocked its head in a manner that looked similar to a person asking a question. Why?

"There won’t be much for you to hunt. And there’s gonna be enough suspicion on me without bringing in a giant cat with a penchant for violence."

It looked displeased.

"Look, I don’t know why you decided to follow me, but I am grateful for your company and bounty." I pulled out a piece of meat, some leftover rabbit the panther had hunted the previous night."

It didn’t look angry so much as disappointed. Which, as always, was worse.

I sighed and looked around. This particular patch of forest was nearly as thick as the Everwood had been, but the atmosphere was completely different. The sparse canopies let in plenty of sun. Birds chirped. More importantly, it lacked any sort of malevolence or sinister atmosphere. It felt light and peaceful.

"Come." I pointed downward to my feet. "Look."

The shadow panther heeled at my side, golden eyes fixed on the forest. The fur around its neck had only just started to come back.

"Look at all that green, filled with prey. It’s all yours. You’re the scariest thing out here. The apex predator. King of the forest." I grinned.

Something flitted through its eyes too quickly to parse. Before, when I’d talked to it the same way you would a dog or a cat, I was struck with the uncanny sense that it could understand my words. I’d written it off as wishful anthropomorphism. But now I wasn’t so sure. It was intelligent. Perhaps smart enough to pick up on the meaning of my words, rather than the words themselves.

"You don’t have to wait for me. I’m going to be awhile. To do what I need to do, I need to get stronger, and that will take time. But if you do happen to stay around here, one day I’ll come back. Likely through this very path. And if you decide to come with me, I’ll have a name for you."

The panther stood, powerful muscles beneath its skin rippling. It began to prowl into the forest. It gave me one last lingering look, then disappeared into the brush.

I suddenly felt foolish. Who was I kidding? It probably had no idea what I was saying at all. Still, it would have felt wrong to just leave.

I coughed violently and held a hand to my mouth. It came away damp. There wasn’t as much blood as before, but plenty of bluish ichor. A chill went through me. It reminded me, a little too uncannily, of what happened to my mother.

Maya had wandered over to me and clued into my fear, spotting the blue. She raised her voice suddenly and gestured towards the rangers, her tone brisk, belying an edge of panic.

"He is getting worse. We need to go. Quickly."

But instead of helping me into the carriage, she darted up the steps, hefting both her luggage and mine under her arms.

Cephur studied us both. "I take it this is where we part ways, then."

"It is for the best," Maya said, transferring our belongings to a black horse. "We are close enough to the enclave it should be safe to go on our own."

"We can still see you both to the edge of the territory." Tamara said, looking at me worriedly.

"No," Maya insisted. "My people do not take kindly to outsiders. The two of us alone should be fine. If we approach with the three of you in tow, in the best case it will look like an overzealous survey from Uskarrian rangers. At worst, they will assume you are bringing a hostage for ransom.

Orben picked me up gently and placed me on the horse. "This is goodbye then, your majesty?"

"Afraid so, Benny." I said, my voice weak. "Cephur, you clear on the next steps?"

"Yep. Gonna be a hell of a couple of months, but we’ll manage somehow." Cephur re-tied one of the straps on the saddlebags, deep in thought.

"And that other thing we talked about," I said quietly, "I can leave it to you?"

"Yes." His face lowered into a scowl. "Though I hope to Elphion it won’t come to that."

Tamara boosted Maya up onto the horse in front of me.

"Hold on to her tight now." She winked.

"Terrible personality."

"Equine Savant."

The vision suddenly disappeared from my left eye. My pulse quickened, fear rising in my gut. I smiled at them all, trying for a regal confidence I didn’t remotely feel.

"Thank you for everything. May the frost wane at your waking."

Somehow, I managed to hide my fear until they shrunk to the size of pinpricks. The focus of my remaining eye started to randomly vacillate between near and far sight, bathing one or the other in a thick gaussian blur.

"Maya," I said urgently, "Something’s wrong with my eyes."

Maya did not respond, but whipped the reins mercilessly, driving her heels in, pushing the horse to a frantic, thundering gallop.

The idea of going blind was terrifying, especially when, from everything I understood, the sort of damage I’d done to myself appeared to carry over after death. Dying would not save me from it. I had no idea how permanent it was or if it was the sort of thing that healed over time, but Maya’s silence on the topic was far more frightening than anything else. A grim resolve had settled over her. For all her empathy and kindness, she pushed the horse brutally hard, not letting it slow for a moment. All I could do was cling to her waist and close my eyes, ignoring the repetitive stabs of pain that radiated through my core every time the horse’s hooves struck the ground.

When I opened my eyes again, we had reached the enclave.

I remember my initial impression was disappointment. Though my vision blurred the details somewhat, the enclave looked like nothing more than a small town, much like Kholis, only instead of humans, there were infernals. They came in varying shades of red, blue, and purple. Their clothing was ornate, consisting mostly of layered robes, each layer a different color. I could not make out the details of their faces, but I watched their blurry visages shift as we galloped through the town. Black horns atop infernal heads panned as they watched us ominously. Tendrils of fear whispered up the back of my neck. I knew now that they were not innately evil, but the lack of detail in the faces and my wounded state made it all too reminiscent of the night of the invasion. I tried to focus on something else. There were more than a few dwarves, which surprised me, along with a light elf or two. Apparently, the relations between demi-humans were not nearly as bad as I had thought. I looked behind us. Many were following, a small crowd forming in our wake, filling the street.

We approached the center of town, and I saw the vague outline of a gate, it’s center a murky crystalline that refracted in a dull prism.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The entrance to the enclave." Maya responded shortly, her voice tight. Now that I thought about it, it made much more sense than my original assumption. I just assumed that the dimensional gate that led to the infernal plane, the one my father had destroyed, was one of a kind, housed in a massive cave. But it made far more sense that the infernals had iterated on the magic.

"I’m guessing that’s not the only portal?" I asked.

Maya shook her head.

Tactically speaking, the solution was clever. Dimensional travel across the same plane allowed complete flexibility. They didn’t need to build a fortress to defend the entrance. That was why there was nothing more than a simple town here, serving as a hub. If an enemy attacked, all they needed to do to defend was turn the portal off from the other side. Not to mention, it was just practical; If the enclave was as massive as I was led to believe, you would want multiple entrances just to deal with the insane congestion that often took place outside castle gates. There were many nodes like this one that served as entrances to the enclave, some like this, some more discreet.

A guard was posted on either side of the portal. They watched us approach impassively. Then two more emerged from the center, seeming to appear from nothing. Unlike the first two guards who wore simple steel, their armor was inlaid with a blackened bronze that matched the staff at Maya’s side. Xescalt.

We’d attracted some attention, then.

I strained to see them more closely, and my vision faded to black, only returning after a matter of seconds. Panic clutched at me. I forced it back down. This was not the time for panic. Maya pulled the reins back, slowing the horse.

One of the guards in Xescalt composite armor walked down the steps towards us, away from the portal.

"Nethtari’s child, right? I thought you were off on a research mission for the Vessel. What are you doing back here?" He eyed me. "And in such poor company."

Maya set her jaw. She looked at him cooly, not backing down. "I intend to bring my friend into the Enclave."

"And I intend to get home on time and eat a nice warm dinner, and kiss my wife. But you don’t see me making that your problem."

Well. It was nice to know that the ambivalence of guardsmen was the one thing that crossed racial divides. Always the same.

Maya’s eyes narrowed. Her hand glowed green, and she drew a circle in the air, bisected with a strange pattern. "I invoke the rite of Shaliat. His home is my home. His crimes, my crimes. His banishment, my banishment."

The crowd that had gathered around us, pinning us in, murmured in surprise. By the grace of some god out there, I did not fall off the horse. That was a lot of responsibility. At some point after this, Maya and I needed to have a talk about having more open lines of communication.

"Invocation or not, that’s not happening, Nethtari’s daughter." The guard said. "He’s human. He can linger on the surface, resupply if he can find someone that will sell to him, then be on his way."

"My friend is sick." Maya said, urgently.

"Get him to the doctor then." His eyes narrowed. "Aren’t you supposed to be a life mage?"

I could see that Maya was stumped. And I appreciated what she was trying to do. She didn’t want to out me, especially here, when we were isolated, outnumbered, and defenseless.

But I had already learned this lesson. Hiding my identity out of cowardice had nearly lost me my dearest ally once, and that was enough. There would be times to lie about what and who I was. But now was not that time.

I was someone they hated.

But I had something they needed.

All I could do was hope the latter outweighed the former.

I slipped from the horse. The ground rushed up to meet me. I misjudged the distance, stumbling slightly to stay on my feet. The guard stirred slightly, hand going to his ruby encrusted pommel.

Carefully, I raised myself up to my full height, took in a deep breath, and spoke.

"My name is Cairn of House Valen. Son of King Gil, the Tyrant." Another stream of murmurs. The guardsman’s face went blank, callous ambivalence gone. He unsheathed his sword. Maya’s head swiveled in panic, looking for an exit. I turned away from the guard and surveyed the crowd.

For one precious second, their faces came into focus. And it was not hate I saw, but fear. They feared me. I felt a surge of anger at what my father had done to these people, that even a child could instigate such a response.

With great effort, I summoned the spark. My chest seized for just a moment.

There was a string of gasps and the quiet murmurs grew to a fevered pitch. I heard the clink of armor as the Guardsmen closed the distance.

Holding the flame, I extended it out towards them gently, slowing moving in a circle until I faced the guard in xescalt plate once more.

"I do not come to you as a prince, or a warrior. I come to you in the spirit of peace. I come to you, to return that which was stolen."

31

ENCLAVE II

It had been nearly thirty years since my father decimated the infernals. Hardly ancient history. It was, however, enough time for orphaned children to grow up and become guards, citizens, and members of the Council. Maya had not been joking when she told me I’d have no friends here.

I wasn’t expecting them to welcome me with open arms, but truth be told, I also wasn’t expecting to be put into chains. Some part of me had assumed my little display would buy me a vestigial fragment of goodwill, but so far, all it had won me was my life and a pair of manacles. I flexed my fingers experimentally, trying to keep my circulation going. They were similar to the sort of bonds the rangers used for the most part, but where they differed was in the set of complex metal rings and rods designed to keep fingers separated. That, combined with the hieroglyphic runes carved into the bands, made it clear this device was some sort of arcane countermeasure.

That was fine. I’d have to be a damn fool to even consider trying to use my power now anyway.

Maya had raised hell, but there was only so much she could do. Her family was not particularly influential, from what I understood, and any authority they might have held was apparently vastly stunted by the threat of the Tyrant King’s thirteen-year-old son. If their intent was to humiliate and provoke me, I would not rise to the bait. We approached the portal.

"Hold your breath," Maya whispered, "it can be disorienting."

I had thought that entering the portal would feel electrical, like stepping into a tunnel filled with static electricity. Instead, it felt like walking through viscous gel. It tugged at my hair and my skin, as if intending to reject me altogether, the barrier stretched until it snapped. There was a moment of disorienting weightlessness. Then, for lack of a better word, we landed.

And I realized how poorly researched all the stories of the Infernal Enclave had been. The words so often ascribed to it, "a large cave," were almost hysterically reductive. Imagine for a moment, if you will, a moderately wealthy coastal city, littered with shanties and small houses on the outskirts, building eventually to larger houses and structures, all constructed in an imperfect semi-circle around the ocean. But instead of an ocean, there was a massive black chasm going down further than the eye could see. There was no sky, just a ceiling made of rock a mile up, the entire city encased in a geological dome. Most spectacular of all was the massive, fiery sphere of light towards the vertex of the convex dome, serving as a miniature sun.

"Elphion," I said, in awe.

"Yes. The sense of wonder never really goes away," Maya gazed at our surroundings, a touch of nostalgia in her voice. She’d been with Barion for years, it must have been a relief to be home. I was happy for her, though a bit jealous.

A guard at my back shoved me forward. "Keep it moving, human." It wasn't even particularly hard. He couldn’t have known his actions would have such drastic repercussions. I tripped and felt a fiery tear in my chest, like something was knocked loose.

My vision slowly faded to black. The last thing I saw was Maya kneeling over me, her white eyes awash in regret.

I floated in the dark. The great beast was nearby, but it hadn’t spotted me yet. From somewhere above me, voices spoke.

"—I told them he was sick, they didn’t listen—"

"—were you thinking? bringing him—"

"—the soul damage—he saved my life. More than once. I owe him—"

"—Foolish girl. No one owes anyone this. Do you know what will happen to you if—"

"—I do not care. I invoked the—"

"—to be making this decision. It cannot be taken back. You will regret—"

"—please. I’m begging you—"

"—so be it. But there is a something you must do—"

The voices faded to nothing. I floated in the dark for what felt like an eternity. Slowly, the sensation of having a body returned to me. Though I floated weightlessly, I could feel my hands, my legs, my face. My mind wandered. I thought of Lillian. The way the sun dappled her face, her hair, as she toiled in the workshop. She appeared before me, floating around in the nothingness. Little more than a hallucinated specter of longing given form, but one I wanted dearly to be real.

"I’m sorry."

"For what?" She asked. The sound echoed.

"You were the first person I wanted to go to. Just seeing you alive again would have meant everything to me."

"Yes," Lillian said. Her melodic voice took on a mournful note. "The Cairn I knew would have moved heaven and earth to come back to me, Uskar be damned. You have changed."

"No." I shook my head. "No. That’s wrong. I’m still me."

"Are you truly?"

An image of Tusk bleeding out in the alley flashed before my eyes.

I cringed.

"It wasn’t a criticism, my love. Just an observation." Lillian hugged me from behind, and I ached. She spoke softly into my ear. "I will never be more than the apothecary’s daughter. I cannot change my fate. You, on the other hand, have changed so much, in such a short time, while I am destined to remain the same. I cannot help you in this struggle. You must know that."

We’d had many conversations like this, ponderous talks that toyed with the philosophical. But none had cut me so deeply.

"No," I said vehemently. "I cannot believe that. I will not believe that. With adequate power and strength, it would be enough just to have you at my side."

"Power warps, my love. More than even death. Power lures good people to darkness."

"Then what would you have me do?" I asked, frustrated.

"That would be telling." Lillian gazed at me sadly. She began to drift away. I reached out for her and my hand phased through her wrist. Her outline grew fainter and fainter, melding into the black.

From somewhere in the dark, I heard her voice one final time.

"How much more will you change before the end?"

I awoke, blinking tears out of my eyes. No matter how real it felt, I told myself, it was just a dream. My mind trying to tackle unprocessed emotions. I sat up slowly, gingerly feeling at my chest. The pain was gone. I briefly remembered Maya speaking to someone. A doctor, perhaps? It had to be.

Slowly, I sat up, taking in the room. It looked a lot like a glass box, only the glass was black, and cool to the touch. It was well lit, but there were no obvious torches or lumen lamps. Rather, the light seemed to shine through two panels in the high ceiling. There were no windows or doors, and the entire room was bare save a worn mattress shoved into the corner and a bucket.

Ah. This wasn’t a medical facility. This was a prison.

I frowned. Something had gone terribly wrong. I wondered if Maya led me to this place with any inclination that this might happen. As if on cue, I heard her voice faintly. I moved towards the side of the room the sound was coming from and pressed my ear against the wall. It was too faint to make out the words, but that was definitely her. It sounded like she was yelling at the top of her lungs, her voice peaking.

It wasn’t a great sign for my future endeavors with the infernals. Experimentally, I reached out my hand and called the spark. It came, but only for a moment before the light choked and died. A section of the glass beneath my feet glowed purple.

Huh.

I stood on the mattress and called the spark again. This time, the section of wall closest to me glowed, though it took slightly longer to extinguish. So physical contact was irrelevant.

There were no bars to file, no locks to pick, and magic was effectively useless. This was likely the sort of holding cell Barion would have literally killed for.

I experimented for a bit longer. Banged on the walls and floor, looking for any structural inconsistencies. And yes, I set my mattress on fire. The flame extinguished almost instantly, accomplishing nothing more than the acrid smell of burnt fabric lingering within the cell.

Having exhausted all possible avenues, I laid down and went to sleep.

I woke up again, feeling frustrated and angry. This was the tenth time I’d slept. I had no idea how many days it had been because the lighting never changed. Some time had passed for certain; my clothes were dirty and I smelled like I hadn’t showered in a while, but certain aspects simply didn’t function the same way they did on the outside. For one thing, I was growing increasingly paranoid that my bucket was emptying itself. I’d made use of it several times, and after a few uses, I’d always find it empty and spotless. It was possible someone snuck in to change it while I slept, but considering how light of a sleeper I was, combined with the utter silence of the cell, that seemed unlikely.

Far more concerning was the fact that they weren’t feeding me. No one had brought me food or water, not even once. But the baffling part of it was, I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. Don’t get me wrong, I missed food. I found myself fantasizing about all sorts of grilled meats, recalling Desiric’s banquet with such vividness that I began to salivate. But the desire for food and water never turned into actual hunger and thirst. There were no stomach pains or dryness in my mouth and throat. Everything was consistently normal.

It was around this time I began to realize I was being subjected to a subtle form of torture. It was clever, really, purely psychological rather than the atrocities that occurred within the Whitefall dungeons, but torture nonetheless. Their goal, I guessed, was to isolate me from anything that approached a routine. It was working. The walls felt like they were growing smaller, millimeters at a time.

The only break from it was that every five to ten sleeps, when it would rain in my cell. Only in the center. I had to scramble to undress as it would last mere minutes at a time, though it could have been much longer or shorter. My sense of time was growing perpetually more skewed.

I started to exercise, to the best of my ability. Cephur had taught me a number of strength training exercises. I jogged in place, did pushups, eventually graduated to more complicated maneuvers out of boredom, such as handstands against the wall. I found that if I completely tired myself out, it was much easier to sleep beneath the bright lights.

This went on for some time, before Annette walked through the cell wall. I stared at her. She looked exactly like she did the night of the coronation. It couldn’t be real. Could it?

"Annette? Is that you?"

She caught fire and I staggered backward. Annette stared at me, her eyes accusing as she faded into nothingness. Even my hallucinations couldn’t be bothered to hold a conversation. I grunted and returned to my jog.

It felt like years, but I learned later it was closer to three weeks before a section of the wall slid open, and a man finally entered. I stood, rising from my mattress. My anger at being jailed had almost dissipated entirely. Instead, I had to fight the urge to reach out and touch him to make sure he was real.

The infernal was blue-skinned and older. He had a kind face, though I had learned quite thoroughly not to trust such impressions. His eyes matched his skin, deep and insightful. The horns on his head were much larger than the average infernal, colored pale white instead of the typical black. Perhaps he was just old. Still, he walked with a strange, measured grace. The door slid shut behind him. He sat down cross-legged in front of me, and wordlessly, I joined him. Maybe it sounds pathetic, but I was just happy for the company.

He seemed to finish studying me, coming wordlessly to a conclusion, then looked around the room in distaste. "I must apologize for my fellows, princeling. Even in their fear, they are spiteful." His eyes returned to me. "Still, you have some fascinating friends, for them to pull me from the depths of the sanctum."

The term was unfamiliar to me, but I took it to mean that Maya came through. Of course she did.

"I, I, I—" I stopped, suddenly, clamping down on the stutter in irritation. There was this sudden, irrational fear that if I did not speak to him properly, he might leave. "Sorry."

"Take your time. Spending time in a magus cell is hard on anyone, especially a child." He said the last part with a snort of derision. He looked around conspiratorially. "Call me Morthus. And, don’t tell anyone, but I snuck in some contraband."

He pulled a bag from within his robes, and somehow, I could identify the scent immediately. Freshly roasted nuts. My mouth watered immediately and I had to swallow the sudden flood of saliva. He reached out to hand it to me. His nails were long and black.

And on his arm, branded into the liver-spotted skin, was the symbol of metamorphosis.

32

ENCLAVE III

I froze, staring at the brand. It was only the fact that his eyes were on the bag rather than my face that saved me. Silently, I lamented my luck. How improbable was it that I kept running into these assholes?

Then I thought about it. Humans weren’t exactly welcome in the enclave, as my current circumstances spoke to. Barion, while not quite human, was certainly human passing. It made sense that he would have contacts here, and that infernals, given their magical abilities, would take part in some capacity. Perhaps Maya was selected because of the simple fact that she knew this man.

I took the bag but did not eat. The smell drove me to the edge of madness. But I knew all too well how simple it would be to poison something like this and use salt to cover the taste. With perhaps more self-control than I had ever shown in my life, I set the bag down.

Morthus raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I thought you’d be ravenous."

I was. Gods, I was.

"Excuse me. I’m a bit disoriented."

"And a terrible liar, but I shan’t hold that against you." Morthus said knowingly. He reached for the bag, and I had a spike of primal fear that—poisoned or not—my food would be taken from me. But instead, he simply took a small handful of nuts and threw them back, crunching loudly.

That was all it took. I scarfed down the bag in seconds, shuddering in pleasure. The barely chewed nuts felt abrasive against my under-utilized throat as they slid down, but I couldn’t be bothered to care. He waited patiently as I ate, casually informing me of what had happened in my absence. He had an articulate, plodding way of speaking that reminded me of an actor in a play.

The infernal council was deadlocked over what to do with me. A third assumed it was a trap and wanted me sent away to avoid risking another war, another third was cautiously interested, and the remaining third wanted me executed. The timing of my arrival was less than ideal, as they were also in the process of dealing with a demonic legion gone rogue.

"If I may ask," I said, self-consciously wiping my mouth with my sleeve, "what camp do you fall into?"

"Well. I’m not exactly an authority when it comes to decision making. They respect my opinion as an elder and magician, but politics was never really my thing."

"So, you don’t have an opinion?"

"That’s why I’m here. To form one." He shook his head. "I have love for Nethtari and Kilvius, but something like this I really have to judge for myself."

"Kilvius?"

"Nethtari’s husband," Morthus said. "He’s a red, but we like him all the same."

"I see. Well, what would you like to know?" I asked carefully.

"Many things. More than anything, I’d like to witness the Dantalion flame for myself. There have been reports, but it’s been so damn long." He said, frustrated. "But it’s not as if you can manifest it in here—"

Morthus trailed off as I summoned the spark. As usual, it petered out in seconds, the floor below me glowing. He raised an eyebrow. "You… should not be able to do that."

"It doesn’t last long."

"No." Morthus shook his head, bemused. "You shouldn’t be able to do that in here at all. Perhaps there’s something wrong with the panels." He extended his hand, fingers arranged in the foci. His palm glowed blue briefly, and I felt a flash of cold, and then it was gone, absorbed into the floor. "Fascinating." He looked at me.

"That looked similar."

"Yes, but I’ve been at this a bit longer than you." His long fingernails tapped against the floor. "Their daughter said you were advanced for a natural, but honestly, I figured the girl would say anything to get you out."

She probably would.

"So." He leaned forward. "What are your intentions?"

I was a little lost at what to say. I knew precious little about Barion’s group other than the fact that they were immoral, unscrupulous, and somehow connected to Thoth. Yet, after some consideration I wasn’t sure they were actively working with her. She’d killed the Duke, and spoke of Barion as if he was a bug to crush under heel, rather than an ally.

"I’ve come to—"

"Return that which was stolen," Morthus interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Yes, yes. I’d have to be deaf to have not heard about your little display at the gate. Very rousing. But why are you really here?"

Discussing my visions or the attack was out of the question. But it was likely best to be truthful.

"Obviously, part of it is that I’m here to learn."

"Obviously."

"Truth be told, I disagree with my father’s methods. Our people would benefit more from cooperation, and I intend to repair the dimension gate as a first step towards that."

Morthus sighed. "And therein lies the problem."

"What problem?"

"It all fits a little too well. The son of the enemy, invited into our midst with the exact magic needed to restore our society to its former glory? It reeks of a trap."

That threw me for a moment. "You’re saying the offer is too good?"

"Undoubtedly. The council is slow moving by nature. They are not used to sudden change or good things coming from external factors. And in this case, you rode up on a horse and offered both. Plus, it puts us in a position of weakness."

I cocked my head. "How so?"

Morthus shifted uncomfortably. "I’m only telling you this because I owe Nethtari a debt. You didn’t hear it from me."

"Done."

"Alright. Repairing the dimension gate isn’t as simple as lighting a sconce. It requires moderate mastery. Which, coincidentally—"

"—Means my request for training and knowledge is practically a prerequisite."

"Got it in one." Morthus said. "They’re afraid you’re going to take the money and run, so to speak. Not to mention..." He cocked his head, considering. "What did Maya tell you about the sanctum?"

I shook my head. "Just that it’s the institution through which infernals learn magic. Information isn’t exactly widely available about your people in my world, and the information that circulates is… questionable."

Morthus nodded solemnly. "I imagine so. Do we still steal the souls of children lost in the Everwood?"

I stifled a laugh, remembering Desiric’s reaction. "Only if they’ve been disobeying their parents."

"Yes. The souls of naughty children are particularly delicious." Morthus deadpanned.

"After being in here for so long, anything would be delicious." I joked. Morthus chortled.

"You’re wrong on one count." He said, after a moment. "The Sanctum isn’t an institution. It’s more like a living being. I’d wager you saw some of it on your way in. Can’t miss it."

I thought for a moment. That felt like an eternity ago. Wait. "The giant hole in the ground?"

"We prefer ‘chasm.’ A thousand feet down and you’ll reach the bottom. Takes longer than you’d think. It’s massive. It extends hundreds of miles in each direction and is absolutely awash with catalysts, mineral deposits, and natural resources. At the age of fifteen, every infernal child with a lick of magic potential takes the pilgrimage to one particular network of caverns we call the sanctum."

"I thought it was a school."

"Of a sort. What do you know about dune hawks?"

The change of topic threw me. "They’re birds?" Morthus gave me an unamused look and I racked my brain. "Big birds. Larger than most eagles. Native to the runic plains."

"Regal creatures. I haven’t seen one in gods know how long. A proponent of the brutal side of nature versus nurture. There’s a myth regarding birds pushing their young out of the nest to force them to fly. It’s mostly false. Dune Hawks, however, are the source of the myth. They migrate to the plains to lay their eggs, nesting in the highest trees they can find. Bastards throw their out young before their eyesight can even develop. They literally learn to fly blind."

I suspected I knew where he was going. "So, in this analogy, the enclave is the nest?"

"Of course, we’re far more civilized. We don’t throw our young out of the nest." Morthus smiled at me grimly. "We send them down the elevator."

Over the next hour, Morthus gave me some much-needed context for how the enclave functioned, and why the council was so deadlocked on the topic of sending me into the sanctum.

Any infernal under the age of twenty could enter the sanctum and leave. It had something to do with the massive concentration of mana there. Younger infernals could adjust to it and even utilize it for far more magical output than they’d be capable of usually. But the older you were, the harder it was for the body to readjust to being in the more anemic environment of the enclave and the world beyond. If you entered over the age limit and spent more than a day there, you were risking death. Master practitioners went there as a sort of retirement, and the sanctum extended their lifespan, often to an absurd degree. There were legends of infernals within the sanctum as old as elves. They would teach entrants they took a liking to, though often at a cost. The place was a treasure trove, both in terms of knowledge and actual treasure.

There were, of course, downsides. For starters, it was incredibly dangerous. One out of five infernals that entered never made it back, and these were adolescents that spent much of their childhood preparing to make the descent. If you survived the monsters and feral demons, there were still plenty of pitfalls and natural hazards, the danger growing more extreme the farther you moved from the center. There was a real possibility I could die, and if that happened, they were suddenly in the unenviable position of having a dead prince on their hands and triggering a second war.

The more militant leaders of the council were concerned I might bring back something more valuable than knowledge. As Morthus had said, the Sanctum was almost a living entity. As the earth shifted, the layout tended to transform. Chambers and tunnels blocked off for thousands of years could suddenly open and known areas could suddenly close. Stumbling upon a priceless artifact was rare, but entirely possible. Whatever an entrant found within the Sanctum was theirs by right. They didn’t want long-lost cultural treasures falling into human hands. Finally, the more neutral faction simply didn’t think I had earned admission.

I parsed the new information quietly. There was still one thing that didn’t make sense. I looked up at Morthus. "Why did they put me in here?"

His mouth turned downward. "That was Guemon’s doing. The council speaker. I didn’t see it myself, but from what I’ve heard, as soon as you stabilized, he had his men relocate you from the infirmary to this cell. He is, unsurprisingly, one of the shortsighted dunderheads that want to execute you. He holds a lot of sway, but not so much that it’s a real possibility."

I gawked, incredulous. "So, he just put me in here to fuck with me?"

"I suspect Guemon hoped you’d be incited into a raging, gibbering mess before your inevitable council hearing."

My stay in the magus cell had been difficult, certainly. Perhaps before everything else that had happened it would have been enough to send me over the edge. But there were several lifetimes between then and now.

"It’s a lot," Morthus said, kindly. He stood to his feet. "If you decide to leave, no one would blame you for it."

"No. That was never an option." The gears in my head began to turn. "I want to meet with the council."

"I figured you would. Very well. I will speak to the council on your behalf. As far as I can tell, you haven't lied to me once, at least not regarding anything important. My word still holds some weight around here. The solicitor should be by to meet with you shortly and prepare you for your hearing. You should be out by the end of the day, and I can return to the Sanctum, where I belong."

"I—Thank you."

"Be a little angrier." He clapped me on the back. "No frothing at the mouth, but the council responds well to a bit of righteous indignation."

The idea of finally leaving this accursed place flooded me with so much relief, it took a moment to pinpoint what struck me as odd about his previous statement.

"Morthus," I said. "You’re returning to the Sanctum?"

"Yes?"

"I thought you said if anyone over the age limit entered, they could never leave."

"I did say that." Morthus strode to the end of my cell, and it slid open. He threw a smug look over his shoulder. "That’s something you’ll learn about magic, princeling. There’s an exception to every rule."

He paused at the door, then pulled his sleeve up. "You know this symbol, don’t you?"

Now that I could see it more clearly, it was nearly scratched out, the skin beneath repeatedly abused and burned.

"You must. It’s why you grew wary of me."

I stopped breathing. My likelihood of escaping this cell suddenly seemed to plummet and I shuddered.

Morthus’s eyes were sorrowful. "We were not all like Barion. I dare say most within the chrysalis were good men, once." He shook his head. "Bah, it sounds like I’m making excuses for myself. That is not my intent. It is a long and tragic story. If, by some small miracle you enter the Sanctum, come find me. There is much I can teach you."

He left, leaving me with more questions than answers.

An hour later, Nethtari arrived to escort me to the council hearing.

33

ENCLAVE IV

I looked up at the infernal, trying not to gawk. She was tall for a woman, probably at least a half a head taller than I was in my twenties. Her features were similar to Maya’s, though they were pulled into a severe frown.

"You’re my solicitor for the council meeting?"

Nethtari inclined her head, her white eyes unreadable. "Of course. My daughter performed the rite. It is only proper." Her voice was a perpetual monotone with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

I bowed to her. "Thank you for your help. I’m not sure I could have survived in there much longer."

She returned the bow, hers notably shallower than mine. "It is my duty. I am certain my daughter thought things through logically before throwing our family into the middle of a citywide power struggle, and this was not a result of her notorious tendency to act on impulse."

I felt a stab of guilt at that. "I apologize for making things difficult for you."

"This would not be the enclave if things were not difficult," Nethtari said blandly. "That is our way. Come."

I followed her out of the facility. The doors were as sheer on the outside, marked only by a single illuminated line. The glowing strips on the other cells were all red, save one that was blue.

"Who’s in there?" I asked.

"Whoever Guemon is displeased with this week," Nethtari didn’t break stride. There was something almost noble about her gait, a smoothness between steps that many lacked. The guards leered down at me as we passed. My heart stuttered, terrified that they might change their minds and throw me back in.

I passed through the doors, and the light of the artificial sun flooded over me, blinding me. For a moment, while my vision was washed out, my mind’s eye went… elsewhere. I saw the inside of a quaint room, small and lived in. The perspective shifted, tilting up towards the ceiling.

Then the moment passed and my vision returned. The sights and the sounds of the city were overwhelming. A woman on the back of a dire-mole sped past, nearly clipping me.

"Perhaps it is a cultural difference, but here, we generally walk on the sidewalk." Nethtari said.

I sheepishly returned to her. We walked in silence.

"Do I have you to thank for saving my life as well?" I asked. The constant pain I was in before had faded to a dull ache.

"That was my daughter. I am merely her enabler." Nethtari cast a glance over her shoulder towards me. "The priests wanted nothing to do with you, but she insisted. I’ve heard the words, ‘Rite of Shaliat’ so often in the last few weeks that they no longer sound like words."

"So, I’m fixed?"

"Hardly," a cool irritation played across her face, "it would be best if you avoid excessive channeling." Her eyes slid over to me. "Including, but not limited to, drawing the mana potential of a dantalion forest fire into your untrained soul and expecting little to no consequences. Also, stop setting forests on fire."

"It wasn’t a whole forest fire," I muttered, feeling overly chastised. It made sense that Maya would have disclosed the details of what happened in the forest to her mother, but it still caught me off guard.

"Indeed." She rolled her eyes. "Just take it easy for a while. With a little luck and rehabilitation, things will return to normal soon enough, and if this meeting with the council goes as planned, you will be properly educated on your limits."

"You think I have a chance?"

"Oh yes," Nethtari said, her eyes flashing. "Guemon tipped his hand the moment he put you in that cell."

Nethtari’s home was little more than two large wooden boxes stacked on top of each other, complete with chipping paint and bars over the windows. The inside was cluttered, wooden floorboards peeling up from the ground.

It took several hours to prepare. Nethtari insisted that appearance was tantamount and disparaged mine in a manner that nearly reminded me of my stepmother—but unlike her, Nethtari was correct. My hair had grown a bit too long. My father never really cared about those things, and my mother was less than focused on appearances, so my hair tended to run a bit long. However, in the time that had transpired between the Caravan and the present, it had grown quite unkempt. She sat me down in a small bathroom and stuck her head out the door.

"Kilvius!" Nethtari shouted. Her shout was answered with the slow, long wail of an infant. "Gods dammit." She put a hand to her forehead. The baby’s cries grew louder as footsteps came down the hall.

"Yes, lovely wife of mine?" Kilvius entered the room, holding a crying blue child in his arms. It surprised me that Morthus had meant it literally—Kilvius was red-skinned, though I wasn’t sure why exactly that was a bad thing.

Nethtari pressed her hands together in apology. "Sorry, sorry. I’ll take him, can you just…" She gestured toward me and the scissors on the counter vaguely."

"He a good tipper?" Kilvius grinned.

"No idea."

"Guess we’ll find out." Kilvius passed Nethtari the baby smoothly and navigated to me. Nethtari bobbed the baby back and forth, singing in a cringingly tone-deaf voice. It was as if they’d done this a thousand times. I was hard-pressed to think of a more frantic introduction

I perked up, hearing Maya’s voice from the hallway "Mom, Dad, is that—"

"Go back to your room!" They said simultaneously in a flash of irritation that dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Kilvius reached out and took my hand warmly. "Cairn?"

I shook his hand, relieved more than anything to see a friendly face. "Kilvius, I presume."

He looked momentarily surprised, then laughed. "I suppose you would have picked that up when I was summoned." He grabbed a fresh towel from beneath the counter and wrapped it around my neck with practiced precision. "Two hours putting him down, undone in a moment. Such is life."

"What’s his name?" It’s hard to say why I asked. It just seemed like the polite thing to do.

"Agarin, but we just call him Rin. He’ll be four months old in a week."

Kilvius chattered on about Rin as he proceeded to cut my hair, lifting rows of it confidently and competently. It was by far the quickest and most efficient haircut I’d ever received.

Another child stuck his head in the door, closer to my age. "Dad, I need to use the bathroom."

"We’ll be done in a minute, Jorra." Kilvius said.

He scowled. His light blue face turned to me briefly in curiosity, then immediately dismissed me as he walked away.

A family of this size, with only one bathroom? How did they all get ready in the morning?

"We take turns." Kilvius said, shrewdly. I blinked. He’d either read my mind or my expression gave away far too much information.

"You have a beautiful family," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from the awkwardness.

"The best," he said immediately. He put the scissors down, applied some sort of conditioner, and I realized we were done. I looked like my old self—better, even. My strawberry-blonde hair was practically gleaming.

"Before Nethtari steals you away. I understand that you saved my daughter." He wiped down the back of my neck with the towel.

"It was more like we saved each other."

Kilvius chuckled. "She said you’d say that." Then his smile disappeared. "We thought we’d lost her. The tribe scoured the Everwood, but we could never find him."

"Barion?"

"Damn dragon-oil salesman." Kilvius’s face turned dark for just a moment, before returning to normal. "Regardless of who saved who, I am forever in your debt. So is my wife, though she’ll never admit it. I’ll do whatever I can to help." He dabbed at his eyes.

Nethtari slipped into the bathroom silently. "He’s down."

"I’ll never understand how you do that." Kilvius gave his wife a wry smile.

"I’ve said it before, you’re too stimulating for Rin, you have to go out of your way to be intentionally boring—" Nethtari trailed off, looking at me. "Dammit Kilvius."

"What?" He said. I checked myself in the mirror to make sure I didn’t have a random patch of missing hair.

"I said clean up, not makeover. It needs to look at least somewhat plausible that he just walked out of a magus cell." She walked to my side, studying me. Then to my horror, she placed a hand down on my impeccably styled hair and pressed down, mussing it savagely.

Kilvius yelped in protest

To her parent’s displeasure, Maya was waiting for me by the door. She crossed the room and threw her arms around me fiercely. "You scared the hells out of me," she whispered into my ear.

I returned the hug, more happy to see her than I would have expected. "I’m fine. Promise. What’s a couple of near-death experiences between friends?"

"When Guemon’s men took you, I thought…" Her breath caught.

I patted her on the back. "A little solitary confinement isn’t enough to put me down. They were honestly civilized about it. Didn’t even rough me up in the meantime." Over her shoulder, I saw Nethtari giving me a look that could only be described as poignantly hostile. Nervously, I let go of Maya and took a step backward.

Nethtari’s face softened, and she put a hand on Maya’s shoulder. "I’ll take it from here, ni’lend."

"Mom’s good at what she does." Maya wiped her sleeve across her face. "Just do exactly what she tells you."

On the walk over, Nethtari had drilled an endless litany of information into my head. The proper greetings. How to bow. When to stand. Of the five prime council members, two were effectively empty chairs that would follow whatever the majority decided. The council members of interest were Guemon, Ephira, and Ralakos.

Guemon, unsurprisingly, headed up the hostile faction and controlled the military and security of the enclave. He would do everything he could to get me killed.

Ephira was head of trade and neutral, not particularly invested in either side, but she was anything but an empty chair. She could be swayed, but it would be difficult and take considerable effort.

Finally, Ralakos would be my best friend. He was the magical authority amongst the enclave. More than anyone, he wanted the dimensional gate repaired. He had been lobbying against Guemon for my release over the last few weeks, and speaking on my behalf. He was still a politician, but in this particular instance, he had firmly planted himself on my side.

He had even sent me robes of his colors, a regal blue-silver, and Nethtari had instructed me to wear them.

"Speak when directly addressed. Do not interject. Ephira is the key to this, and she has a rod the size of a tent-pole up her ass when it comes to manners," Nethtari droned. "You have some experience in the royal court, yes?"

"Yes," I said, though it was likely less impressive than she thought. My father often took me there when I was young to see the so-called "realities of ruling." I didn’t mention the fact that I typically made it about ten minutes before falling asleep, and that habit followed me even as I grew older.

"Good." Nethtari nodded. "Remember, if you are unsure whether or not you are being called upon, simply look to me."

Now, I stood before them, Nethtari at my side, hands folded behind her back. The prime council was positioned above us, looking down at the circular marble floor. The floor Nethtari and I stood on was emblazoned with detailed iconography of a broken horn framed by a violet flame. The central area was framed by a circle of lesser council members.

And every one of them looked exhausted. I had the feeling that when I was told the council had been deadlocked for weeks, it wasn’t an exaggeration. Interestingly enough, every council member was a varying shade of violet. There seemed to be some sort of class element at play.

Guemon, one of the only chubby infernals I’d seen, sighed over-dramatically and leaned backwards, extending a hand towards me palm up in frustration. His voice was nasally and snide.

"For the love of all that is low and unholy, can we please just kill this motherfucker already?"

As of that moment, the Infernal Court held more of my attention than the Royal Court ever had.

34

ENCLAVE V

"For the love of all that is low and unholy, can we just kill this motherfucker already?"

To be fair, I had seen far worse examples of opening diplomatic relations. Granted, all those examples came solely from my father, and usually ended in minor genocide.

I stiffened, about to speak up before I remembered Nethtari’s warning and glanced in her direction. It was like a switch had been flicked. Nethtari wasn’t looking at me. She was staring down the three council masters, and it was actually working.

"You see this?" Her voice was sharp and ringing. "This is why I wanted him censured. Whatever the outcome of today, I would think, after the last month, the intention is to finally be productive."

Ralakos had the air and build of a knight, similar to some retired men my father kept around as advisors. He spoke in a deep rumbling baritone. "Indeed. You’ve done nothing but stonewall for the last two meetings, Guemon. If you cannot be bothered to contribute, you are welcome to leave, and have Taupe fill in your stead.

"Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You old bastard."

Ephira cut in. Her nose was slightly flattened at the end, lending her a bookish look. "Regardless of who is in the right, this is getting tiresome. Every moment this takes me away from my work is costing us gold. Let's try to end this as expediently as possible."

The gears in my mind started to turn. This was a bad situation. In my limited experience, the worst decisions in politics were made when the critical parties were either exhausted or rushed. And the council was both. They weren’t angry at each other, they were tired. We needed to widen the gulf between them, reinvest them in the conflict. Otherwise, said conflict would end as soon as Ephira bent one way or another.

And there was something wrong with Ephira.

I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something about the way her lips quirked in a subtle smirk when she said she was losing money.

Damn it. I didn’t have enough information. Didn’t matter. I’d improvise. I needed a narrative, but what?

"Let’s hear from our guest. Prince Cairn, please step forward," Ralakos said.

Donning the mask of the noble I walked forward smoothly, standing directly in the center of the room and bowing as Nethtari had taught me. "Greetings, Master Ralakos, Master Guemon, and Master Ephira." I put a subtle emphasis on the last name. The ordering was also intentional. You may know this, but the most crucial parts of a list are the first and last things listed. That’s why, when you try to memorize something chronologically, the middle is most difficult. From my first sentence, I was snubbing Guemon.

Ephira’s expression shifted slightly, too subtle to read, but she was minutely more focused on me than she had been a moment ago.

"Firstly, I would like to thank you for saving my life. Though you may have not acted directly, it is thanks to your mercy that I still draw breath." I bowed once more, as was proper for appreciation.

"Please." Guemon rolled his eyes and set a fist down on the lectern a bit too hard. "Wasn’t he supposed to have a mortal soul event? And now he’s up, walking around like nothing happened?"

I smiled, my face still hidden in the bow. Guemon had interrupted me in the middle of my introduction. So, as was proper in infernal custom, I ignored him completely, rising from my bow.

"I would like to thank you specifically, Master Ralakos," I continued.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Guemon’s face turn beet red when he realized why I’d ignored him in turn.

"Oh?" Ralakos said, amused. "And what have I done to earn this gratitude?"

"Upon my arrival, my clothes were in a state of disrepair. It is thanks to your generosity that I am able to appear before this court in attire befitting the institution." I made a sweeping gesture towards my robe. "For that, I thank you."

"It was the least I could do for a visiting diplomat." Ralakos nodded. I decided against mentioning his lobbying for my release—it doesn’t matter what court you’re in; no one likes an openly biased arbiter. Guemon snorted as I returned to Nethtari’s side. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, ever so slightly.

Ephira’s arms were crossed. She tapped two fingers against her left side. "Though my esteemed colleague," she glared at Guemon, "appears to have forgotten the rules of the council, I am interested in hearing an answer to his question. We were told the Prince’s condition was dire."

Nethtari stepped forward. "It was, Master Ephira. That much is verifiable through the physician and the priests."

"And yet, he is here. Presented with such aplomb and circumstance. As if he was never injured at all." Guemon added.

"Are you disparaging the quality of services performed by the church, Master Guemon?" Nethtari asked, arching an eyebrow. "It was a combination of their excellent care and Cairn’s natural fortitude that made such a timely recovery possible."

Ephira tapped three fingers on her arm.

After a moment of silence, Ralakos cleared his throat. "Yes, Cairn, perhaps it would help to hear the details of your recovery."

I looked at Nethtari, and she inclined her head ever so slightly towards Guemon. Go Ahead.

This time—as previously instructed—I remained in place, arms behind my back, mirroring my solicitor.

"Of course. From what I understand, the success of my recovery was largely thanks to Master Guemon—"

"What are you playing at boy?" Guemon hissed. Tap, tap, tap. Ephira tapped three fingers again. There was a certain saying about idle hands. But I was beginning to suspect Ephira’s tic was anything but idle.

I ignored him, and he looked like his face might spontaneously combust, continuing to address Master Ralakos directly. "The kind master oversaw my recovery, making sure I did not over exert myself. He—"

"He’s lying!" Guemon interjected.

Tap tap tap.

Ralakos’s head slowly turned to face Guemon. "If you interrupt these proceedings one more time, councillor, I will uphold solicitor Nethtari’s injunction, and you will be ejected from this council on grounds of hostility to process."

Guemon slumped in his chair, muttering something hostile and unintelligible.

I waited for a beat, letting Guemon boil, then continued. "When I awoke, it was difficult for me to move. I was in constant agony. I found myself in a simple room with black floors and black walls."

There was a murmur from the lesser councillors.

"Now, as you already know, I call Whitefall home. We are a magic poor society. We have lumen lamps, and the occasional magician, but their numbers are few. Thus, I know very little of magic or the application of it. But I can only assume the recovery room was magic-adjacent, as I no longer needed to eat or drink. I imagine that was its purpose, to keep me stabilized with as little stimulation or movement required on my part as possible."

Ralakos stood, a cold fury in his eyes, and leaned over the lectern. The man was an incredible actor. If he hadn’t prompted me initially, I would think he was genuinely discovering all this for the first time. "Did anyone come to check on you, in this room? To check your status and administer medicine for your pain?"

I blinked in surprise. "No, Master Ralakos. I assumed that was part of the recovery period."

A gasp from the crowd.

Tap tap tap.

Guemon looked like he might leap over the lectern and strangle me at any moment, but held his tongue.

Ralakos shook with iron and fury, addressing Guemon directly. "You put an injured child into a magus cell for weeks with no attendance."

"He wasn’t in pain."

"So you admit it!" Ralakos thundered.

"The measures are extreme for certain, but the Prince represents an unknown variable." Ephira said. Then she tapped her arm twice.

"It is my duty to maintain the security of the enclave," Guemon said. Casually, I leaned over towards Nethtari as if I was going to whisper in her ear. As I’d suspected. The spot where Nethtari stood made it impossible for her to see the subtle motions Ephira was making.

Ephira steepled her hands. "It’s been a long few weeks, and tempers are running hot. I think it might be best to take a short recess and return to this matter."

Nethtari shook her head vehemently, about to speak. Shielding the movement from view, I tugged at her robe once.

She looked at me, blinking, then made a decision. "Very well. As our guest is still recovering, a break would benefit him as well."

Nethtari practically dragged me to an empty conference room.

"Why?" She asked the moment we were inside, her voice furious. It was the most emotion I had seen from her. "That was a critical moment."

"Trust me, I know."

I stuck my head out the door to make sure no one was listening in, then returned to the table and sat down. Then I swore and stood up again, pacing the room.

"Our time is limited," Nethtari said slowly, as if she was speaking to a child. Then again, she technically was. "It would behoove you to speak."

"The outcome of the meeting was decided before we ever stepped in the room."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Ephira’s sandbagging!" I exploded finally, running my fingers through my hair. "She and Guemon cut a deal and now they’re just playing out the pageantry."

"How do you know?" Nethtari asked, unimpressed.

"How do you not know?" I snapped.

Nethtari stiffened and I immediately felt guilty.

"Sorry," I said.

After a moment, the tension between us dissipated. I sat down in the chair across from her and pressed my hands to my temples. "You’re working off imperfect information."

"Then by all means, inform me."

Yeah, piss off your legal counsel, that never goes badly.

I let out a deep breath, centering myself. "For one thing, they’re signaling in your blindspot. That’s the piece you’re missing."

"That is… a serious accusation," Nethtari said slowly, "are you certain?"

"Yes, plain as day. I thought it was a nervous tic at first. Two taps for follow-up, three taps for shut it down. They’re almost taunting us with how basic it is. At least use some magic or something, assholes."

"The room is warded."

Ah, well, that made slightly more sense. It still felt insulting.

"You’re saying they’re both doing this?" Nethtari asked.

"No, it’s one way, Ephira to Guemon. The rest is all subtext, but without the signals you might just be perceiving it as slights. Ralakos refers to me as a diplomat, they call me a Prince—reinforcing with every iteration exactly who my father is. The way Ephira keeps reinterpreting Guemon’s statements in much more reasonable diction, as if that was clearly what he meant to say in the first place. The fact, in and of itself, that Guemon is acting like such a blatant ass—unless you can get to the position of prime councillor by being an idiot. He’s going at me hard to get me to lose my temper, and he doesn’t have to worry about making himself look like a prick in the process because, at the end of the day, he doesn’t have to convince anyone."

Nethtari thought on that for almost a full minute.

"How old are you again?"

"Old enough for a bad-faith trial, apparently," I muttered.

"My daughter trusts you," Nethtari said, "far more than I think you know. And while she is frustratingly impulsive, she is not naive. If you’re certain, I may be able to get the hearing dismissed, giving us a week or so to come up with a strategy. You wouldn’t go back in the box."

I leaned back in the chair, balancing on two legs. "No. That gives them time to come up with a better plan and all our cards are already on the table."

"That was my thought as well, but if Ephira is lost, we are at an impasse."

"They’re cheating. So, we cheat." I steepled my hands together, lost in thought, foot hooked beneath the table to prevent me from falling. Then something clicked. I snapped my fingers. "She’s your trade person, right?"

"Yes."

"Is she on a fixed salary or percentage?" I didn’t know nearly enough about their government and system.

"Not public information, but if you’re asking if she’s wealthy, she’s wealthy."

"If they want me to be a Prince, I’ll be one. I need a problem that I’m uniquely equipped to solve for her."

For the first time, Nethtari smiled. "I have just the thing."

We reentered the room and a choir of whispering voices were immediately silenced. Guemon and Ephira were conversing in hushed tones while Ralakos fumed, watching from the side. So, he’d picked up on it as well. He cleared his throat, loudly.

"Shall we continue, solicitor?"

"We shall." Nethtari’s eyes furrowed, watching Ephira and Guemon scurry back to their places. She began to speak the moment they stopped moving. "It is clear that Cairn is a victim in these matters. He came to the enclave with no other intention than to restore the dimensional gate, and instead of being lauded and welcomed, was abused and imprisoned."

"Other than not dying, you mean." Guemon said dryly.

Tap Tap Tap.

How nice. Ephira and I had found something to agree on.

"An injury the human institutions could have handled easily enough, albeit not as thoroughly as ours." Nethtari said. "The proposition is simple. He is the first human to approach us in a show of peace. Allow Cairn into the Sanctum, so he can acquire training from someone familiar with the dantalion tradition. Perhaps that seems too high a price to pay for you, Master Guemon, as, unlike many of us, you do not have family on the other side. It would be the start of reparations, for both sides."

Ephira sighed dramatically. "Ad hominem helps no one. What it comes down to, solicitor, is the simple fact that it is not a good time. May I remind all of you that we still have an ongoing demonic insurrection on our hands. The Asmodial Legion has still not been brought to heel, and as such the chances of other rebellions and in-fighting are much higher, meaning the sanctum itself is far more dangerous than usual."

"And where would he even stay?" Guemon said. "There’s not an inn in the enclave that would give him a room."

Nethtari’s eyes burned at the insult. "My daughter invoked the Rite of Shaliat. My family is his family. His crimes, my crimes. His banishment, my banishment. He will stay with me."

There was so much weight in that statement it was overwhelming. A bead of sweat dripped down my back. I was awed by Nethtari. She had just put more trust in Maya in one moment than my father had put in me over my entire life.

The time was now. Steeling myself, I looked at Nethtari, asking a silent question. She nodded and I stepped forward, maintaining my silence.

Ephira did not address me.

Finally, shooting her an annoyed look, Ralakos spoke. "You may reply, Cairn."

I closed my eyes. Everything was riding on this one, singular moment.

Then, I spoke.

"That’s the one thing I agree with my father on, Master Ephira."

An angry murmur rose amongst the lesser council. Ephira locked eyes with me, and I did not blink.

"That there is never a good time to sue for peace. And while King Gil takes this as an excuse to oppress and wage proxy wars, I take it as a challenge. " I struck my chest with my fist, pausing for a moment, letting the words sink in. "There will never be a good time to take the steps towards peace, because there is always an excuse to delay it. An insurrection one day, a territorial dispute the next, a trade dispute after that, and on and on the list goes, until the cycle of violence is never quenched, and we all burn, to nothing."

"You-" Ephira started, but she interrupted me, so I rolled over her unimpeded.

"I am the son of the enemy, yes. An enemy that mortally wounded so many of you." I panned the room, looking at their faces. They studied me silently, flashes of emotion on their faces. Anger, loss, sadness, and perhaps even hope. "You have all lost grandparents, siblings, fathers and mothers. Friends and family. I cannot bring them all back. I wish that I could. But I can bring back some of them. In my hand, I hold the key to return a precious few of the fallen. A gift, freely given."

I opened my palm for a moment, then closed it into a fist and prowled the floor, my mouth turned downward.

"But I understand the fear. The fear of hope. That creeping horror, the damning trepidation, the utter dread that comes with allowing yourself to believe, even for a moment, that things could be better, will be better. Because the moment you believe, you open yourself to the possibility of hurt and betrayal."

I remembered Sera, plunging the knife into my chest. I felt the flames as Annette burned in my arms.

"So instead of opening yourself to the chance of future alliance, the chance of being hurt, instead, you rationalize: These are all just words he’s speaking, just pretty words with nothing behind them—and you’d be right." I smiled. "If I wasn’t willing to put the words into action. The Sanctum is a precious resource, for which access should not be offered freely to outsiders. In that case, do not offer it freely. I ask for no special treatment. Allow me to earn my place, as so many of your children have. I will take no trophies—those I do find will be given to my wonderful hosts. If they must share responsibility for my misdeeds, it is only right that they share in my glory. Allow me to work with your apothecaries, to share the knowledge so many humans have miserably guarded."

I turned to Ephira, focusing solely on her.

"Allow me to clear the route to the west, so you may reestablish your trade with the dwarves of Val Thurim once more."

Ephira’s eyes turned dark and greedy. Guemon looked between us, suddenly frantic.

I stopped, until my words no longer echoed across the room, then spoke in a much quieter voice.

"Take the chance. Let me return that which was stolen."

And then, staring at Ephira, I reached slowly towards my shoulder.

Tap tap.

35

ENCLAVE VI

With Ephira’s help, the vote to grant me a year probation to prove myself worthy of the Sanctum was passed by an overwhelming majority. The fallout was glorious. It appeared to everyone else as if a thirteen-year-old boy had somehow melted the heart of a notoriously cold and ruthlessly pragmatic member of the High Council through nothing more than an impassioned speech. Only Nethtari, Guemon, and I knew the truth.

And Guemon had navigated himself into a corner. He glared at me across the room in a manner that let me know this matter would not be settled so easily.

Ralakos approached us afterwards. He grinned an easy smile, flashing his pointed incisors. "Quite the show, young Cairn. They’ll be talking about this for years."

"It’s all thanks to my excellent solicitor." I deflected, as the time for grandstanding and puffing myself up had passed. "Were it not for her, I fear I would have made an ass of myself."

Nethtari shook her head. "Ephira was not the only one keeping her cards close to the vest."

Ralakos pointedly ignored the comment. "Now that the ruling has been made official, I did want to extend an offer for young Cairn to stay at my estate. There’s plenty of space, and he will need to learn much in the coming months to prepare." Ralakos said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Nethtari stiffened slightly. I saw her tail peek out from under her dark robes towards her wrist before she stifled the motion Maya made often.

Ralakos seemed like a decent enough person. He was an ally, and the last thing I wanted to do was alienate him out of turn. But I’d seen this kind of thing from nobles one too many times. He had conducted himself well in the hearing, but always maintained a retractable position. Now that the battle was won, so to speak, he intended to sweep in and pilfer the spoils. If I was successful, I would be a boon of respect to those who supported me.

And Nethtari had jumped into the fire for me, without knowing the outcome.

I bowed deeply to Ralakos. "With all due respect, my people have a custom regarding this matter."

"And what is that?"

"It’s best to dance with the one that brought you." I stepped next to Nethtari, reinforcing us as a unit.

Nethtari looked genuinely surprised. Ralakos looked between the two of us and let out a deep boisterous laugh that turned several nearby heads.

"Of course, I forget myself. Solicitor Nethtari did excellent work this fine day."

"Thank you, Master Ralakos." Nethtari bowed.

"If at all possible, I would like to take you up on your offer of assistance for further preparation," I said, hopefully.

Ralakos waved away the request. "Consider it done. Nethtari, let me know if you need anything to make Cairn’s stay more comfortable."

It was a backhanded comment, but the sort that was absentmindedly spoken. I talked briefly with Ephira on the topic of the trade route, Guemon leering from the side all the while. She was the upper echelon sort I had the most experience in dealing with, the kind that, in the end, only cared about money. I did find myself wondering why they were both so comfortable with the idea of abandoning the people within the gate. For now, that knowledge was beyond me.

The next six months passed incredibly quickly.

Despite my fears to the contrary, my father simply removed the blockade after receiving my letter. He sent no response, which was alarming. It made sense that he hadn’t responded to the first letter. The fact that he’d received the second, and acquiesced easily to my request, and hadn’t responded was ominous. Perhaps he’d found some of my predictions to be valid, but somehow, I doubted it was that simple. Things were never easy when it came to my father. He was playing his own game now, and I had no way of knowing what it was.

Most of my gold had been expended in the process of my recovery, and something I found out rather quickly about Maya’s household was that everyone chipped in.

Early mornings were spent maintaining the routine I’d built within the magus cell, jogging and working on my body. I woke up before everyone else and showered when I returned. After that, things turned hectic, either helping Kilvius with Rin or making sure Nethtari had everything she needed before she headed to the council for the day. Maya had daily responsibilities at the precipice, healing injured returning from the chasm, including infernal children that had given up on the sanctum.

Afternoons were split between studying and visiting one of the local apothecaries, usually to swap techniques and recipes with a bumbling red infernal named Casikas, who paid me a modest wage. Once a week I visited Ralakos, though the man seemed more fascinated with the sound of his own voice than training me. He did send tutors to Nethtari’s house, as well as one of his guardsmen to spar—the man was no Cephur, but at the very least it meant I was improving.

There was, indeed, a class system within the enclave, though it wasn’t as much about skin-color as it was about magical affinity. The violet infernals held the highest potential for magic, followed by the blues, and finally the reds. There was significant variance within these categories, but generally, there was a relative cutoff. The most powerful blue would never exceed the level of a strong violet, and a weak blue would almost always be stronger than a red.

Nethtari was a weak violet, but still a relatively talented water magician. Kilvius had minor earth magic, and a slight affinity for water he had inherited from his wife.

That drew my attention immediately. They were reluctant on the details, but the short of it was, the infernals had a method of mingling souls. It was an intimate gesture, something done between romantic partners or lifelong friends. It could generally only be done once and wasn’t terribly practical or effective—in most cases, what little magic carried over would be significantly weaker, often not manifesting at all. There were other benefits as well. When I asked why they didn’t use it strategically to maximize the potential gain, they reacted like I’d just asked them why they didn’t just open their marriage, and Nethtari rather aggressively instructed me to stop talking so much and finish my vegetables. I marked it up as a cultural thing.

And then, there was magic itself. And it was so much more complex than I could have dreamed.

Jorra and I sat side by side, cross-legged. We were using one of the larger side caverns to practice. Stalactites hung down from the ceiling, glistening cones that occasionally dripped water into the small mineral well below. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. I reached out my hand and called the flame. It could be called a flame now, rather than a spark. Though it was small, no larger than a candle’s, it was still exponentially bigger than the spark had been months ago. The pain in my chest was practically nonexistent.

From what I understood, the method I had been using before was the equivalent of playing a harpsichord with a mace. It worked, yes, and higher level practitioners of dantalion did sometimes use it that way, but it was a method best used in emergencies, as it was notoriously hard on the soul.

Every mage had at least a single element. That I had already known. What I had been mostly ignorant of was that the flashy elemental magic often featured in stories was only meant to serve as a base. There were increasingly complex methods by which these elements could be weaved into spells. The infernals within the enclave generally looked down on the sole application of elemental magic in combat, finding it primitive and unsightly. In the case of the dantalion flame, flagrant use of the elemental form was especially dangerous, as the flame spread so quickly it could easily get away from the practitioner if things got out of hand. On the other side of the coin, many human mages found spells unreliable and unwieldy, preferring to focus on the raw elemental side of things.

I looked within me and found my mana, and pushed. The flame dispersed into a purple haze. I focused on it, willing it to stay together, pushing more of my mana into it to expand the cloud of wisping flame until it was large enough to envelop me completely. It encircled me, ghosts of flame swirling around my form. The surrounding temperature increased slightly, and a second bead of sweat dripped down my forehead.

Then all at once, I gathered it into a sphere in my palm, and flung the sphere forward. It impacted my target—a straw man soaked in rosewater—and exploded, leaving a sizable impact mark.

"Good," Kilvius nodded, "But too slow. Jorra?"

Jorra encased himself in a ring of mist, performing the action that had taken me thirty seconds in less than ten. He sent a spinning disk of pressurized water at the dummy, the projectile curving upwards and slamming down into the target. Water as an element wasn’t great for that type of projectile, and he still managed to hit harder than me. He grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes and bumped his fist.

"Showoff."

"You’re getting better. I no longer have time to nap while you cast." Jorra stuck his tongue out.

He wasn’t wrong exactly, I was getting better, but the rate of growth wasn’t nearly as significant as I would have liked. Pushing and pulling objects with the flame came naturally to me, as did some other minor cantrips.

I rustled Jorra’s spiky hair. "Keep talking, big guy. One of these days I’m gonna miss the dummy and set you on fire."

"Only you could miss that badly. And only if I don’t drown you first."

"Think fast." Kilvius said.

I immediately called the flame and twisted towards him, expanding it into a round, violet aegis. The pebble missed me entirely and pegged Jorra right in the forehead.

"Why?!" Jorra exclaimed, holding the spot painfully.

"Because I knew Cairn would block it." Kilvius tossed a second pebble up and down cheerfully. "You’re the better caster, he’s got better defense and reflexes. You’ll balance each other out in the Sanctum."

Kilvius did this sort of thing constantly. It completely threw me off at first. Whenever my father taught us anything—whether it was swordsmanship, statecraft, hells, even basic history—we were constantly and incessantly pitted against each other. If one succeeded, it automatically meant that the others had failed.

But Kilvius always found a way to praise both of us. Even early on, when the best I could manage was a pathetic puff of aura. He’d correct my mistakes, and then ask Jorra to explain what it’d been like for him when he first began to weave spells. He was constantly reinforcing the fact that we were allies, and that in the future, we’d be relying on each other.

Learning being constructive and rewarding, rather than bitter and stressful, was a novel experience.

On the other side of the miniature lake, Kastramoth made a particularly loud shuffling noise in irritation. Maya sat next to him unperturbed, meditating peacefully, bathed in green light. She brought the demon out to work with him whenever we went to the outskirts—lesser demons were allowed in the city, but greater ones were considered a security threat. He really was just a big brute. A clever one, but his capacity for physical violence and natural regeneration were his best traits. I watched Maya breathe in and out evenly, a slight pang in my chest. She’d enter the Sanctum in less than a week, the day after her fifteenth birthday.

With the age gap between us, it couldn’t be helped. The council was already bending the rules by allowing me to enter at the age of fourteen, assuming I followed through on my end of the bargain. Still, the idea of being away from her for such a span of time felt wrong.

This time, the pebble did peg me in the forehead.

"Ow." I shifted to look at Kilvius, who was watching me with a raised eyebrow.

"Pay attention." There was the slightest touch of amusement in his voice. "As I was saying, we’re going to have to cut this short. I’ll be taking Jorra with me into the marketplace to pick up some supplies for Maya. Better to not wait ‘till the last minute. Do you want to come, or stay here and practice?"

"I’ll stay."

"You sure?"

I nodded.

Kilvius looked between me and his son for a moment, then spoke. "Jorra, go on ahead. I’ll catch up." Jorra stretched his arms above his head, then jogged away, heading out the mouth of the cavern and towards the path that would take him back into the enclave.

Kilvius crouched beside me, arms on his knees. He watched Maya meditate, a wistful smile crossing his lips.

"You know, you don’t have to push so hard," he said.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. His comment was well-meaning but felt antithetical to my entire situation. "If only that were true."

"I’m speaking purely from a practical standpoint. I get that you think what you’re doing is important. And it is. There’s a lot of weight on your shoulders. I can only speak from my limited experience, but you have to take a break now and then. Enjoy life a little." He eyed me knowingly. "Get adequate amounts of sleep."

I flinched. Apparently, my reading and late-night expeditions to the cavern had been noticed. He was probably right, of course. My behavior over the last few months was probably growing to the point of being unsustainable.

"I’m… afraid." I admitted.

"What are you afraid of?"

"That if I stop, even for a moment, I’ll go back to the way I used to be. That I’ll fall back into the same pattern of coasting day to day, expecting the world to handle itself for me." I scowled.

Kilvius laughed. "You’re too young for that much self-awareness." He stood and clapped me on the shoulder. "It may not seem like it right now, but you’ve made excellent progress. Working hard is fine. Just don’t burn yourself out. I know I’m practically a stranger to you, but still. I’m proud of you."

I’m proud of you.

"…Thank you." I said awkwardly. It was such a small thing, but no one had said those words to me since my mother died. The emotion that swelled in my chest was embarrassing and I looked away.

Kilvius said goodbye and took his leave.

I waited for a few minutes, then went to check to make sure there wasn’t anyone lingering outside the chamber. Maya had stirred from her meditation and watched me.

"All clear?" She asked. Kastramoth rose on all four legs in anticipation. A string of drool dripped from his mouth.

"Yep."

I removed my outer garment, not wanting to bloody it, then strode to the center of the chamber and drew my sword, staring down the demon.

"Shall we?"

36

ENCLAVE VII

I mentally prepared myself for the fight. It had taken weeks to get rid of the mental baggage, and some of my fear towards the demon still lingered. These battles were never a question of whether I could win, rather, how long it would take me to lose.

Maya looked at Kastramoth seriously, giving a nonverbal warning before she commanded him. "Subdue."

The beast charged at me, his head lowered.

I ran straight at him. His antlers were by far my biggest issue because of their absurd reach. But the teeth and hooves were nothing to scoff at either. Right before we impacted, I crouched low and jumped up in the air, intending to land on his head. But I’d done it one too many times. He flicked his head upwards, launching me in an involuntary half-flip. I managed to pull my sword breaker in time and plunged it into his membranous side, leaving a crude gash as I slid down.

Letting the dagger go, I landed next to his back legs, and immediately threw myself into a roll as a back leg coiled and lashed out near my head. He growled viciously at me and spun and snapped, teeth clicking together perilously near my face—

Teeth, I could feel the teeth.

I scored a blow across his nose. There was a surge of triumph within me as Kastramoth shrunk away, blood dribbling down his face. Then he leered at me, and my confidence evaporated.

Lightning fast, he charged in sideways, clotheslining me with the bulk of his mass, his bloody side heaved crudely into my neck and face. My vision blurred as I fell backwards, stunned, onto the cave floor, scrambling away, trying to retreat and create space while he snapped wildly at my retreating body, teeth clicking inches from my retreating legs. All the while, I expended mana, trying to weave it into something I could use.

Kastramoth leapt forward twice, shaking the ground, and snapped towards my arm. The violet light snapped into an aegis around my shoulder, dulling the impact, though I still felt the immense pressure of his dull teeth grinding around it.

I drove my sword into his throat, knowing it was already over. He did not let go. Finally, the aegis shattered into a thousand tiny shards. A growl of pain ripped from my throat as his teeth ground into my skin, and the bone popped. He pinned me down, face-first on the ground. I could feel his breath in my ear.

"Weak."

"That’s enough," Maya said. Kastramoth stepped away obediently and returned to his spot on the other side of the lake. My arm throbbed, and I knew from experience that the demon had mangled it on purpose. The first few times we’d done this, my showings had been mostly pathetic, and he’d injured me more severely, angering Maya, who kept him within the amulet for a week. Lately, he’d been dialing it in, inflicting as much pain in as little damage as possible. But that was fine. He got to work some aggression out, and I got some valuable combat experience fighting against something much bigger and stronger than me.

I would not always be in a position where I could out plan or out maneuver, as I had in Kholis and the Everwood. It was important to be able to hold my own in a straight fight. That didn’t mean, however, that I wouldn’t keep trying to stack every advantage possible in my favor.

Maya approached me with a sympathetic look, her hand glowing green. She pressed it to my arm, her touch cool and soothing.

"Well, it went better than last time," I said, giving her a rueful grin. "What was it? Like thirty seconds longer?"

"Forty. And I understand why we are doing this, but I hate seeing you hurt." She inspected the wound closely as it knit shut.

"Bah. It’s nothing."

Maya shot me a knowing look and raised a finger. "So it does not hurt when I—"

"Okay, it hurts, okay? No touching." I scooted away from her upraised finger. Despite the healing magic mending the lacerations and tears, my arm still throbbed. "It’s dislocated again," I admitted. "But realistically, I only need one arm. We don’t need to—"

I gritted my teeth, vision blurring with tears as Maya lifted my injured arm by the wrist and elbow out from my body, then twisted and pulled. It realigned with a sickening crunch.

"Thank… you…" I moaned.

Life magic could fix damaged ligaments, close wounds, and repair organs. I had no idea why it couldn’t also relocate bones. Her cool fingers rested on the back of my neck for a moment and the pain lessened.

She helped me to my feet, careful of my injuries.

"I am going to head to the market as well. Mother will be starting dinner soon. Are you sure you do not wish to join me?" She cocked her head at me. It still shocked me how much she’d changed. The timid, almost neurotically anxious girl I’d met at Barion’s was now confident and surer of herself. Her skin, once pockmarked and poorly maintained, was now smooth. And the way the torchlight light reflected off her hair. She was almost…

Well, probably better not to go down that path.

I looked over at the straw-man, who was intended to be my companion for the evening. The better caster I could be, the better I’d be able to protect myself when needed. I had practiced enough to be considered decent with a sword, perhaps even a danger if that sword was on fire. But I had little to no method of effectively attacking at range.

But still, Kilvius wasn’t wrong. I had been pushing myself lately. And there wouldn’t be many chances for this after, as Maya would be leaving soon. Damn it. There was that weird pang in my chest again.

"You know what," I said, suddenly, "I’ll come."

"Really?" Maya’s face brightened, and she gestured with both fists in victory.

"Sure. Things have cooled down. People don’t gawk as much when I go into town. Taking one half-day can’t hurt."

"There’s so many places you haven’t been yet!" Her smile flagged a bit, and she put her hands on her hips. "But you can’t buy me anything."

"I wouldn’t dream of it." I held up my hands in surrender. I did have a gift for her but it wasn’t bought, exactly, so that fell in the category of technically true.

Maya recalled Kastramoth into the amulet, and we strolled through the streets of the lower enclave. Bizarrely shaped and slightly horrifying looking fish were laid out on tables. My guide told me they were simply monstrous looking because they grew in lower altitudes with little sunlight, but they still looked like monsters to me.

"You are being judgmental," Maya said.

"I’m just saying. Look at the teeth on that thing. That’s not how fish are supposed to look. Normal fish look surprised, or like they’ve seen some shit. This fish looks like he is the shit."

Much to the vendor’s annoyance, I picked up the hideous fish and grabbed its jaws, opening and closing its mouth, then thrust it at Maya. She shrieked and danced away from me, her laughter echoing across the market.

"Just for that, we are buying it."

"Ugh."

We window shopped for a while, and I stealthily added to my mental notes of things that Maya liked. She liked dresses but didn’t think she looked good in them, opting instead for a light form-fitting laced jerkin with a long dark skirt below. She wasn’t really into jewelry, with one notable exception: pearls. White pearls, colored pearls, it didn’t matter. If it came out of an oyster, she was all about it. And she had a fascination with instruments, though she’d never learned to play one.

We passed by a store, and I did a double-take. It seemed to sell exclusively inks and inkwells. Surely not. An entire store, just for ink?

"Magical ink," Maya said.

I looked at her, eyebrow raised. "Nope. That’s ridiculous. I don’t believe you."

She blew air out her nose. "Do not be an ass. It is used for inscription magic. Most commonly in the manufacturing of spell scrolls."

I thought about it. That made sense on some level. Scrolls, rather notoriously, could be used by anyone regardless of magical ability. They could be incredibly practical, though they were occasionally used for nefarious purposes. Con artists often passed themselves off as magicians through the use of scrolls.

"Is inscription magic tied to a particular element?" I asked, idly.

"Cairn, you are the most power-hungry person I know." Maya rolled her eyes. "And amongst my people, that is quite the accomplishment. You cannot cast a proper fireball, yet intend to learn inscriptions as well?"

"It was just a question," I said, defensively.

"Your questions have a tendency to be tied to practical applications."

"Okay, so tell me why it’s impractical."

"Inscriptions are dependent on the power of the inscriber," Maya’s voice took on the tone she always used when offering instruction. "You cannot create a scroll of something you cannot already cast."

Two dots connected in my mind. I’d seen a couple of infernals, usually violets, though occasionally blues and reds with jagged demonic text inscribed on their bodies.

"And is inscription magic… limited to scrolls?" I asked, trying very much to sound innocent.

But Maya knew me too well. She stepped between me and the store window, her face concerned. "Tissue inscriptions are a shortcut, Cairn. A dangerous one. There is talk of them being banned for a reason. It is far too easy to kill yourself, trying to use a high-level inscription your body is not ready for. Not to mention the ink tends to degrade your body in ways that are difficult for even life magic to heal."

I sighed. "I’ll take your word for it then."

We stopped by Casikas’s apothecary, so I could pick up my gift for Maya. She eyed me when I emerged with a large box but did not comment.

The evening dinner was as chaotic as usual. I had a hell of a time scaling the fish, and an even worse time gutting it. Its insides were wormy and dark-colored, and it had terrifying oblong and misshapen organs I’m certain no other fish had.

"Pink child." Nethtari squeezed past me to her station, where she was chopping fresh vegetables. "Stop butchering that thing for a moment and grab the oil." I opened the nearby pantry and grabbed the cask of oil, and passed it to her. She took it, pausing in momentary disgust when she saw my bloody handprint. I grinned at her sheepishly.

Kilvius helped me debone the fish, pointing at trouble areas I would have missed otherwise, and within twenty minutes we were all seated at the table. The artificial sun had begun to set, light entering from the windows casting the scene in dull orange.

Jorra devoured his fish and poked at his vegetables. Kilvius complemented Nethtari and me for the meal, thanking the lord below that a competent chef had finally graced their household. He dodged the napkin thrown his way with practiced ease. Throughout the dinner, they drilled Maya on safety rules for her time in the Sanctum.

"Stay away from unmarked entrances," Nethtari said.

"No matter how innocuous they seem," Kilvius added.

"We’re not saying don’t explore," Nethtari said.

"Just be smart about it." Kilvius finished.

"I’ve got it already." Maya sighed, exasperated. "You guys have been drilling it into me for the last two weeks. I’ll stay away from unmarked passages. I won’t open any chests until I’ve had them checked for traps by a professional, and I won’t go lower than the gray-crust layer unless I’m in a group."

"We’d prefer if you waited until these two joined you to do that." Nethtari looked between Jorra and I. "The lower you go, the tougher it gets. Especially with the damn Asmodials running around, riling everything up. Not to mention the mana concentrations can do strange things to your head. Things aren’t always what they seem."

"I’ll be careful," Maya promised. "As long as you guys keep Jorra from driving the tutors crazy, and Cairn from tearing his soul out of his body."

They joked, and laughed, and I laughed with them. But there was a soreness in my heart, one I couldn’t quite put into words. It just felt wrong. There was so much love and companionship between them.

Was this what a normal family looked like?

Nethtari and Kilvius treated me like just another one of their children. It wouldn’t last forever; I had no question of that. After the Sanctum, I needed to formalize an alliance with the infernals. Fixing the dimensional gate would help, but it likely wouldn’t be enough. I’d need my father on board—and that would be the hard part. But for now, I tried to enjoy it, ignoring the guilt that crept in—that niggling reminder that I could be doing more—whenever I felt myself enjoying anything.

But no. I would treasure these moments. I’d savor this momentary tranquility, for as long it lasted.

Which, as it turned out, wasn’t very long at all.

37

ENCLAVE VIII

I woke up, like I always did, around midnight in the room Jorra and I shared. It would be easy to blame it on the vurseng. But the truth was I had already started to expect for things to go wrong. The relative tranquility of the enclave never sat well with me. It was almost like a voice, whispering in the back of my mind, that I was too comfortable here. Reminding me that at any moment, it could all be snatched away. I dragged myself out of the bed quietly and dressed, being extra quiet, the comments Kilvius had made the prior day at the forefront of my mind.

After a brief visit to the bathroom to wash my face, I prepared to leave for the night.

The slow, rousing cry of a baby froze me in my tracks. Strange. Agarin rarely woke in the middle of the night these days. It was probably fine. Any minute, a lantern would be lit, and either Kilvius or Nethtari would trudge down the hallway, wiping sleep from their eyes. Only, it didn’t happen. Come to think of it, they had both looked exhausted after dinner that evening.

I glanced at the front door, then swore quietly under my breath and slipped into Agarin’s room. The baby had unsettled me at first, to a degree that bewildered. It took a while to figure out why. It had nothing to do with the color of his skin, or his tiny tail, or the little black horns that already poked out of his skull. It was something else, something deeper.

Being a father was something I’d never thought about before Lillian. I’d hidden my more visceral reaction from her because she needed support, not additional panic—but gods had I panicked. Every little slight my father had made, the way even the smallest things affected my sisters and I later in our lives, suddenly magnified in my mind, the level of responsibility so overwhelming it was almost paralyzing. How could I possibly be a father when I’d never seen what a father was supposed to be?

And so, I’d blundered forward, forcing down the fear for her sake. And after she was taken from me, there was anger, and grief, and hatred. But beneath it all was the tiniest whisper of something else.

Relief.

Relief that I would not be able to do to that child what my father had done to me. And I had buried that relief under an ocean of liquor and wine, until I had forgotten it all together.

That is, until Rin.

"Cair?" He said. He was standing, his small hands clutching the wooden slats that made up the walls of the bassinet Nethtari and I had expanded to make it safer. "Cair? Up?"

Despite myself, I smiled. "Sure thing, bud." I hefted him out of the bassinet, grunting slightly. He’d put on weight at a rate that had to be exclusive to infernals, there’s no way human babies could possibly weigh this much. Making sure to support him from beneath, I carried him over to the rocking chair across the room. There I rocked him in silence, the only sound in the house the slow creak of the chair. His white eyes repeated the cycle of unfocusing and nearly closing, only to snap open again.

I poked his nose gently, and he stirred, looking horribly aggrieved.

"Why?" He asked.

"That’s what I’m saying. Why are you trying so hard to stay awake when everyone else is sleeping?" I pointed to the darkness outside the window. "See? No sun. It’s sleepy time."

Rin clung to my errant finger when it came in to poke his nose a second time. "Story!" he insisted. I snickered. Maybe this was karma, coming back to settle accounts for the inordinate number of times I must have said that word to my mother.

"We can’t make a habit of this, you know. Nethtari would kill me if you kept waking up asking for stories—she’d know exactly who to blame."

A moment’s pause. "Story!"

"Fine, fine." I settled into the rocking chair and launched into a highly modified selection of the assorted tales of Sir Gantry the Wise. Only, in this version, Sir Gantry was a cyan-skinned infernal.

Sir Gantry approached the pixies of Regal Grove with many gifts, hoping to learn the secret to their metals that—when honed properly, could cut through stone like butter. The pixies fled from Sir Gantry. Only when he laid out an offering of wine and sweet berries did they finally approach. Sir Gantry caught one of the pixies in a net. The pixie’s name was Song. He assured her he did not mean her any harm, he simply wanted to talk. Song was young, but clever, and answered his questions with a question. She said that if Sir Gantry could answer one question correctly, she would tell him the secret of the magical pixie steel.

The question was: what is justice?

Nethtari had entered the room halfway through the story, clothed in a simple white nightdress. She pointed at the baby in my arms and I trailed off, looking down to find Rin fast asleep, thumb planted firmly in his mouth. I snorted. Too much philosophy in that story, it seemed. Slowly and carefully, I returned him to his bassinet, taking care to cushion his head as I placed him down.

I followed Nethtari through the house and out the back door. The chill evening air of the Enclave sent a shiver down my spine. The artificial sun had dimmed to a pale white, a convincing facsimile of a crescent moon. Bits of mica and quartz in the dome caught the light in scattered reflections, almost passing for stars. Nethtari loaded a pipe with rinurian leaf and prepared to light it—She scoffed when I held mine up towards her, then rolled her eyes and lit it anyway.

"Kilvius would throw a fit," Nethtari said.

"At you, or me?" I smirked. She scowled at the lighthearted blackmail. I shrugged, taking a long draw, quivering slightly as the sudden rush of energy came over me. It might have been somewhat psychologically addictive, but was nowhere near the level of rinurian. "It’s just vurseng."

"Doubly so, then. Explains your comings and goings at all hours of the night." Nethtari breathed in her pipe, sighing in sudden contentment. I prepared myself for another lecture, but it didn’t come.

"Thanks for helping with Rin," Nethtari said, after a moment. "Sometimes I just don’t hear him. Not that I don’t want to. After a while the mind just blocks it out sometimes, especially at night. Scares me half to death."

"It’s nothing."

"It’s not nothing," Nethtari insisted. "What are you working on tonight?"

Deciding it might be best to not announce my intention to hone my magic for the next few hours, I instead pulled a book out of my bag.

It covered the intermediate levels of demonic speech. In truth, it was relatively low on my list of priorities, but Maya had insisted it was important, as most demons were not as fluent in common as Kastramoth, and I would need it should I ever hope to bind a lesser demon. It was unlikely, but if the opportunity came along, I couldn’t let it pass me by.

Nethtari walked me through the basic verb conjugations of the demonic word for "call." The main thing that consistently stumped me in demonic was the fact that there was no definitive grammar order. Rather, the order was determined by the varying cases of a noun. The diremoth slapped my grandma, and my grandma slapped the diremoth, could have the individual words ordered exactly the same way. Only the individual cases of the words changed the ordering.

Add into the mix that the cases differed based on gender of the noun in question, and there were four different genders, and it became linguistically complex all too quickly. Pile on the fact that demons were notorious for leveraging this language in intentionally deceitful and confusing ways, especially in contracts, and it was just nightmarish.

I finished drawing out the diagram for "Call," feeling only slightly less confused than I had been when I started.

Nethtari reached over to close my notebook, drawing my attention. "Look. Kilvius and I have been talking, and we want to sponsor you for an emissary."

I chewed on the mouth of my pipe, processing that. There was a tradition amongst the infernals. The children closest to entering the Sanctum were sent to a selection ceremony, where emissaries from the various demon legions would be in attendance, hoping to attain a writ of servitude and bind a demon to aid in their future journey. Simply having a demon to serve as a scout could lessen the danger of the Sanctum significantly. But…

"Isn’t it expensive?" I asked.

"Don’t worry about the money." Nethtari shrugged. "We had a decent chunk set aside for Maya already, but she doesn’t exactly need it now, does she?"

"What about Jorra and Rin?"

"Jorra’s already taken care of. And Rin…" Nethtari shrugged. "There’s more than ten years to save for that. And I’m sure whatever you happen to find in the Sanctum will help."

"I couldn’t possibly—"

Nethtari interrupted. "Cairn, when my daughter brought you home, I had my doubts. I thought you’d behave like a spoiled noble, make demands, and generally act like a brat. I was dreading it. The last thing I needed was another child to care for. But… you’re studious. And you pull your weight. You really do. Moreover, my daughter swore the oath, and I did not nullify it."

"I didn’t want to be a burden."

"And you succeeded. But know this. My household does not send its children into the wilds of the Sanctum without every possible advantage. Learn to accept a gift when it is given."

Overwhelmed and feeling a little sick, I said the only thing I could.

"Ok."

"Good."

Nethtari spent some time telling me how it would work. The emissary selection was not unlike a major trade event. Some demons from higher-end legions were incredibly picky, some were less so. There were certain legions known to be trustworthy and cooperative, others to be avoided at all costs. Most important of all was the trophy. I’d need something to draw attention, to differentiate myself from the others. Jorra had been given a small fragment of a sword that once belonged to an arch-fiend, an heirloom passed down from Nethtari herself.

"What?" I asked, amused. "My royal blood won’t suffice as bait?"

Nethtari shook her head seriously. "Not unless you wish to bind yourself to a demon. Hopefully, I don’t have to tell you how bad that would be. No, all demons really care for is wealth, artifacts, and demonstrations of strength."

I mulled over a few different ideas. It would not be terribly difficult to acquire wealth, but that would require leaning on my father—something I’d prefer to avoid at all costs, as I was already in his debt and his reasons for being so bizarrely cooperative were still unknown to me. I had no artifacts, and I wasn’t particularly strong. But there was one thing I could do that no one else in the enclave could.

"What about these asmodials, running around? Say I slay a couple of lesser asmodials and use the dantalion flame to seal them. Would their ashes work as a boon?"

Nethtari gave that some thought. "Perhaps. It would close some doors to you, but most demons are as annoyed with the asmodials as the rest of us, as their rebellion is severely interrupting the flow of things and generally giving the rest of them a bad name."

The idea of demons being so invested in their reputations was endlessly amusing to me.

"However, it would be dangerous. I’m not sure you should be taking such risks. Having a boon won’t help you if you’re dead."

I shrugged. "It’s just a thought."

"It’d be worth broaching to Ralakos, at the very least. He might loan you a couple of guards for an expedition into the surface caves," Nethtari said. She paused for a long moment. I could tell she was deciding whether or not to say something, the air between us growing oddly thick. "Cairn?" She finally asked. "What is my daughter to you?"

The sudden change of subject felt like an ambush. I coughed out a lungful of acrid smoke, wheezing until my breath normalized. Really, though, it was only normal that she would ask. We probably seemed abnormally close, to outside observers who didn’t share the full breadth of our history. But that was all, I was sure of it. The lingering looks, the odd pang in my chest, it was nothing more than simple adolescent growing pains.

"Maya is a dear friend to me. She saved my life. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for her," I said, carefully.

"Spoken like a true politician. A friend, then." Nethtari confirmed. There was a strange look in her eyes.

"Yes." I extended out the word in exasperation. Why did people keep interrogating me on this topic? "There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s beautiful, and amazing, and incredibly smart. She’s important to me and I’ll do whatever I can, now and in the future to help her succeed. But I’m— there’s someone waiting for me back in Whitefall."

"An arranged marriage?"

"More predestined, really. Part of my visions."

"And Maya knows this?" Nethtari asked. Her voice was casual, but this was starting to feel more and more like an interrogation.

"Yes." I took one final pull from my pipe, before it burned out.

"I see." Nethtari’s questions finally relented, and she turned inwards in thought. I slung my rucksack over my shoulder and prepared to leave. Nethtari dumped the ash out of her pipe into a nearby tray.

"Don’t stay out too late," Nethtari said. For just a moment, she looked terribly sad, though it passed just as quickly. "We’re heading to the edge to see her off, bright and early."

"I won’t." I waved without looking, and headed off towards the training cave, trying very hard not to think about the fact that by this time tomorrow night, Maya would be gone.

38

ENCLAVE IX

Pale yellow light crept in the apothecary window, confirming that I had once again stayed up all night. It wasn’t my intention. I had planned to go to bed a little after four, but after taking stock of Maya’s gift, I’d decided to give it one more shot. Casikas had cut me a great deal on the required ingredients, so I went a little overboard. As of the current moment, my gift for her included a mess of antiseptics, salves for various afflictions including frostbite and burns, and a vurseng tea mixture.

But there was one particular potion I had tried and subsequently failed to make over half a dozen attempts.

It all started with a story: Casikas told me somewhat casually about a phenomenon the infernals referred to as death tunnels. As I already knew, the Sanctum was constantly shifting the further you moved from the center. It was possible for some passages to completely close off, trapping inhabitants at a dead-end inside. But this was relatively rare. What was slightly more common—albeit equally problematic—was that the earth would shift slightly, intersecting with one of the many aquifers present at that layer, and a previously dry passage would completely flood with water. This was a major problem, as the passages could in some cases extend for miles.

The solution was the iron-lung potion. It simultaneously increased oxygen in the blood while reducing the heart rate, making it possible to triple or quadruple the standard time a person could hold their breath. It was, however, inordinately expensive and difficult to brew. I’d blown most of the modest savings I’d accrued from the apothecary on the ingredients attempting to make it the first three times. The problem was that the same ingredients were also used to brew mage-bane, a mixture that was similar in that it reduced heart rate, but also drained mana and slowed regeneration. The main difference in the brewing process was the temperature of the mixture. It required a higher temperature than a standard flame, which necessitated using my magic, as Casikas’s apothecary lacked the necessary equipment. But, it took hours. If the temperature was too inconsistent, the potion wouldn’t form anything of use. If it was too high, I’d end up activating the secondary characteristics of the ingredients, producing a batch of mediocre mage-bane. Only if it achieved the exact temperature maintained consistently, would it result in the potion I needed.

The bell to the front door chimed as Casikas’ entered with a dour "Morning," sleep still heavy in his voice. I ignored him, staying focused on the task at hand. I removed the flat-bottomed glass flask from the fire, recalling the flame absent-mindedly.

He entered the lab, identifying what I was doing immediately and reaching for the strainer. He observed silently as I poured the liquid through it into another beaker.

"Any chance you actually got it this time?" He asked, voice expressing exactly how much of a possibility he thought that was.

I shrugged. "Not sure. I’ve gotten better at narrowing the range of the heat to a matter of degrees, but there’s always a margin of error." I glowered at the flask. "Pretty sure the temperature spiked for a few seconds there."

"Well, we can always sell more mage-bane. Are you here for the day or just tinkering?"

"Tinkering." I swirled the beaker and held it up to the light. "Hey, how does the color look to you?" It was pearlescent blue, much clearer than the previous attempts.

Casikas took it from me, pushing his round spectacles up his nose and studying it for a moment before handing it back. "Looks decent. But there’s really only one way to tell for sure." He shot me a toothy smile. Grimacing, I poured a small portion of it into a half-cup and, sending off a quick prayer beforehand to any god that might be listening, tossed it back.

The taste was mostly the same. Pungent bouquet. A viscous and briny body. But the finish was different, nuttier: More briar nut than elm.

I waited anxiously, bracing myself for the dizziness and discomfort as the mana drained from my body. Unlike the last time, it didn’t come. But something was happening. My heart, which was pounding in anticipation just moments ago, began slowing down, almost to a normal rate. Experimentally, I called the flame, and it manifested in my palm with no issue. Then I held my breath. I hadn’t taken a full dose, so I wouldn’t feel the exact effects, but the typical urgency to breathe didn’t manifest until much later than normal. I grinned, holding the bottle skyward and pumping a fist.

Finally.

I knocked on Maya’s door. It swung open, and she waved me in, barely contained panic in her eyes. There was a half-packed travelers bag and rucksack on her bed, haphazardly strewn across a rumpled red blanket. Everything else in the room was immaculately ordered and dusted, making the mess from packing stand out starkly. Maya darted back and forth, moving between the two bags frantically, looking into the air and muttering to herself and counting on her fingers.

"So I take it you’re excited, then?" I took a seat.

"Up! Up!" She shooed me away from her bed. "I am sorry. I am in a rush and am certain I am forgetting something, though I cannot for the life of me remember what it is."

My eyes went to her bags. She seemed loaded down with plenty of clothes, her staff, rations, funds, a handful of lumen-lights, flint and steel. All in all, incredibly well-prepared. Her panic was likely the result of nerves more than anything else. More than anything else, she seemed like she needed a distraction.

I shrugged, leaning against the wall. "And here I thought you’d be delighted to see your present. All that work for nothing, I suppose."

Maya looked at me, then the satchel in my hands, then back to me, her expressions cycling through elation, irritation, then suspicion. "Cairn. I thought we talked about—"

"Didn’t spend a copper on it." I held up a hand, stopping her. "Okay, so I bought the bag, and some silver went towards the various components, but everything in it, I made myself."

Suspiciously, she took the satchel and unrolled it. I walked her through the various supplies, making sure she knew where to look for what, as well as what everything was used for. I came to the iron-lung potion last. "And this little bastard—my pride and joy—I just finished this morning. No drowning in underwater tunnels for you."

Maya rubbed at her forehead. "So? This is it? Nothing for gastrointestinal distress?"

Her response threw me off, my cockiness disappearing. I rubbed the back of my neck. "Oh. Well, I looked for laudenshade, but couldn’t find any. It’s kind of rare. There’s a paralytic in there, but my knowledge of poisons is woefully—"

She hugged me, suddenly. "I am joking, Cairn. This is the nicest present anyone has ever given me." She let me go and clasped her hands behind her back. "I would say it is too much, but I am beginning to think you do not understand what those words mean."

"Hey, it’s not altruism. I’m protecting an investment here. Pure, ruthless pragmatism. What am I supposed to do if, after everything we’ve been through, you run off and die in the big, bad Sanctum?" I joked, though it fell a little flat.

She peered at me, her white eyes entirely too perceptive. "You know, you don’t have to do that. You can just tell me you’re worried about me."

I blew air out my nose, leaning over to look at her bags. "Are you sure you have everything?" I asked.

"No," she groaned, dragging out the word. A few minutes of rustling and unpacking and repacking later, Nethtari stuck her head in the door. "Ready?"

There were a series of snaps and zips as Maya put the finishing touches on her packing. Nethtari looked over towards me and I stuck my hand out flat, wiggling it from side to side in the universal sign for "Kind-of-but-not-really."

Nethtari huffed. "Well, ready or not, we’re leaving in five minutes. The earlier you get down there the more time you’ll have to get settled in the staging area before nightfall."

"Got it," Maya muttered.

I did a quick visual check of the room, making sure there was nothing obvious left behind. At the foot of her bed was a plush green lizard I’d never seen before—it looked threadbare and worn, what must have once been vibrant green faded to olive. I picked it up and waved it at her.

"You sure you want to leave this guy behind?" I teased. Maya glanced over and reached out, taking it from me.

"Oh, I should give this to Rin before I go," She said. Then she turned to me suddenly and took my hands. "Cairn, I need to ask you for a favor. And I feel bad doing so because you have already done so much already—"

"Name it," I said quickly, cutting her off.

Maya looked down, and her lip quivered. "After everything with Barion… I thought I would never see them again. Thought I would never feel my mother’s embrace, hear my father’s laugh. Now, I am terrified to leave them."

I suddenly understood, a little too well. "You don’t have to say it. I’ll look after your family, Maya. I promise."

"It’s a lot to ask, but I do not know anyone else who can see the future." She smiled up at me, shyly. There was so much trust in her eyes.

"Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then," I said, smirking. "Designated seer, at your service."

"See that you don’t end up believing your own tall tales." Maya rolled her eyes. "If you are a seer, then I am the Empress of Aiphela."

"Pretty sure you have to be a dark elf for that."

"Cairn. There’s something—"

Jorra stuck his head in. "Maya, mom says to—Woah." He wiggled his eyebrows, and we immediately released hands, stepping away from each other quickly.

"Get out!" Maya exclaimed, her cheeks flushed red. Jorra scampered away, cackling. I helped her with her bags, and we prepared to leave.

Nethtari and Kilvius stood side by side, Agarin squirming in Nethtari’s arms. Jorra was teeming with barely withheld jealousy. And Maya was loaded down with a rucksack and a number of other bags, standing on the lift with a dozen other infernals her age. They were awash in a mix of emotions. Some looked cautious, others terrified, but most were practically vibrating, overcome with uncontainable excitement. Kilvius and Nethtari had peppered Maya with last-minute advice on the way there, but now stood silent. Maya hugged each of them, even Jorra, then planted a kiss on Agarin’s forehead. "I’ll be back before you know it."

"You best come back after the requisite three months," Nethtari’s face was stern. "And not a day later."

"I know, mom." Maya took her place on the lift. A violet infernal snapped the entrance rail into place and held out his hand, casting a spell. There was a burgeoning creak of metal, thick cables larger than two fists held together slowly unspooled, and the lift began to descend.

I waved. "See you soon, Maya."

She waved back, growing more distant by the second. Eventually, the lift disappeared, swallowed by the darkness of the chasm, the only evidence of its continued existence the still unraveling wires

Feeling strangely forlorn and empty, I turned away from the precipice. Hair prickled on the back of my neck.

Near the back of the square, Guemon was watching, his expression cold and unreadable.

39

ENCLAVE X

I wasn’t afraid. Not at first. I don’t think I truly realized the significance of Maya’s absence. I was too caught up in the emotional aspect. The friend who had stuck by my side for the better part of a year was now gone. At the time, I wasn’t pragmatic enough to consider what exactly that would all mean should the worst come to pass.

Nethtari read me a little too well. "She’ll be back before you know it."

It was with a great deal on my mind that I entered Ralakos’ estate. His man-servant, a tall infernal in fitted regal wear, ushered me into the sitting room. A gaudy hybrid of lounge and library papered dark red, with golden accents. After a matter of minutes, another estate staff entered with a tray of tea and confections. I took them, trying to keep my body language polite. I’d already come to realize that most infernal preferences in snacks were far too saccharine for my tastes. Even the tea was brewed from tari root, which gave it a strong taste and thickness like someone had dumped a dozen caramels into the cup and topped it off with cotton candy. But I’d learned by now that if I didn’t partake, Ralakos would prepare something more to my tastes—and I would be stuck in middling conversation for hours longer than necessary.

"Welcome!" Ralakos exclaimed, as if he had not seen me only a few days before. He entered the room, two books held under his massive bicep. They almost looked like normal books under his arms, but when he passed them to me the weight alone nearly dragged me off my chair. I grunted, using every muscle in my core to heave them onto the couch beside me. Ralakos slapped me on the back with friendly aplomb, then took a seat across from me, placing his feet up on the table. "Nethtari said you had a question for me?"

"Yes." I leaned forward. "I’m hoping to hunt a few Asmodials across the surface caverns. Nethtari and Kilvius intend to sponsor me for an emissary—"

"And you intend to seal some errant demons and use their ashes as a boon." Ralakos said, understanding immediately. He tapped his chin with a finger. "Clever. But far too dangerous."

I chuckled. "Don’t get me wrong. I’d be a fool to take them on by myself. Even if I was foolhardy enough to strike out on my own, there is the problem of their natural resistance to my element."

"Yes," Ralakos rumbled, "a pity, as sealing some of those moronic upstarts would certainly send a message."

I jumped on the opening. "That’s why I’m hoping you might allow me the use of your men. They go out on patrols and skirmish with the Asmodials anyway. Should we stumble across a few of them, it would be a simple matter to put the plan into action."

Ralakos peered at me. "And you are… confident in your abilities?"

"…Within reason. At the very least, I would not be a burden. Erdos has been thorough in his tutelage, though… he is difficult to please." I admitted the last part grudgingly. The man was a consummate professional, but it was clear from the start he resented teaching me—more-so the fact that he was effectively babysitting a child rather than brooding, or stormily staring off into the distance, or whatever the hells it was he usually did.

"It’s interesting that you are so primed to crush an uprising beneath your heel." Ralakos said, his tone taking the musical lilt it often did when he was playing devil’s advocate.

I scowled. "That’s different."

"How so?" He asked.

"You told me yourself, months ago, that demons are effectively soulless. They lack any form of empathy. All they respect, in the end, is strength."

"Walk with me, would you?" Ralakos asked.

I stood and followed him through his home and out the backdoor. We walked beyond the practice yard down a clearly aligned path. Unlike the craggy stone ground near Nethtari’s home, the stone around Ralakos estate was quarried out and was instead filled with an imported sod. Before us, in the courtyard, was a massive, spherical gray boulder. There were thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of black outcroppings that looked strangely like…

Horns.

"It’s a memorial," Ralakos said quietly.

"From the war?" I swallowed.

The infernal made a slow sweeping gesture. "This was the result of the last time a royal member of House Valen decided that an entire group of people was below them. Less than human. Demi." He walked towards the obelisk, hand held out gingerly until he found what he was looking for. “My son, Xarmos, died that day, as did so many others."

And that was the problem I kept coming back to. There was such a gulf of pain and anger that separated us now. Even my closest ally within the infernal government bore such deep wounds.

"I’m sorry."

He waved his arm in a flash of movement. "I don’t want your pity. Or guilt. All I ask, from you, young Cairn, is that you ascend such things. Demons are demons. They are, at the end of the day, monsters. But much danger comes from thinking that your enemy is all the same—and worse, that they are less than you."

I nodded.

Ralakos put more effort into teaching me over the next hour than he had in the prior six months combined. He walked me through a new way to meditate and gather mana—using my entire body instead of simply drawing it through breath. It felt significantly slower initially, but according to Ralakos, absorbing mana through a larger surface area than my lungs would allow for exponentially faster regeneration over time. The last thing we covered that day was the concept of additional elements.

There were several schools of thought on this, according to Ralakos. The first was the concept of predestination. The theory that some magicians were simply selected to be bound to a single element, while others could awaken two, perhaps even three. The opposing theory was that all magicians had the capacity to unlock all elements—it was just the rate of growth that differed. Meaning that in the highly unlikely scenario that a magician was immortal, they could, in theory, eventually learn to access every individual leyline. For the infernals, second awakenings more often than not occurred within the sanctum, though there were often exceptions to this rule.

It all seemed like good information, but none of it shed light on my particular situation. Neither of my parents nor their ancestors had magic, so it wasn’t related to my bloodline—Sera was the exception of course, but I assumed that had something more to do with who her mother was rather than any blood we shared. I had been burned with a specific type of magic in a past life—one that was usually racially specific—then somehow acquired it in the next.

I asked Ralakos what he thought of Barion’s macabre research: attempting to force an awakening via exposure and suffering. He scowled, saying he found the very implication reprehensible.

"The concept of a foraminous soul is as outrageous as it is antiquated." Ralakos shook his head. "When we are born, our souls are pure. When we die, our souls are damaged. Between lives, pure arcane energy repairs the soul—whether you want to call that god, or the devil, or whatever else—but it doesn’t do a perfect job. Residual magic left behind after repairing a soul is where manifested elements come from."

I sat up a little straighter. "And you know this for a fact?"

"No. It’s all theory. Practically philosophy. Is it theoretically possible to chip away at a soul until it’s mostly porous, leaving more room for magic to manifest? Perhaps. But it would take countless iterations; we know, relatively definitively by now, is that most souls have been around for thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of years. Pathos is a natural part of life. For a man like Barion to believe he is capable of causing enough cumulative suffering to forcibly honeycomb a soul is more than hubris; it’s addle-brained narcissism."

The sudden surge of paranoia slowly disappeared, and I relaxed a bit at his rebuff. It was for the best that Barion was wrong. If he had been right, it changed things for me in a way I’m not sure I would have been ready for. There was a brief mental image of exposing myself to various magics, over and over to the point of death, just to try and accumulate more power. It made me shudder.

The first awakening was the easiest. It typically happened within the first five to ten years of a magician’s life. The second was much harder, and if it did happen, then it usually occurred within the Sanctum. And the third would happen for anywhere between two and three percent of magicians, usually in the last ten years of the magician’s life. There were a handful of magicians within the Sanctum—ancient infernals that had retired from traditional life—who had reached a fourth awakening, which Ralakos considered another point for the rate-of-growth argument.

Ralakos must have passed on my intentions to Erdos because the man’s borderline dour mood had crossed over into the realm of practically intolerable. He pushed me much harder over the coming weeks, and it was rare that I left the training yard able to raise my arms above my head.

The infernal fighting style centered around targeting pressure points and opening veins. Erdos would literally beat the concepts into me until I could barely move. His punitive focus on me was made all the more clear by contrast with the way that Jorra would leave practically unscathed, while I limped away, or on worse days, leaned on him for support.

It was with this in mind that we waited for him in the courtyard. I meditated, trying to recuperate some of the mana I had lost working on spell weaving earlier that morning, when Erdos finally made his appearance. From the first moment, the interaction was unusual, as he was not alone. A red adolescent infernal dressed in a simple black toga entered with him.

She looked close to my age. Taller than Jorra, but a bit shorter than me. Clearly, she was related to Erdos in some fashion. She had the same stern face and tightly wound mouth. The infernal walked past us, not even bothering to acknowledge our existence, pulled a curved practice sword from the rack, and began to run through a complex kata, one that I’d never seen before. Her motions were liquid-smooth, as if she’d been practicing every day of her life. The stern face and utter focus reminded me more than a little of Annette, though this girl likely had more physicality in her little finger than Annette had in her entire body.

Jorra jolted upright, an uneasy expression clouding his face.

"You recognize her?" I asked.

"Bellarex," Jorra muttered, "Erdos’s daughter. They say she was born with a sword in her hand. Cut her way out of the womb."

I laughed, but Jorra’s face stayed grim. "I saw her fight a violet once, at a festival exhibition. A full-grown infernal. Took a beating, but in the end, she shredded him."

Erdos approached us and we stood. It could have been my imagination, but his face seemed extra smarmy today. He spoke in that annoying nasal tone of his.

"Good morning, children." Erdos said.

We both stood. "Good morning, Master Erdos."

"It has come to my attention that I will be bringing our royal guest along for a little expedition in a few days." Erdos’s lip curled. "Obviously, not my first choice, but unfortunately this decision is out of my hands. I managed to make Ralakos come to his senses on one particular point, however." He smiled wolfishly, and I suddenly had a strong desire to be anywhere else. "To determine whether Prince Cairn will be dead weight, the fair master has agreed to a test."

"And what test is that, Master Erdos?" I fidgeted slightly where I sat.

"It’s simple. I’ll even give you an advantage. Two on one. All you have to do to pass the test is land a hit on that weakling girl." He pointed to where Bellarex had been standing, but she was no longer there. There was a whisper of wind behind me and a sudden flash of danger. I dove to the side, a wooden training sword embedding itself into the ground where I’d stood only moments earlier.

Dirt flew as Bellarex yanked her sword from the ground and spun, body a blur as the wooden sword whistled towards my neck.

40

ENCLAVE XI

A wave of adrenaline washed over me. Months ago it would have left me shaking and practically useless, but the days spent training with Kastramoth had beaten that weakness out of me ruthlessly. I allowed myself to fall backwards, Bellarex’s sword passing over me harmlessly as I rolled away. Still, it would have been over in seconds had Jorra’s serrated whip not caught the training sword, yanking her off-balance and preventing a follow-up strike. Jorra failed to loosen the sword from her grip, and she wrenched it backwards, pulling him towards her and backhanding him across the face, sending him spinning with a cry of pain.

I drew my lowhil blade, hesitating. It felt wrong to use metal against wood, but why hadn’t Erdos given us time to grab proper training equipment? It suddenly clicked. Erdos didn’t want this to be an even fight. He wanted to be able to go to Ralakos and inform him that Jorra and I had lost, using live weapons, against his red daughter.

Fine. No reason to hold back then.

I dashed in, trying to stay out of her periphery vision, swinging my blade low at her back leg. Without even looking, she simply picked it up and stepped on the flat of my sword, using the arm that she’d backhanded Jorra with to elbow me in the side of the head.

Stars exploded behind my eyes as I hit the dirt. The whip came untangled from her sword at the worst possible time, and she leapt at me. I called the flame, extending an aegis above me. It immediately cracked on her first hit, shattering on her second. Wood impacted bone with a sickening thud. The aegis absorbed most of the impact, but it hurt badly enough that I knew if I took a hit straight on it would undoubtedly break bone, putting me out of commission for the upcoming raid.

We could not afford to draw this out. From behind her, I saw Jorra weave a water bomb, flinging it at center mass. I pushed my mana outward and flared a gout of fire at her head, trying to distract her. Again, without looking, Bellarex somehow knew; she flung herself sideways in a tornado of limbs, dodging both spells cleanly.

I frowned. Either she had eyes in the back of her head or she was using some form of arcane sight. As a red, something that complex should have been beyond her capabilities. So, how was she managing it?

I closed distance with Jorra, never taking my eyes off Bellarex, until I literally bumped into him.

"Element?" I asked him, my voice clipped.

"Best guess?" Jorra panted, his whip flicking back and forth. It was mostly metal, but there were resin beads filled with water interspersed along its body, giving him an absurd amount of control. "She didn’t start flinging spells when we did, despite the opening. So, an aberrant. Void, or something similar."

I swiped at the trail of blood trickling from my ear in annoyance. It was a bad matchup. Void users were magically deficient, by infernal terms. They could not weave traditional spells. What they lacked in complexity they made up for in savage focus and defense. They could enhance their weapons with dark energy, and more importantly, cancel almost anything that was thrown at them. It was generally a support power, but Bellarex was using it almost exclusively for offense.

"What do we do?" Jorra asked, tense. Bellarex had apparently tired of waiting and began to sprint towards us. I took in our surroundings. There was practically nothing to use or burn. Just a training field, filled with dirt. I made a split-second decision.

"Get elevation. Pepper her. Tire her out. Then we do the thing."

"Which thing?" Jorra hissed. But Bellarex was already spinning through the air like a hurricane of death and I didn’t want to tip her off. Hopefully, he’d figure it out from context. I pushed Jorra to get him moving, and took a simple step backwards, avoiding the blow. I flipped Bellarex the raven. Her eyes narrowed hotly.

And then I turned around and ran full-tilt the other way. It was the one tactic an honorable and well-trained enemy never expected: weaponized cowardice. She was faster than me, but not by much, so it would take her a precious few seconds to catch up. A trail of curses caught up to me first in a stream of nonstop profanity that doubled in intensity and verbosity as Jorra reached the rooftop of the supply shed and began hurling massive, mana-inefficient water-bombs down in her direction.

I ducked behind Erdos, leering at her from behind him, cackling madly as she tried to swipe at me without hitting her father who watched the whole thing grim-faced and impassive. I faked left and dashed right, leaping over an outstretched kick and leading her in a frantic chase around the training yard. Jorra’s water-bombs weren’t accomplishing much—Bellarex kept reaching backwards without looking to blindly dispel them—but they maintained pressure and soaked the training yard with muddy puddles.

I trusted Jorra. Despite not having much combat experience, he had great instincts. But this was a tactic we’d only talked about in theory, never practice. I had to cling to the hope that he’d read the situation directly and time it all perfectly.

Then, it happened. Bellarex slipped in the mud, her foot sliding out from under her and driving her to a knee. I reversed direction instantly and plunged my sword in a downward strike, pushing mana out of my hand into a shockwave simultaneously, hoping to keep her down and score a hit. She reached out, hand enshrouded in black, and deflecting the shockwave into the ground, where it threw up a spray of silty water. It left her plenty of time to block my one-handed strike easily.

Behind my back, I dropped a tiny ball of paper—smaller than a fingertip—into the puddle. I spared a glance at Jorra, hoping he got the message.

Bellarex was angry, now. In theory that anger worked to our advantage; she was more likely to make mistakes and miss what was happening in the big picture. But in reality, it was terrifying. Her sword blurred faster than I could even see, leaving faint afterimages of trailing darkness. It made her strikes exponentially harder to predict. Still, I dug in.

For a moment I stood toe to toe with her, my blade meeting hers, chips of wood flying from where my steel bit into her practice blade. Then she coiled with both hands on her sword and put her entire body into a single, massive blow I had no hope of blocking.

So, I didn’t even try.

Instead, the world spun as I launched myself in a backward arc, catching my weight on my hands—in the half-second before I sprung away, hands deep in the puddle, I called the spark.

Bellarex was too focused on finishing what I can only guess she assumed would be a straight-forward fight to notice.

Jorra, likely close to tapped, flung one last massive water-bomb at Bellarex. She dispelled it without looking, showering us with a fine mist. But in the chaos she missed the tiny bead of water, encasing a flaming paper ball, rising from beneath her.

I formed an aegis around my fist and caught her next strike. The shield cracked. With an evil grin, I pointed downwards.

"Your pants are on fire."

Bellarex looked downward and shrieked. The dantalion flame spread from her ankle to her knee in seconds.

Then I reeled back and cold-cocked her with a punch that landed squarely on her jaw, sending her careening into the mud, and recalled the flame.

Bell, as we came to know her, harangued us with questions excitedly. It seemed her stoic, deadly disposition evaporated the moment the fight was over. She was almost bubbly, as she pelted us with queries. How much of the fight was a smokescreen? How did we manage it? How many times had we practiced that particular maneuver? Even with the not insignificant burn on her leg she seemed delighted to have been bested by two "dilettantes."

Jorra found her manner insulting—I was just relieved to have not made another enemy. Lastly, she asked if we had a definitive group to enter the sanctum with. But then Erdos grabbed her by the ear and dragged her away, looking daggers at me as he shouted words like "failure," and "disappointment," at her, reminding me in many ways of my father.

We were victorious, but I felt a little guilty. She’d fought extremely well, considering the numbers advantage. We only won because of a bullshit tactic and the fact that the win-condition was set to landing a single blow on her. If it had been a more traditional spar called by yield, it would have ended very differently. Realistically speaking, her loss was more Erdos’s fault than anyone else’s.

The guilt didn’t do much to dampen the victory, however. Jorra and I walked home covered in mud, grinning from ear to ear.

The next evening, Nethtari and Kilvius summoned me to the living room. They had heard tales of our victory from Jorra—albeit greatly exaggerated. As I was set to depart on the expedition with Ralakos’s men imminently, there was something they wanted to talk to me about.

"We have something for you," Nethtari said.

Kilvius pulled a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with simple twine from beneath the table and set it in front of me with a grin. "We had something custom-made for you and Jorra. The plan was to wait until the Sanctum, but considering how you’re heading into the behemoth’s mouth tomorrow, we thought it would be the best use if we give it to you now."

I wasn’t used to presents. They made me feel strange.

"You didn’t have to," I said, numbly.

"Nonsense," Nethtari said.

"Don’t keep us in suspense," Kilvius added, "Open it already."

The box was heavy. I untied the twine carefully and used my fingertips to unseal the paper, careful not to tear it. The box came open easily enough, lifting with a dull pop of air.

It was a chest-piece, made from a dark, matte material. It was surprisingly light. I knocked on it experimentally. Hard to the touch, but flexible. There were grooves cut into it to further reduce weight. It would not impede my movement in the same way that steel or iron would.

"What is it?" I asked, holding it up to the light.

"Cave-maw chitin." Kilvius lifted out a matching pair of bracers and greaves. "A full-set was a bit out of our price-range, but we wanted to make sure to cover the important bits. Cave-maws have natural magic resistance, so even if you run into casters amongst the Asmodials, it should offer a reasonable amount of protection."

Nethtari had lectured me on accepting gifts when they were given. Still, it was dreadfully tempting to reject it. It was literally too much. I’d lived with them for half a year now. I knew how much they scrimped and saved. This gift, for them, was the relative equivalent of my father gifting me the entirety of the southern provinces. Not to mention their sponsorship for an emissary.

A lump rose in my throat and silently, I renewed the vow already made many times that I would repay them. They’d never let me do it directly, and I would not be so uncouth as to try. But by all the gods, old and young, Nethtari and Kilvius were going to get their investment back sevenfold. I’d back them from the shadows, whispering in the right ears, manipulating their circumstances, until the scales had finally evened.

"It’s beautiful," I said.

"Well, no, it’s actually kind of ugly." Nethtari laughed in that strange, monotone mirth that was unique to her.

"But practical," Kilvius said.

"Still. Thank you." I wiped my face with my sleeve.

From deep in the house, Agarin started to cry. Nethtari sighed deeply.

I stood to my feet quickly. "Let me get him."

"You don’t have to—" Kilvius started.

"I want to," I said, happy for a reason to excuse myself.

As I rocked Agarin to sleep, I cleared the excess emotion from my mind, and centered myself on my goals and next steps. I’d collect a boon, find an emissary, join Maya in the sanctum, and finally get some real answers from Morthus.

All I had to do was kill some demons.

41

ENCLAVE XII

It took an embarrassingly long time to don my armor. I’d worn armor before, but there were typically around three people putting it on for me. With only Nethtari helping me, despite there being only a few pieces, it still took close to thirty minutes to get everything fitted properly and keep certain pieces from shifting around.

After fending off their nonstop stream of advice and warnings, I said my goodbyes and headed to Ralakos’s estate. Erdos saw me coming and rolled his eyes, making it clear how he felt about my participation in this venture. He passed me by, leaning over to mutter. "Just don’t get in the way. Stay in the back with the rest of the support group if there’s any altercation. And for the lord below’s sake, don’t cast anything. You set any of my men on fire and they’ll never find your body. Now get in line."

It was clear Erdos was unhappy, but at this point there was nothing he could do about it. He’d made his play with Ralakos and lost. Still, there was something to be said for winning with grace, and I had no reason to go out of my way to annoy him. I gave him a cheeky salute, and he scowled, striding away. Trying to make eye contact with as many of the men as I could as I walked towards the back, I settled in behind them. There were about fifteen in all.

A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach: it felt like something was wrong, like I was missing something. I shook my head. The paranoia had really started getting the better of me.

Erdos began to brief us on the situation, going into additional detail in a borderline sarcastic voice as if to spite me. The Asmodials were known for being a particularly violent legion, but there were huge gaps of power between their lesser demons and their greater. The demons seemed uncharacteristically hesitant to escalate matters as of late, only retaliating when one of their bases of power were struck. Our goal was not to escalate. We were looking for traces of their main force deep within the twilight chambers; a series of elven ruins linked by water, several miles past the farthest point of the surface caves.

That point stuck out to me immediately. I had no idea the elves had ever coexisted with the infernals within the enclave. Obviously, it hadn’t worked out, but there had to be quite a story there.

Erdos finished his briefing, and we set out at a half-jog. He snapped off a command in demonic I wasn’t able to parse, and the men picked up the pace. I did my best to stay in line. My gear was light for armor, but it was still armor, and by the time we reached the two longboats at the edge of the surface caverns, I was short of breath. Nowhere near as bad as it would have been only a few months earlier, but still more winded than I would have liked.

The man beside me bumped my shoulder. "Sure are recruiting them short these days." A few infernals nearby chuckled.

I blinked up at him. He was massive, pushing seven feet tall, if not cresting it entirely. His helmet—though clearly modified for him—was still a bit too small, given his nose a flattened look. "I imagine everyone is short to you, giant-kin. What the hells do they even feed you?"

More mirth amongst the men. Well, that was a good sign. Thaddeus told me once to never trust a group of soldiers on the eve of battle unwilling to laugh at a joke. They were likely holding themselves back out of dislike or treachery. Or alternatively, you just weren’t very funny. It seemed like Erdos’s dislike for me wasn’t uniform amongst his troops.

The tall infernal laughed heartily and offered me a blue hand that absolutely swallowed my own. "Theros."

"Cairn."

The strongest fighters and casters entered the first boat, while the rest of us piled into the second. I was genuinely surprised when Theros awkwardly crawled into the second boat, taking a seat beside me. For a moment, the entire boat shifted in his direction, threatening to topple us, before the rest of the men shifted in the other direction and balanced things out.

"You’re on the support team?" I asked.

The man in front of me scoffed and turned around. "Theros isn’t on the support team, he is the support team."

"You embarrass me, Aron." Theros shifted uncomfortably, jostling the boat.

I decided to press my luck. "Well, you do have me at a disadvantage. You all know what I can do, but I have very little knowledge of the rest of you."

Aron shrugged. "Support team is mostly earth magicians. Relyre, Nephdos, and me." He indicated two men respectively who turned to nod before turning to stare straight ahead. "Dhame and Urish are water binders, Urish is the one propelling the boat back there." I looked behind, and a round woman with bushy eyebrows shot me a grin, one glowing hand immersed in the water, the other clinging tightly to the boat. "Some of us have secondaries, but they’re obviously not much to speak of, as we’re in this boat and not that one. Though all things considered, we’re a bit light on firepower today." Aron inclined his head towards the giant seated next to me. "And then of course, there’s Theros."

"What do you do?" I asked, amused at the discomfort the giant was under from all the attention.

"Just… a bit of light magic." Theros mumbled.

My eyes widened. My knowledge was limited on the subject, but from what I’d learned it was an extremely uncommon spinoff of life magic. Though it was generally called something else.

"A divine magician," I said, in awe.

"Light magician," Theros corrected irritably.

"He don’t like calling it divine. Gives credence to the rumor his mum shagged an angel." Urish crowed.

Ah, so that was the source of the friction. Divine magic was about as rare amongst infernals as Dantalion flame was amongst humans. I felt a certain kinship with him over that. We were both fish out of water.

"Even if she did, who could blame her?" I joked, trying to deflect the tension. "Urish, hypothetically, you’re really gonna tell me if an angel descended from the heavens—bound in perfect muscle, skin like creme, hands big enough to throttle a bear—with the sole intention of getting in your trousers, you’d say no?"

There was a moment of silence. "How much’ve I been drinkin’?"

Our entire boat erupted in laughter, voices echoing across the water. Erdos stood up from the front of the lead boat, drawing a finger across his neck. Still, Theros nodded at me appreciatively. Anomalies like us had to stick together, after all.

A strained silence fell over the boat as we transitioned from the shallow waters of the surface caverns into a narrow tunnel. There was a dull ethereal light emitting from the other side. The tunnel closed in, tighter and tighter, until the wood on the side of the boat scraped against the stone intermittently. Theros stooped down to avoid hitting the roof of the tunnel. Then, just when I thought the walls would close in on us, shoving the boat down beneath the water, we were out. The tiny river we’d ridden down expanded into an ocean.

I sucked in a breath. The cavern was gargantuan, bathed in an emerald green sheen emitting from crystal deposits hundreds of feet up. There were stalagnate pillars thick as trees, extending from the distant roof to the glassy waters below. Theros’ hand glowed gold as he weaved a circular sign that expanded from two dimensions into three, forming a floating lumen lamp that followed between both boats.

The ruins crept into view like blackened fingers, massive broken arches and crumbling towers that looped and swayed. I’d seen elven architecture before in books, but nothing compared to the real thing. It was always cast in light, rather than this strange, shadowy gloom.

In the center of the lake was a huge tower, sandwiched between two broken battlements, towering upwards, slatted with a dozen windows. The light from Theros’s lantern bounced off the water, illuminating one of the windows near the top where a twisted face—

A cold hand clawed at my spine, frigid tendrils working their way down my back. The window was empty, but the image was imprinted on my mind. Something looking down on us. Had it been there, really, or was I imagining it?

"Theros," I whispered, "Can you move the light over towards the tower? Or focus it that way?

"What was it?" He whispered to me.

I shook my head. I didn’t know.

Theros’s eyes flitted to the battlements and towers, the light pointed emitting in that direction becoming more focused, dimming the rest of the beam. A high-pitched stuttering echo bounced off the water, so warped and refracted it was impossible to tell what it had once been.

Up ahead, Erdos held up a fist, and the boats came to a slow stop, drifting dead in the water. It was so quiet I could hear my pulse in my ears. There was an embankment on the other side, but it was a long swim. My paranoia whispered to me. Slowly, I reached into my pack and removed a potion, eased the cork off, and raised it to my lips, swallowing it in a single gulp. The briny taste went down with a shudder and I felt my heartbeat slow.

Thump Thump. Thump Thump.

Thump Thump.

Thump.

A half dozen white-hot beams of flame shrieked through the darkness. Theros’s head disappeared with a sizzle, neck charred and instantly cauterized by the beam. His floating light immediately dissipated, bathing the cavern in darkness save for the dozens of multi-colored spells flinging through the air, reflecting off the water. Theros’s body tipped over into the water with a large splash. Aron starting screaming, his once deep voice crescendoing in manic terror.

The first boat had been hit as well, and began to sink. Erdos shouted, voice barely audible over the shrieking of spells and cries of dying men. "Get to the shore!" A magma orange light as large and round as a boulder arced downwards, faster than anything affected by gravity, slamming into the center of the first ship, capsizing it in a spray of gore. A second light, blue, arced towards our boat.

The infernals around me jumped into the water in a mess of flying limbs and splashes. I prepared to follow. The last I saw of Aron, he was staring at the incoming projectile like a man entranced by a comet.

I dove into the frigid water. The explosion came seconds later, rattling my teeth, and turning my vision black.

42

ENCLAVE XIII

I felt the darkness call to me. Somehow, I knew, even in the addled depths of my mind, that all I had to do was breathe, and it would all be over. Just open my mouth and suck in, and I could go back to a different time. It had been so peaceful. Studying, learning magic, making new friends. The childhood I never had. The enclave was a civilized place. So different from Uskar.

Only something had happened that changed all that. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I didn’t want things to change.

But another concept took hold, almost too abstract to cling onto.

What if I didn’t come back this time. I didn’t want to die. I couldn’t die. There was someone I was supposed to protect. A promise I made. A resolve formed within me.

I didn’t want to die.

My head struck something hard and cold. My vision returned. I was floating immersed in water. The memories came back in a flash of panic. I dove into the water, and something exploded.

A long layer of ice had formed over the surface of the lake, covering my head. My breath burned in my chest, begging for release. Beside me, a dark shape struggled, pounding at the ice.

Blackened hands, fingers breaking—

I pushed the memory away, turning inward, finding my center. It occurred to me suddenly that I’d drank a potion of iron lung. I didn’t need to breathe, I just wanted to. I swam over to the struggling shape beneath the water. Overhead, countless projectiles flew back and forth. The ones descending a higher elevation must be coming from the tower—which meant the lower ones were whatever was left of Ralakos’s men, firing from the shore.

I reached the struggling shape, darting back when they tried to cling on to me. Extending my hand out so it was clear to see, I called the flame, holding it to the ice above us. It burned a hole clean through. I widened it a bit, and guided him to it—it was Relyre, I think—then burned another hole in the ice for myself.

Air never tasted so sweet.

I spotted another struggling dark shape—Nephdos—and did the same for him, and then guided him over to where Relyre was.

Slowly, carving holes as we went, we moved slowly towards the shore. We made it about half-way. Nephdos was still in a full-blown panic, clawing at the holes, trying desperately to get out when the ice cracked in a dull spider web of cracks and fissures.

Fuck.

The response was immediate. A spear of magma crashed into the ice, crushing Nephdos and bringing the surrounding water to an immediate boil. My face and arms stung and blistered. I kicked away, Relyre beside me. Something came up behind us in a blur and touched my back. I was propelled forward, body cresting the surface and slamming back into it as a jet of water propelled me forward, gagging and sputtering until I hit the shore, rolling up on it in a tangle of limbs.

An infernal man I didn’t recognize dragged me up by the back of my armor and pulled me towards the rounded bubble Erdos and his men stood in—some sort of permeable shield they cast spells through. I hacked and coughed up water. From the side, another man ran up to my rescuer and tackled him to the ground, stabbing him over and over as he screamed, glowing orange particles ebbing and flowing as he tried to form a spell, his arm eventually falling slack and extending towards me.

A fireball hit maybe a yard away, catapulting me to the side. I landed badly, my elbow smashing into my ribs, and something cracked. The ringing in my ears deafened me and for a moment I panicked, spinning around, looking for Thoth amongst the carnage, before realizing how moronic that was. If Thoth was here, I would already be dead.

I staggered towards the bubble. The man who had killed my rescuer shoved me down. He was an infernal: a red, his eyes full of hate. His hands wrapped around my throat and began to squeeze. I gagged, little purple motes floating in my vision.

A pressurized blade of water struck him upside the face, tearing away his skin and revealing his teeth. He looked at me, surprised, before falling back onto the stone.

I stared at him for a moment in shock, a piece of the puzzle finally sticking out to me in all the chaos. Slowly, my eyes focused on a dozen men running down the beach towards us.

Why were other infernals attacking us?

Then a pair of rough arms yanked me backward. Relyre and Urish together, both still dripping with water. Relyre raised both hands. The stony ground jutted upwards, cutting us off from the incoming assault. I collapsed inside the bubble, drawing breath after ragged breath. Artillery spells still pelted the barrier, thudding booms muffled within the dome.

"What the fuck is happening?" I yelled at Erdos.

"The hells if I know!" Erdos yelled back, his expression grim.

"Whose men are those?"

"They’re sigil-less. No colors. Meaning this is someone’s idea of an unsanctioned operation. Now pipe down." Erdos chewed his lip. "I need to think." The impromptu stone wall to our left began to shudder, bits of rock falling away. Another massive blue projectile impacted the dome, and it began to crack.

Erdos finally came to a decision. "Urish, get a smokescreen up." Urish began to cast, pulling chunks of earth into the air and slamming his hands together, grinding them into a fine dust that spread and thickened until it formed a thick canopy between us and the tower. It had to be constantly maintained, as the incoming projectiles would send the dust swirling in miniature tornadoes. Erdos shifted towards Urish. "Get the Prince out of here."

"What? Why?" I stared at Erdos.

"Too many questions." Erdos reached up with glowing white hands, attempting to smooth the cracks out of the shield but only partially succeeding. "Someone’s trying to start a war. Avoiding that’s worth any price."

"How am I supposed to get him out?" Relyre was looking around wildly, panic in his eyes, not fully recovered from the close call in the lake.

"Want me to wipe your ass, too?" Erdos pointed at the tall sheer wall of the cave behind us. "Make a damn door."

I didn’t want to leave them. But the dome wouldn’t hold for long. Staying meant certain death and I had no idea how far back it would take me. I needed to make sure people in the enclave knew what happened.

So, when Relyre pulled me with him, I ran. Relyre tore open a narrow hole in the cavern wall, the earth groaning as it sealed shut behind us.

My hands were still shaking after hours in the tunnel. I had a cracked rib, and my left hip hitched with every step, giving me a debilitating limp.

It wasn’t a fast process. Relyre would focus on the stone in front of us, small fissures building until it finally cracked open. I used my flame to give him light, but without anything to set on fire, the illumination was dismal at best. Relyre had some analysis method to detect parallel caverns in the earth—meaning we at least knew we were heading towards something—but that just meant we were being efficient. It didn’t do anything to speed up our actual process. He collapsed, panting, spent once again. I reached into my satchel and fished out another stamina potion, handing it to him.

He took it, bemused. "You have a whole apothecary in there?"

"That was the last one."

"Damn me for asking," Relyre said. His face was covered in a thin film of dust he no longer bothered to wipe off. "We might be close enough that it don’t matter."

"Might?"

"Might," Relyre confirmed, "It’s closer than it was before, but farther than I’d like it to be."

I silently reminded myself that the man was saving my life, and it was incredibly improper to go on angry tirades on the subject of specificity to someone in the process of doing you that large of a favor. So instead, pressed my back against the wall as he meditated and tried to regain some mana of my own.

Finally, I couldn’t take the silence anymore. "Do you think Erdos is dead?"

"He’s a cantankerous old geezer, but…" Relyre’s face sagged. "There sure were a lot of them."

Relyre stood and tore the tunnel asunder, finally leading us out of the claustrophobic tunnel into a surface cave. We were still deep in the known cave network, but it felt a damn sight safer compared to where we came from.

Guemon. I didn’t share my suspicions, but it had to be him. I was honestly surprised he hadn’t taken a swipe at me earlier. The bastard had bided his time well, but he made a mistake underestimating the sense of duty upheld by Ralakos’s men. I started to strategize, running through the most efficient ways to run him into the ground, cursing my lack of foresight for distancing myself from infernal politics since the trial.

I was so deep in thought I ran straight into Relyre’s back.

"Relyre? What’s…"

Words left me. My gut twisted, awash in nausea. The cavern mouth was elevated by around a hundred feet, providing a full view of the enclave. Above the city, the artificial sun had shifted to a vivid crimson, dyeing the city in bloody rays.

A thousand dark shapes infested the city like malevolent insects.

The enclave was overrun.

43

ENCLAVE XIV

That moment changed me. It brought me back to the beginning. I thought that I could save them all. Everyone. But standing there, on the cliff-face, as the violet flames that consumed the enclave grew, I realized the truth. There were no safe places in the world, no civilized bastions. Every road, every town, every city, was a loaded crossbow waiting to spring. And in the path of the arrow were the normal people. People were just going about their day, trying to live and survive. Every time I tried to change something, it wasn’t just my life I was risking. It was theirs. If I was a single step behind, the innocents would pay the price.

And how dearly they paid.

Relyre took one look at the city. His jaw worked, eyes glazed over with shock. Then he held out glowing hands and called the earth, carving a smooth two-foot-wide section of rock into the jagged dissent below that curved at the bottom. He leapt down feet first. After a moment, I followed him, wind rushing by my face as I slid down the slope.

While the enclave itself might have been lost, I had to try and get Maya’s family out. It was the least I could do.

I kept low on the approach, having lost sight of Relyre. The city was filled with the sounds of screams and battle. Errant spells arced upward, forming a multi-color light show, scarring and pockmarking the surrounding dome. Black, nightmarish demons made of smoke with glowing eyes sprinted across rooftops and leapt onto fleeing civilians, tearing them open.

The familiar heavyset form of a red infernal caught my eye. Casikas had made it halfway beneath a wagon before they caught him. They hadn’t even bothered to drag him out—just cut through his legs at the knee and moved on. Judging from the bright red arterial quality of the blood, he had bled out quickly. His mouth hung open, his spectacles broken, his once kind eyes vacant.

I’d just seen him that morning.

Let the dead flow past you like a river, lest you be drowned with them.

From cover, I watched as a group of demons worked in tandem to push a group of infernals towards one of the many sheer cliffs. The infernals fought desperately, casting spell after spell, elemental fire and electricity arcing towards the demons. But the demons wore strange shimmering aegis spells that seemed to absorb the incoming attacks easily enough. The demons kept pushing forwards methodically. Slowly, one after another, the infernals tumbled off the cliffs, like rocks in an avalanche.

I limped through the desolated streets, heading vaguely towards Maya’s home. Much of the violence had already passed through the entry sector. Bodies littered the street. Some of them burning with purple flame. Where had it come from? Why was this happening now?

A slight movement caught my eye. A little girl covered in soot cowered in a shallow alley, face twisted in fear.

I made my way over to her, approaching slowly. She shied away from me.

"Are you hurt?" I asked.

"Did you come back to kill me too?" She asked, her cheeks sooty, her white eyes haunted.

“What?" I shook my head, not understanding. The girl was in shock. That was the only thing that made sense.

Something landed on the roof of the building next to us with a heavy thud. I grabbed her, placed a hand over her mouth and put my back to the wall, pulling my cloak over my head and trying to hide in the shadows. A low hiss from above rattled me, and I shivered.

Unnaturally long fingers—blacker than the darkest night, ending in a needlepoint—clutched the side of the roof as something stuck its head over the side to look at us. There was a pure, smoldering malevolence in its eyes, and small tendrils that took the place of hair floated below it, as if they were only partially affected by gravity. The little infernal scratched my arm, leaving a trail of bloody marks, then yanked away from me. I grabbed for her just a moment too late, cringing as she screamed and ran down the alley.

The thing above knocked a shingle loose as it scampered, following her. I drew my sword and ran—but it was too late. I came to a stop, horrified, as it landed in front of her, its dark pointed fingers elongated and slashed across her entire body.

There was a series of impacts as she fell to the ground, one piece at a time. The demon cackled in discordant delight.

I turned and ran, cursing my failure, lying to myself that one more life didn’t matter.

"—Cairn? Cairn."

I shook out of the momentary lapse. Gunther had asked me for something, but I’d missed it. "Pass me the Etsom-leaf, would you son?"

Gray’s was busy in the early afternoon, and I had nothing else to do while I waited for Lillian to get ready. I popped open a jar and selected a decent-looking specimen—the leaf was yellow year-round, with cobalt veins—and passed it to him idly. He crumbled the leaf into the mortar and pestle, his silver ponytail bobbing as he ground the contents.

I surveyed the shop. It had come a long way in the last year. When I’d first set foot in the apothecary, much of the equipment had been well-worn and cracked, the counters warped and yellowed. But he’d put the money I’d given them for my stay to good use, as well as the additional investments I’d made after the fact. The alchemy equipment was top of the line, complete with a set of glass flasks and beakers that replaced clay. The quality of the medicine had risen, of course, but not by nearly as much as you’d think; Gunther was a magician in everything but the literal definition, a master of creating excellent mixtures in suboptimal conditions. Mostly, having better equipment just helped with quantity.

"You’re quiet today," Gunther observed. He began the long process of purifying the powder in a liquid solution.

"There’s a lot on my mind," I said.

"Well, are you going to fill me in, or just brood there, all mysterious like?"

I laughed. Gunther had a talent for getting under my defenses, and despite my status, never seemed to see me as more than the concussed boy his daughter had picked up off the street.

"Just planning for the future. I don’t want to make her wait any longer than necessary." My intent to introduce Lillian as a noble from a faraway land had begun to take root into action, but there were still many logistical problems. There was basically no way to do what I intended without spending a great deal of money—which didn’t matter to me, but I needed to make sure my spending didn’t draw my father’s eye.

"I appreciate you making an honest woman out of my daughter." Gunther eyed me. "But from what little she’s said, it sounds like you might be rushing things a little."

"It’s best to speed things along, to be honest. The faster we get something set in stone, the less likely it is that my father can do anything to obstruct the marriage. Though, honestly, I doubt he would bother. He tends to take very little interest in my affairs."

Gunther shot me an irked look.

I cleared my throat. "Okay, maybe not the best choice of words."

Gunther washed his hands in the sink, absorbed in the task. "I can’t speak for your father, Cairn, but you’ve done right by us, and then some."

"It’s only natural."

Gunther shook his head. "It’s not, and I think you know that. Lillian doesn’t like to talk about it, but when she was little, she was sick for a long time." His gaze turned glassy. "Almost lost her more than once. If I was anything other than an apothecary, I likely would have. It’s hard for me to trust her to someone else. But when I look at you, son, I know in my bones, at the end of the day, you’ll do what’s best for her."

There was the creak of floorboards. Lillian was ready.

I slapped Gunther on the shoulder. "We’ll be back soon."

Months later, I’d look back to that moment, and weep.

I finally arrived at the place I’d called home for the last six months, stomach twisting the closer I drew. There was a chance that everyone was fine, that they’d doused the lamps, hidden in one of the upstairs rooms. I’d collect them, lead them to the gate, and we’d escape to the outside world.

Once there, we’d come up with a plan for how to get Maya out of the Sanctum. Kilvius would ruffle my hair, and tell me how foolish I was for getting worked up over them. Nethtari would poke at me, telling me to stop worrying so much and lecture me for neglecting my studies. It was honestly a little self-centered of me to assume the worst. Of course, they would be fine. They’d survived their entire lives without me and raised three children. Why on earth would they need me to save them?

They were fine.

The door was wide open, the inside pitch black.

They were fine.

Someone stepped through the doorway

They were fine.

I crouched behind an overturned cart, trying to make out the figure in the darkness.

The person stepped out from the dark, swinging a familiar blade held loosely at their side.

It wasn’t Thoth.

It was so much worse.

The resemblance was exact. A person my height, with my build, wearing my face, stepped out into the night. His robe—a robe identical to the traditional infernal attire—was soaked in red. But his eyes were empty and soulless.

In the distance, someone screamed. His head snapped in that direction, and he took off sprinting towards it, movements completely silent. I waited for a moment, then ran to the house, praying to any god that might be listening that I was not too late, despite already knowing I was.

"Barkeep? ‘Nother round?" I slurred drunkenly. The portly man behind the counter breathed a long-suffering sigh and refilled my mug. I dropped a golden rod into the tip jar. Money didn’t matter to me. Nothing did. Not anymore. Liquid trickled into my cup, pitch rising at the end, then the mug was shoved in my direction and I buried my face in it, my vision long since faded into a smeared blur.

The barkeep had started swapping the Oterons for something significantly cheaper, but that hardly mattered. As long as he kept serving me, the gold would keep flowing. If my purse was empty by the end of the night, all that meant was less to weigh me down.

The entire room tilted like the cabin of a ship in a storm, and I grasped onto the counter, trying to remain upright on the stool.

Someone put a hand on my arm. Another man sent to escort me back to the castle, no doubt. Maybe if I ignored their presence entirely, they’d go away faster.

Every conversation in the tavern halted. The barkeep’s face, once annoyed and ambivalent, had slackened and paled, the rag he was using to clean the counter paralyzed mid-air.

My father stood there dressed in simple regalia, his hand clamped firmly on my shoulder.

"Look everyone, it’s Good King Gil!" I joked. His gray eyes only grew colder. "Someone get the princesses in here, it’s royal family night. Buy you a round?"

"I am not here for your adolescent foolishness." He rumbled, clearly furious, but unwilling to escalate things in public. That wouldn’t project strength, after-all.

"Then how can I help?" I said, my mouth twisting bitterly. "Oh. I took detailed transcripts of the funeral for you. Since, you know, you couldn’t be bothered to show up."

"Really? That’s why you’ve been neglecting your lessons and acting like a spoiled child? It was over a month ago."

The sharpness of the words pierced through the veil of intoxication like a knife. Eyes wide, I stared at him in disbelief. Had she really meant so little to him?

Without really knowing what I was doing, I pulled my arm back and struck out with a fist, aiming for his nose.

He caught my arm easily, wrenching it behind me and pushing it up so far it threatened to break. Then, like a common prisoner, he escorted me out of the bar. No one said anything. They didn’t dare.

Father picked me up by the belt of my trousers and threw me face-first into the waiting palanquin. I landed with a dull thud, closing my eyes, nausea advancing and receding like the ocean’s tides.

"Get up," He said, voice dripping with disgust.

With significant effort, I pulled myself on to the palanquin’s bench, setting myself on the opposite side and corner from him, literally as far away as I could manage. What he said ate at me.

It’s been over a month.

"Did you ever love mother? Even a little?" I asked, in a voice so quiet I wasn’t sure if he’d hear it.

"… She was my wife."

"You never visited her. Or came to see her after things got bad. She asked for you, so many times."

"Wasted effort, born of overwrought sentimentality."

My hands curled into fists. "No. No, that’s horseshit. You’re not this fucking caricature of a man you’re pretending to be. No one is that cold."

"Not everyone is as soft as you, boy."

I threw up my hands in surrender. "You know what? You’re right. I don’t know why I’m trying to make excuses for you. You didn’t lift a finger. Who spends the last year of his wife’s life picking fights with elves?"

My father slammed his fist against the palanquin bench. The wood cracked. "Do not speak on matters you have no knowledge of."

"Then explain it to me," I said, "I’m all ears."

My father exploded in a torrent of words. "I was trying to help her, you imbecile!" I shrunk back, but now that he had started, he had no intention of stopping. "The elves are known for their healers, a fact you might have put together if you weren’t so busy feeling sorry for yourself."

"I—"

"Shut up," he growled. "Yes, I waged war. I broke oaths. I tracked down their so-called healers, threatened them, and razed their villages. It did not matter. The lesser races do not listen to reason. Every single one of them would rather die than raise a finger to help your mother. And die they did." His gaze pierced me, smoldering. "Do not dare lay the blame on my head. If you wish to blame anyone, blame yourself."

I quavered. "What?"

"You. Did. Nothing." The words struck me harder than any blow. "You think you helped by being there? By holding her hand and pretending your efforts, your mewling sympathy, your tortured pathos, made any difference at all?"

"Without me, she would have been—"

"What?" My father roared. "More dead? I’m sure she took great solace in your words as the mana desiccated her body. Surely, she soothed herself on your misery alone."

Father leaned back against the cushion, anger ebbing into the much more familiar disappointment. "There’s always someone to blame, boy. People will coddle you. They’ll tell you it’s not your fault. That there was nothing more you could have done. And they are lying."

"You—" I stopped. Because somewhere, in the back of my mind, I saw the truth. It flayed me to my very core.

He was right.

"There is always something more you could have done."

I stood, shaking in the doorway, my shadow long and extended across the room. The scene played itself out before my eyes, written in blood. The door hadn’t been forced. Kilvius had opened it willingly. The person with my face entered and drew his sword, striking at Kilvius’s back. He’d turned and thrown up his arms in a panic, trying to shield himself. But the attack had been too unexpected.

They trusted me, after all.

His arms were riddled with defensive wounds. A section of the wall was torn open from where Nethtari had jumped into the fight, trying to fend the attacker off. She’d been stabbed through the chest for her efforts. Their faces were frozen in twisted, bloody masks of pain and confusion.

Jorra was laid face down on the ground, a brutal slash tearing open his shirt and exposing his spine. He watched what happened to his parents, and tried to escape.

There is always something more you could have done.

A sob racked me.

"No. Please no." I said it over and over again, staring at the scene, cold fingers of irrationality reaching into my skull and twisting, trying to pull something loose.

Of course, someone was missing.

I climbed the stairs slowly, heart pounding, sickness in my gut roiling. The same voice from earlier whispered to me, offering escape. Maybe they’d missed him. Maybe that was the one good thing to come from this I could salvage.

I entered Agarin’s room. And something inside me shattered.

He was—

They—

His face—

I reached down in the bassinet, and stroked his forehead with the back of my hand. Little ringlets of hair bobbed beneath my touch. Gently, I took the little blue blanket and covered him with it.

"Sorry we never got to finish that story, bud." My voice caught.

She said that if Sir Gantry answered one question correctly, she would tell him the secret of the magical pixie steel.

The question was: What is justice?

The thing within me that broke began to boil. Heat flooded my chest, my hands, the backs of my eyes. Rage tore through me like a gale. I let it fill me and consume me and tear out of me. Building blocks and toys swirled around me and the floorboards cracked beneath my feet.

Every window in the house shattered.

Broken glass sliced through my palm as I vaulted through the window. It didn’t matter. I caught myself on my hands and knees, leaving a spatter of blood on the ground. The air compressed in the alley, then exploded, flinging me forward. I sprinted through the streets of the enclave. The wind billowed behind me, pushing me faster than I could have ever run without it.

Two lesser demons shaped like goblins blocked the path in front of me, and I raised my hand, my lip curled, lifting them in a gust of air and slamming them through the wall of a nearby house with an earth-shattering crack.

There were only two targets I cared about: Guemon, and the monster who wore my face. I donned the rage, reveling in it, letting it wash away the guilt and regret.

I was so consumed in my thoughts that I missed the greater demon running on the rooftops parallel to me, only seeing the blurred movement for a moment before it tackled me to the ground, its long fingers searing through my body.

There was pain.

But more than anything, I felt relief.

Finally, the darkness took me.

Again.

"She’ll be back before you know it," Someone said. I sucked in a breath and looked around, completely disoriented.

Where was I?

When was I?

The location threw me for a moment. It was less than a block away from where I’d just died. The artificial sun above was no longer dim and crimson, instead emanating warm light. I closed my eyes and bathed in it, letting the warmth wash over me.

I thought of Maya. The trust in her eyes when she asked me to look after her family.

Breaking wasn’t an option.

So instead, I searched for the anger. I pulled it to me like a cloak, letting it erase my fear.

"Cairn’s having a moment," Kilvius joked.

I opened my eyes. Jorra was swatting his father’s hand away, laughing as Kilvius tried repeatedly to pinch at his cheek. Nethtari held Agarin in her arms and was watching me, concern in her eyes. The last time we’d all been together like this was immediately after Maya left for the Sanctum. Almost a full month ago.

I had a month.

"Are you okay?" Nethtari asked.

I held my hand out and looked at it. It trembled for a moment, then stilled, motionless. Solid.

"Cairn?"

My mask slipped into place with a mental click. The tension flowed out of my shoulders and I gave her an easy grin. "Just enjoying the weather. It’s a new day. Let me give you a break." I took Agarin from her and thrust him up into the air. He giggled and cooed. Then I tucked him into my arm and began to walk, joking with Jorra about who would get Maya’s room while she was gone.

Beneath it all, the cold rage burned within me, and the wheels of my mind began to turn.

44

ENCLAVE XV

Everything I had seen, everything that could happen—would happen if I did nothing, it all weighed heavy on my shoulders. It was always there, lurking above me, threatening to crush me if I stopped and really considered it.

Emotions could only hurt me here. So, I pushed them down. I withdrew within myself, still keeping up the pleasant face for Nethtari and Kilvius. When we entered the house, it was all I could do not to stare at the floor where they died.

"Hungry, Cairn?" Kilvius asked.

"More tired than hungry."

"Have it your way." Kilvius shrugged. As I walked around the spot where Jorra had fallen, I felt Nethtari’s eyes on me as I climbed the stairs.

I’d talk to them, eventually. But not yet. The way I started this would be crucial. At the moment, I was the only one who knew what would happen to the city at the end of the month, other than the people involved. The moment I spoke of it to anyone—even Nethtari and Kilvius—the bottle would be uncorked.

And I’d long since learned the lesson of how hard it was to keep critical information from spreading, let alone information as vital as this.

I sequestered myself in Maya’s room, locking the door behind me. Experimentally, I held out my hand and reached for the wind. Nothing happened. At first, I was frightened that whatever had triggered the awakening had been undone by the reset, but thinking about it logically, that made no sense. If it was the case that I received the demon-flame from Maya in the first place, and that carried over somehow, it only made sense that my second element would function similarly.

I walked through the process of what I’d done in the Everwood. Isolating the feeling. I no longer needed to feel despair to summon the demon-flame, but it helped. The solution for air was much easier to isolate, though harder to reproduce: Rage. I didn’t have to reach for it. It was there, boiling under the surface.

The slightest breeze extended from my fingertips, barely stirring the curtains. Pretty anemic, compared to what I’d done with it in the short time before I died, but at least that proved it was still there.

I unrolled the length of butcher paper I’d acquired from the market and knelt over it. As I tried to order my thoughts on the attack, my grip tightened, and the piece of charcoal in my hand snapped in two. I swore, fighting a sudden urge to hit something.

Not productive, Cairn.

I took in deep breaths. The ticking of the clock in Maya’s room needled at me. I had more time than ever before, but the problem was exponentially larger.

Slowly, I began to draw out a diagram.

There were three major problems. Firstly, of course, was the attack on the enclave. The demons involved looked similar to how the Asmodial Legion had been described to me: Uniformly dark with an aura of smoke. Major variations on their shape and size, but the same was true of all legions. They were clearly strong and had torn through the poorer districts like they were nothing, but I had no idea how their strength measured up to the Enclave military.

I underlined "Asmodial Legion," and moved on, writing the word "Ambush," in all caps.

That was the second problem. There were many issues and complications brought on by the ambush in the Twilight Chambers. Granted, the fight was chaotic and I’d spent a large chunk of it underwater, but I was relatively certain there were no demons among the attacking force. I wrote "No Sigil," in a subheading beneath “ambush”.

No one used men like that unless they were doing something off-books. So, it was unlikely the council was aligned against me—even if they had been, there were easier ways to kill me. The timing was more than suspect. There was no way the attack on the enclave and the ambush in the tunnel were unrelated. It was simply too improbable.

Which meant the demons weren’t acting on their own. But what would it take to incite an entire demonic legion to attack the very people capable of causing them serious long-term issues? I tabled that question for now.

Next, I drew an arrow to Guemon’s name. It made the most sense. Maybe he wasn’t solely behind it. But he had to be involved somehow. Guemon was shortsighted enough to call for my execution at the trial, and yeah, maybe before I might have assumed that was posturing, but not after everything I’d seen. The motive Guemon would have for attacking the enclave itself was beyond me. I just didn’t have enough information.

Guemon’s involvement as the sole adversary begged a question: how had he known about the expedition into the Twilight Chamber? It wasn’t the sort of thing that Ralakos would just bring up in casual conversation, especially considering how politically opposed the two were. As enclave security advisor, there were likely hundreds of men who reported to Guemon daily. But I doubted he would have had time to organize an ambush that devastating on the day of.

Meaning he knew it was going to happen ahead of time.

I drew a line from Ralakos’s to Guemon and wrote, "Leak?"

It wasn’t unfeasible. You could have the best men in the world, but all it would take is one. A single guard, moderately placed, with gambling debts. Ralakos employed a few hundred, at the very least. I almost wrote down Erdos’s name, but reconsidered. He was ornery and unsociable, but he’d gone out of his way to save me. It was possible he’d vented to the wrong person, but he seemed too strait-laced to be the source.

The third problem was by far the most difficult, creating issues both short and long term. I wrote "demon-fire" and underlined it twice. Someone in the enclave was able to use it, possibly multiple people. That changed things. Not only did it drastically reduce my value here, but it spoke of an ongoing conspiracy that existed for far longer than my presence here. Someone had access to it, and instead of using it to open the dimension gate, had instead been hiding it for years.

Why?

Perhaps they simply couldn’t use it at the level required, but somehow, I doubted it. It seemed far more likely they’d been holding it for a specific reason. That there was some sort of plan in place to come forward with it at the ability at the perfect moment. But I was stumped as to what that moment could be. Whatever it was, my being here had driven a wedge in that plan, forcing their hand. But if that was true, why use it to attack the enclave? The demons were enough of a destructive force on their own.

Grimacing, I wrote my name, fighting the surge of emotion that came with it. I had a double. A doppelgänger. And I doubted my double attacked Nethtari and Kilvius without reason.

I felt the charcoal crack in my hand, and caught myself, burying the emotion.

Had I died in the ambush, all that would be left was my double, tearing through the enclave. What better way to renew hostilities between Whitefall and the Enclave than to create the illusion that King Gil sent his son in like a poxed blanket, offering peace with one hand only to raze and murder with the other. I stared at the diagram, now a massive collection of scribbled words and lines and arrows, then drew a line between my name and demon-fire.

It would certainly help lend credence to the rumor that it was me sowing chaos in the city. But again, the question was why?

I hesitated, then drew one final name in the center of the page and put a question mark next to it.

Thoth.

My first instinct was that she wasn’t here. The enclave was largely ethnocentric. Even if she was well-connected, it would be difficult for her to move around without being spotted. But she had a particular talent for catching me off-guard. Whatever was happening in the enclave, I had a hard time imagining a scenario where she was pulling strings behind the scenes, especially if she was telling the truth about Tusk being her social manipulator. Not to mention, she wasn’t exactly subtle. Had she wanted me dead, I very much doubted the ambush would have failed.

After hesitating for a moment, I scratched out her name. I’d keep an eye out and an ear to the ground, but for now there were enough ghosts lurking in the shadows without adding one more to the mix.

I went up to the surface with Jorra to gather vurseng. My supply had dwindled, and I needed to make every moment count. I’d need to hammer out a schedule, something feasible, but I’d do that later. I kept an eye out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the shadow-panther, but wasn’t particularly surprised when that didn’t happen.

A stem of vurseng split, exposing the soft pulp to the air and ruining the crop. I scowled.

"Who died?" Jorra asked.

I looked up at him, blinking.

He added another blue-gold plant to the clothe-enclosed bundle in his arms. "You were making a scary face."

"Just wasted a plant." I held the ruined stalk out to him.

"Sure, but you’ve looked like that pretty much the whole time we’ve been Topside."

Ah. The war face.

"It’s nothing," I said. It suddenly occurred to me how much I missed Maya. Nothing was going to make this easy, but if she was here it would have at least been easier. I could ask her questions that would be too conspicuous to ask anyone else, bounce ideas back and forth. We worked well together.

"Jorra," I said, chewing on my lip. "How hard would it be to get Maya out of the Sanctum?"

Jorra smirked. "Missing my sister that much already?"

"Hush. Just speaking hypothetically. Is it doable?"

“Not really. You’re really not supposed to leave in the first three months, unless you don’t plan on coming back."

"What would it look like if you tried?"

"Mom and dad would have to send someone in to get her, and even then, there’s no guarantee how long it would take that person to find her. The sanctum’s a big place."

A dead-end, then. I tossed the ruined stem aside. "I figured."

"Guess you’ll just have to rely on me." He grinned. I gave him a playful shove.

"Only in the worst-case scenario," I said.

Later that evening, after I smoked enough vurseng to keep me up for the rest of the night, I returned to Maya’s room. I found what I was looking for in her closet: the simple black and white mask she had worn in Kholis.

The brutal truth was, I didn’t know the enclave well enough. I’d spent so much time practicing magic and learning demonic that I’d neglected the city itself, only gleaning the most basic information on how it functioned. And if it was like Whitefall, I wasn’t going to learn much of anything walking around in the middle of the day. You learned the most about what made a city what it was by exploring when most "civilized" folk had long since gone to sleep. The transformation a city underwent after midnight tended to be a much more honest reflection of what it actually was, as opposed to what it pretended to be.

I wrapped my arms in bandages and slid on my cloak. My field of view narrowed as I put the mask on my face. There was so much to do I could barely keep track of it all.

But for now, it was time to get to know the other side of the enclave.

45

ENCLAVE XVI

There was nothing I could do about my eyes and lack of horns. Regardless of how discretely I dressed, the eyes would give me away immediately. Thankfully, I was not the only non-infernal within the Enclave. There were a decent number of elves and dwarves—some respectable, here for trade or tourism, others, less so. But ideally, beneath the shade of my cloak and within the depths of the mask, no one would get close enough to see them.

The fingers of my left hand were on the verge of going numb, the bandage around my left arm wrapped a little too tightly, resulting in a sensation of pins and needles. The outfit, which I was largely cribbing from Maya, was not improper within the Enclave. There was not a direct aspersion amongst the infernals to showing skin as far as I knew—they were just as open about that sort of thing as Whitefall was, if not less prudish—but there did seem to be a disproportionately large number of people sheathing their arms and legs in various manners, despite the relatively warm climate. Long sleeves, leggings, and other coverings were common.

Whatever the reason, it worked for my purposes.

I walked at a clipped pace, keeping my head down as I traversed one of the many reinforced rope bridges over the hundred-foot wide fissure that separated the inner-city from the residential. I was careful to keep my distance from any who passed in my vicinity, feeling strangely off-route.

For months, I’d followed the same simple pattern. Anytime I went out in the evenings, I would walk through the lower end district out towards the entrance portal, taking a long winding path that wound around the portal itself towards the surface caverns. While the enclave might have been safer than most cities, it was still a city, and as such, outside the golden districts there was plenty of trouble for a child to stumble into at night.

But I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in the wealthy districts or the surface caves. On the massive, burgeoning list of things I needed, most tantamount was information. The sorts of things that weren’t filtered through high-handed word of mouth and propagandized heralds. And to find that source, I first needed to find the pulse of the enclave.

If you’re looking for the heart of a city, you need only follow the homeless.

Never underestimate the usefulness of a beggar. They are often looked down upon but rarely looked at, able to listen and observe where the average person would stand out like a fire at night. They form tight bonds with others of their kind and effortlessly construct the sort of information exchange many a spymaster would kill for, sheerly on the grounds of pursuing their own survival.

From my first impressions, it was clear that the enclave took better care of them than most. The truly wretched denizens of topside, those who were pockmarked and plague addled, bones protruding from pale skin, bleeding from open sores and mumbling with madness, were practically nonexistent here.

I saw a red infernal sleeping on a bedroll in open view from within an alley, his satchel in clear sight, held loosely within his arms. That he held his possessions tightly mattered less than the fact that he held them at all instead of stashing them somewhere. He was comfortable enough to sleep in the open without worry that anyone properly motivated and morally deficient might steal it from him.

This was as good of a place as any to start, and an opportunity to practice.

The nascent character I’d been toying with began to take root. My name was Sontar Eltoris, half-elf. I’d been separated from my sister Tamara years ago when we were both driven from our tribe on the account of our heritage. After assisting a minor arcane merchant lost in the Shawbury Bog, I had traveled with him, proving my worth in various ways. He eventually offered me a place as a servant. Thanks to his gratitude I’d been allowed into the enclave. But the wages were poor and my patience had worn thin, and I now searched for a way to line my purse and continue the search for my lost sister, who, last I heard, had headed to Brelmore, a town known for being tolerant to our kind.

I tapped the man on the shoulder then immediately took a step backwards and crouched down, making myself look as friendly and unintimidating as possible.

"Good evening, my friend," I said, apologizing silently to Tamara for the shameless theft of her accent. "Or should I say, good morning."

The man stirred slowly at first, then his eyes landed on my mask, and he jolted awake, rising to a sitting position. His left horn was chipped, black giving way to dull white.

"Wha’dya want?" He asked, his voice still bleary from sleep.

"To apologize for rousing you from your slumber, but it was a necessary thing." I smiled at him. My face was covered, but hopefully, he could see it in my eyes. I reached within my purse, intentionally stirring it so it clinked heavily and pulled out a single silver. The man’s fear faded to guarded interest. "We have business to discuss."

"What sort of business would an elf have with me?" Chipped-horn asked. He was entirely focused on the silver. I reminded myself that Sontar would not be delighted at being picked out as an elf, rather, the opposite. Sontar would be offended. I was offended.

"That remains to be seen." I said, my voice a few degrees colder than it was a moment ago. Then I launched into the story I’d prepared. "I represent a client who is interested in locating an Asmodial. He’s willing to pay handsomely for information regarding the whereabouts of one."

Chipped-horn finally looked up from the silver. "Seems like the sort of thing Councillor Guemon or his bastard green coats would know. Not sure why you’re asking me."

"Ah, clever indeed. But unfortunately Councillor Guemon is not really the sort to share such things freely, hence, my presence here, speaking with the local folk. I’m looking for alternative means of acquiring that information."

"An information broker." Chipped-horn caught on quickly.

"Or something similar," I confirmed. "Anyone come to mind?"

"Nope. You’re looking in the right place, but I keep to myself. Easier to stay alive that way."

"Damn. That’s unfortunate."

Chipped-horn watched longingly as I closed my hand around the silver. I rose from my crouch and turned to leave, then turned back. "Actually, on second thought, here." I tossed it to him. He snatched it out of the air quickly.

"Thank you, sir!" He weighed it in his hand.

"Do me a favor." I said, jingling the purse. It was actually mostly copper—a problem I needed a solution for soon—but he didn’t need to know that. "There’s plenty more where that came from. Keep an ear out. Especially around the green cloaks. If you can report anything strange or out of the ordinary from them, especially if it has anything to do with the Asmodials, I’ll see that you’re properly rewarded." I withdrew another silver, this time placing it directly in his hands. "And this is to spread the word to any friends you might have willing to do the same."

He took it seriously. "How do we get in touch with you?"

"I’ll be around." I turned and left.

For the next hour, I repeated the process. My purpose in doing so wasn’t as simple as establishing an information network, though that was certainly an upside. I was also, slowly but surely, creating a sourceless trail of rumors that would link the high councillor to the Asmodials. It was never directly stated, just tangentially implied for anyone reading between the lines that Guemon might be hiding something.

I was about to give up for the night when someone gave me a lead. A little elven girl with a shaved head cowered within a tent. She scrambled backwards when I bent down to speak with her. There was something familiar about her face, something I couldn’t quite nail down.

The little girl gave me a name: Persephone. While she couldn’t guarantee anything, she said Persephone knew everything there was to know about demons. She even pointed me to a section of the city known as the Thulian District. At that moment I was too thrilled to have a lead to think about how oddly straightforward her guidance was.

Less than twenty minutes later, I was tempted to go back and strangle her. The Thulian District wasn’t quite the heart of the enclave. It was more representative of a very different piece of anatomy.

Pure, unadulterated id was on full display, washed in radiant pinks and lumen-lit purples. There was more variety in this crowd than anywhere else in the enclave. Infernals, elves, and dwarves, all pushed together in a sea of bodies. Merchants peddled honey figs, stimulants, and performance enhancers, advertising their products shamelessly, often across the street from establishments with hackneyed names such as "The Devil’s Tail," "Demon’s Caress," and "The Split Tongue." Masculine and feminine bodies gyrated on silver stages, dressed in skin-tight silks, silhouetted by too-bright lighting. The entire block was heavy with the scent of smoke and sweat and sex.

I felt my face growing red beneath my mask. Yes, Whitefall had its share of vice, but it was generally discreet and spread out amongst the city. The openness and scale of this place shocked me.

In the center square, a large, muscle-bound infernal laid supine on what looked like a physician’s table. In a flash of horror, I thought he was strapped to it, before realizing that his "binds," were handles he gripped voluntarily. A disinterested looking elf dressed in dark clothes and a brown leather apron selected a series of tools from a nearby standing tray and went to work on him, her back to me, blocking the view. The surrounding crowd cheered.

Feeling equal parts nauseous and curious, I circled around for a better look.

With a deft, practiced touch, she placed a series of glowing blue needles in a series of complex parallel patterns along his arm. The flesh within the patterns seemed to frost over, turning a dull gray. Then she began to carve the grayed section with a scalpel, removing the topmost layer of skin, revealing red beneath. I nearly gagged, but the crowd around me shouted and jeered as if this was nothing more than trite entertainment. The elf picked up something from the standing tray that looked like a chrome calligraphy pen. She dipped it in an inkwell and drew black lines across the edges of the open flesh. The man on the table began to writhe as, slowly, inky blackness filled the wound. By the time she finished, his left arm was discolored and swollen, covered in jagged demonic text.

The process was harrowing, and I now understood why Maya had reacted so strongly when I mentioned the possibility of inscription magic.

The duality of this place compared to the rest of the enclave was staggering. How exactly did this coexist alongside the respectable, scholarly city I’d come to know? I had no idea what legal status of the flesh-trade was here, but was fairly certain the merchant peddling opiates out of a repurposed food stand had to be breaking a few laws. And was that banshee powder?

It was almost funny how unaffected I was by all of it. A year ago, I would have been thrilled, lost myself in this place, thrown myself face-first into it. Now, I wasn’t even tempted.

Maybe it was because Lillian was alive.

Maybe I’d just grown up.

All I could think of was what would happen at the end of the month if I failed.

Wading through the sea of bodies, I finally spotted the establishment I was looking for. A bar called the Glistening Gate. It was practically abandoned, save a cluster of drunken infernals in the back corner.

I asked for Persephone and was practically shoved into a connecting room.

A woman clad in a long flowing dress, printed with flowers, turned towards me, taking off a pair of glasses and closing the book in her lap. Half of her face was beautiful, with the dreamlike features of a Panthanian skywriter. The other half had the smoky black quality and bright blue eye of an Asmodial demon. Her arm was dark, her fingers pointed.

My heart thudded in my chest.

"I’m very curious to know," She said, her voice throaty, "Who told you my name and why?"

Thinking back to the strangely informed little elvish girl, I realized I wanted an answer to that as well.

46

ENCLAVE XVII

There was no way this ended well. I reached behind me discreetly and checked the doorknob. Locked. Because of course it was. I reminded myself that I was not Cairn. Sontar was not terrified of these demons, had not seen the destruction, nor witnessed the decimation of Maya’s family.

It almost worked.

I approached her with practiced ease, as if my first instinct hadn’t been to run from the room. Instead, I bowed low.

"I apologize, Lady Persephone. My master is in the market for an information broker. Someone gave me your name, but they did not warn me." I let the words hang in the air between us.

After a pregnant pause, she closed on me in a blur of motion, pinning me against the door. A long black finger extended to a needle’s point, drawing a bead of blood from my throat. Her tone was dangerous. "Warn you of what, little elf?"

"Of how utterly breathtaking you are." I looked up at her then, attempting an expression that past lovers had referred to as a smolder. I was careful to focus on the human side of her face, attempting to take the demon side of her face out of focus.

Her mouth quirked, and she nearly fumbled her glasses, gawking at me. Then she started to laugh. It was a light, easy laugh. For the second time that night, I felt my cheeks growing red beneath my mask. She wasn’t buying it. I scowled and looked away.

"Oh, no. Please." She wiped tears out of her eyes. "I’m not laughing at you, little elf. Well. I am. But more due to how earnest that was. Perhaps it is the mask confounding my senses, but for a moment, it sounded like you actually believed it."

"But I do believe it," I said, not having to fake feeling wounded. "I languish in the golden deluge of your hair, the low music of your voice, the secret smile at your lips."

"And what of my other side, little one?" Persephone asked quietly.

"It… uh… fills me with starless excitement and longing. The promise of a night fulfilled, and a whisper of a danger treasured."

Damn it.

Her lips turned downward at that and I knew that I had erred. The disappointment was clear on her face. She gave off the energy of a predator, finally bored after toying with me for entertainment. So, I would damn well entertain her.

I jumped back in before she could speak.

"But I am not finished." I took several steps forward. Persephone rolled her eyes, clearly tired of the game. "Your true beauty is held in neither side, just as assuredly as it is held in both."

"Oh?" Persephone raised an eyebrow.

"Your true beauty is held in the dichotomy between. You are both danger and gentleness, darkness and light, green and blue." I looked between the blue eye of an Asmodial demon, and the green one. "There are many people in this world that can claim to be any of those things. Yet, very few that manage to be both."

"Interesting. Most men tend to focus on one side or the other. They play up my beauty, or my demonic nature. You are the first to attempt to take me at my whole."

"Then they are fools," I said, vehemently, my elven accent thickening with manufactured irritation. Then, I waited, my breath held.

Persephone removed her jagged finger from my throat, slowly. She replaced her spectacles and smiled. "I suppose I’ve toyed with you long enough."

I let out an audible sigh of relief. "Thank Elphion for that."

"That’s what you get for showing up in a lady’s chambers uninvited."

"If you say so," I rubbed at my throat. "Can I get a water or something?"

"Of course. Never let it be said that the owner of the Glistening Gate is a poor host." She sauntered to the table and poured me some water and herself some brandy. I took a seat on the couch, trying to still my nerves.

"You know, at first, I took you for a child." Persephone crossed her leg over her knee in a graceful movement.

"Oh?" I said carefully, lifting the mask just enough to take a sip from my glass.

"The height threw me. But you don’t sound like any child I’ve ever met. Not to mention the distinct lack of wailing and crying when I… tested your resolve."

That was an interesting way of putting it, I mused darkly.

"Well, my mother was a pixie, so relatively speaking I’m actually quite tall."

Persephone chuckled into her glass. "The logistics of that must be complicated."

Out of sheer petty spitefulness for the scare she’d given me, I waited until she’d taken a drink.

"They say it was a difficult labor."

Persephone coughed, covering her face and glaring at me suspiciously.

I shrugged. "That’s just what I’ve been told."

"And what did this mother name you, then?" She asked.

"Sontar," the word slipped from my tongue automatically. "Though, like yours, that is not a name shared with many beyond my immediate circle."

"Mysterious," Persephone said. Her eyes looked me up and down, and I was once more glad for my cloak and mask. "Let us dispense with the pleasantries. Generally, people who come to see me are interested in one of two things. And despite your silver-tongue, I somehow doubt you are interested in the first. That leaves information. Likely in regards to my heritage."

I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Of course, I would never presume that you have the answers to my questions merely because of who you are."

"Stop talking in circles and get on with it." Persephone’s voice was curt, as if to let me know she was only humoring me and I should damn well take advantage of it while I could.

I laid out the same story I’d told my newly growing information network, careful to keep the details the same in case the word spread. I had no idea who Persephone was, or who she was working for, but I’d talked to enough people that evening that gossip of an elf working for a mystery individual looking for knowledge around Asmodials would likely spread quickly.

Persephone listened, but there was something strange in her face. As if she was listening to a joke and waiting for a punchline.

"So, to be clear, your master is looking to locate an Asmodial to bind." There was a quiet, high-pitched singing of crystal as she wound her finger around the tip of her glass.

"And barring that, knowledge."

"Well, Sontar, the only useful information I can draw from your story is that your master is a fool."

That gave me pause. "How so?"

Persephone shrugged. "You’re an outsider. How much do you actually know about the act of binding a demon?"

I thought back to the Everwood. "That there are different types of bonds. Some temporary and weak, others more permanent, such as a blood-bind that lasts generations. Some legions are much more likely to offer them, while some offer them rarely."

"So, you know nothing, then." She observed.

I bit back a quick retort. Persephone wasn’t going out of her way to be rude. It seemed like the sort of thing came naturally to her, like the way my face changed when I was focused.

She picked up after a brief silence. "Perhaps that is too harsh. As we’ve already established, you are an outsider here, though why your master would send you stumbling through the streets blind and uninformed is unknowable."

Persephone leaned forward, placing her glass on the table daintily. The fabric of her dress hung from her shoulders, her moderately modest neckline made decidedly less-so. I’m not generally one to gawk, but down the center of her chest was the jagged text I’d come to recognize.

Her eyes locked on mine and I flushed, realizing she’d caught me looking. "Oh. Perhaps that poetry you spouted wasn’t out of survivalism after all." She smiled crookedly as I sputtered.

"I’m… fascinated by inscription magic. My apologies." I pulled at my collar.

"Do you want to see it?" Persephone purred.

I reeled in my awkwardness, leaning back in my seat. "I thought you said you were done toying with me."

"No fun whatsoever. Fine." Persephone sat up straight and adjusted her neckline, and I felt the tiniest sense of loss. "What you are missing—what I suspect your master left out on purpose—is the fact that no one in their right mind would bind an Asmodial."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they are monsters, even amongst their kind," Persephone said, matter-of-factly. I had no idea how to comment on that, given her appearance, so I said nothing.

"Demons do nothing out of charity. It is as alien to them as if I asked you to stop breathing. If a binding is completed it almost always favors the demon, in terms of benefit. Demons of the Vephar legion incur some degree of sickness in their host, feasting on their misery and draining them of vitality. The hellhound legion favors loyalty, thus they are likely to require some degree of exclusivity with the infernal they bind with, known to renege violently if the agreement is even remotely eroded. The Beleth Legion is obsessed with acquiring the souls of great musicians and artists in general, thus they are bonded rarely."

I had a suspicion that I knew where this was going. "And the Asmodials?"

Persephone stared at the wall, her voice filled with hate. "They are the wings of death and chaos. They care for nothing beyond violence and domination. All they seek is to engorge their power and feast upon the blood of their enemies. They do not stop, they do not suffer fools, and they cannot be bought or bargained with."

There was more baggage in that simple statement than I could begin to unpack. I didn’t have to fake being shaken. Her words were very much in line with everything I had seen.

"I notice you say them, not us. Is there significance to that?"

Persephone shook her head. "I am weaker than the average Asmodial. But that does not change the fact I could skewer you where you sit, eat the eyes out of your head, and feel no guilt for it. If anything, I’d wonder why I hadn’t done it sooner."

A cold chill swept through me at the casualness with which she said the words. From anyone else, it would have sounded like an idle boast. From Persephone, she might as well have been describing the weather.

Still, I had to ask. "So, why haven’t you?"

"Perhaps it is because I’ve learned by now that pointless murder brings more trouble than it is worth. Or perhaps, it is because you lie so well, my dear Sontar." The edges of her eyes crinkled. "If I killed you, I would find myself unable to peel the layers back and discover for myself what makes you tick."

A long, uncomfortable silence passed.

"Can I get some more water?"

"Certainly." Persephone refilled my glass.

I tapped my finger against the cup, feeling the coolness of the condensation against my bandaged fingertip. There was no question that the woman before me was a threat. I’d seen what those shadowy claws could do to a person. It was doubtful that an aegis would stop them for more than a moment before shattering. But something was wrong with my mind. It was like the part of my me that felt terror was still numb from everything I had witnessed before the reset.

I needed to be careful.

As if reading my thoughts, Persephone spoke. "You’re not afraid of me."

I grinned, falling back into Sontar’s cockiness. "I can think of worse ways to die than at the hands of a beautiful woman. Much worse ways."

"Vacuous."

"Unabashedly."

Persephone leaned forward. This time, I did not look down. "Having heard the truth, are you sure you wish to continue along this path? Assisting your master with this doomed task?"

"It is out of my control." I leaned forwards, mirroring her. "I need gold to leave the enclave. My wages are hardly fair, but there are not many here willing to pay my kind at all.

She sighed. "It always comes down to money, in the end. And here I thought you were interesting."

I shrugged.

Persephone crossed the room and sat next to me, uncomfortably close. She smelled like freesia and something else unidentifiable. "I can ask around—it’s certainly within my purview, but this information will not be free."

It didn’t surprise me, but I grimaced all the same. The fund issue needed to be resolved as soon as possible.

"My master is happy to pay, of course. Depending on the sum, it might take some time to —"

"You misunderstand me, darling." Persephone traced a line down my arm, ghostly needles of her black arm scratching lightly against the fabric. I fought the urge to run for the door. "I could use an outsider in my line of work—and from what I understand, you have a bit of a monetary issue. Why not knock the price down a bit and kill two birds with one stone?"

It was the last thing I wanted, and normally, I would have never agreed to it. Agreeing to put yourself at the mercy of someone literally tied to the enemy. But realistically speaking, this was exactly the sort of risk I could afford to take. It never mattered when I died in the Everwood, as long it was before the cutoff point. I always ended up returning to the same moment. It was a dangerous way to think. But my options were limited.

"What do you need me to do?" I asked.

"Come back in a few days. I should have something for you."

Persephone gave me the information for several inscribers in case I was interested in "acting on my interests," then stood and returned to her desk.

Feeling that our meeting was over, I turned back towards the door.

"Your accent is off, by the way."

I froze.

"Not by much. It was bothering me for most of our conversation, and I only just put my finger on it. It’s got all the trappings of Derile, but the vowels are off, too elongated, closer to rustic Paredor."

I let Sontar’s irritation flood to the surface. "My family was from the Derilian plains, but I didn’t have the luxury of growing up in one place. Not that it’s any of your business."

Persephone smiled, though she did not look up from her book. "Not a moment’s hesitation. Angry, but not over the top. Yes. I think we’ll get along just fine."

Once a suitable distance from Maya’s home, I ducked into a nearby alley to remove my mask and cloak. The artificial sun had begun to rise. I felt drained and exhausted. I pushed it away, walling off the exhaustion in my mind. There was something I needed to do.

Nethtari and Kilvius’s faces flashed in my mind. Maybe it was a bad decision, but I didn’t want to hide things from them any longer. This was too big for me.

It was time for a family meeting.

47

ENCLAVE XVIII

How do you tell someone their entire family is in danger? That all that stands between them and imminent destruction is a paltry few weeks?

I thought about sneaking back in the house through the window, but what was the point?

Kilvius eyed me as I walked through the front door. "Look honey. He lives."

"And here I thought I’d have to explain to the council how our family lost the single most important guest to grace our presence in the last ten years." Nethtari clucked her tongue.

Emotion burned in my chest. I wanted to joke with them. Act like nothing was wrong. Put this conversation off for just one more day. But I kept seeing the bodies, strewn across the floor.

There is always something more you could have done.

I rallied against my father’s words. He was wrong. The first time had not been my fault. Perhaps I could have been more vigilant, but my efforts would have been so unfocused and anemic they likely would have led to the same outcome.

No. The first time was not my fault. But every time after would be. The responsibility of it all rested on my head, and mine alone.

My fist clenched and I looked down at the floor.

Kilvius’s empty eyes stared up at me, confused, hurt. He reached for his wife’s cold body.

I fought back a sob.

Nethtari closed the cupboard she had opened with a slow creak. She approached me slowly, tugging on Kilvius’s sleeve. "Cairn. What’s wrong?"

Slowly, the knuckles of my hand creaking, I unclenched my fist.

"I had a vision."

Over the next hour, I slowly walked them through the details of what had happened. It was tedious and painful, like treading on broken glass. On an almost fundamental level, it went against everything I was trying to accomplish in that household. I didn’t want to bother these people. I wanted them to be safe and happy. They didn’t take me seriously at first. Kilvius’s face was animated, visibly reacting to every new piece of information. Nethtari’s expression, however, grew colder and colder.

It wasn’t hard to recite specific details. I saw much of it every time I closed my eyes. When I came to the details of what had happened when I arrived at this house, those details grew fuzzier.

And Nethtari picked up on it immediately.

"And what direction did you approach the house from?" Nethtari asked, her voice clipped.

"The front."

"So you approach from the front. Someone exits. The auric sun is red, signifying a state of emergency—not disabled, so there should be plenty of light. In the short time between when you saw them and ducked down, you didn’t see their face?"

"No." I said.

"So some infernal just slaughtered my family and walked out of the house."

"Hard to say if it was an infernal or not."

Nethtari’s eyebrow shot up. "That’s a strange point to make, seeing as how we make up the vast majority of the population within the enclave."

"Nethtari—" Kilvius started, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"Cairn, I’ve been a solicitor for nearly twenty years. Long enough to know when someone is lying to me." Nethtari said. It was very close to the tone I’d heard her use with Guemon at my hearing.

"Everything I’ve told you is true."

"—I have also done this long enough to know that there’s more than one type of lie. A lie by omission, for instance."

"It will muddy the waters." I gripped the lip of my chair, my knuckles turning white.

"How could the identity of the person who killed my children be anything but productive?"

Kilvius looked between us, sensing the tension. "What Nethtari is trying to say, is—"

"I’m not trying to say anything, Kilvius." Nethtari said quietly. "I’m saying it. Cairn is withholding information, despite the seriousness of the situation. I would very much like to know what that information is.

She was right, of course. What I was doing made no rational sense. The fact that there was someone out there impersonating me was vital information. But on the other hand, I knew how it would sound. Kilvius and Nethtari began to argue, Kilvius accusing Nethtari of being too forceful, and Nethtari insisting that now was exactly the time to be forceful.

"He looked like me." I whispered.

The argument stopped and they both turned to look at me.

"No. He didn’t just look like me. His eyes. His hair. Everything was the same. It was like looking in a damn mirror. But I swear to Elphion it wasn’t me. I would never do what he did, could never, that’s the last thing I’d want to happen."

"These visions. My daughter spoke of them. They’re limited in scope, yes?" Nethtari asked gently. "Always from your perspective?"

"Yes." I said. "I see through the eyes of my future self. And the future is never set in stone."

Nethtari’s face was troubled. "I can see why you didn’t want to tell us this."

"Yeah," I said bitterly. "Doesn’t exactly paint me in the best light."

"I think it’s pretty clear that Cairn would never hurt us intentionally." Kilvius put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. His response was unsurprising, but comforted me just the same.

"Yes, but where does that leave us?" Nethtari propped her fist beneath her chin, her focus slipping away from me. "The simulacrum spell is the stuff of legends and fables. There’s never been a record of a single magician with the ability to create a living being from scratch. That limits our options to a living, walking illusion that can still somehow interact with its environment."

"Could be an anchored illusion. Just changing the exterior appearance. Would be a lot cheaper than either of those two options, assuming a simulacrum spell even exists," Kilvius added.

I looked between them, suddenly so relieved it felt like I might collapse. "You’re both… taking this surprisingly well."

Nethtari shook her head. "Of course we’re bothered, Cairn. You’re talking about an imminent disaster. The sort of thing that could be the end of my family and my people. But panicking does nothing. Especially now."

"In infernal culture, it’s bad practice to shoot the messenger." Kilvius joked.

"And I think you’ve already drawn the correct conclusion." Nethtari’s expression was hard. "Someone’s trying to frame you. What better way to assassinate your character than to take extra effort to kill the people who have established themselves as your allies? You never saw Ralakos, in this vision?"

I was stunned by her pragmatism. "No."

"It’s safe to say he was on that list as well. Probably died shortly after we did, or before. He’s one of the most powerful infernals in the enclave, so the thought of him being overwhelmed would seem ridiculous in normal circumstances, but with the scale of what you’re describing…" Nethtari trailed off.

"That’s something that’s been bothering me," I cut in. "Maya mentioned that demons turning on infernals is incredibly rare, and carries massive consequences. What could possibly convince an entire legion to take such large risks?"

"Backing from someone high in the sphere of influence, maybe." Kilvius’s face was grim. There were a series of footsteps from upstairs and Jorra began to descend.

"Jorra," Nethtari warned, "Go check on Agarin. We’re having a serious conversation."

"What kind of serious conversation?" Jorra stopped halfway down the stairs, then seemed to take in the atmosphere of the room. Without a word, he turned around and headed back up, giving me a curious look over his shoulder.

Nethtari looked disturbed. "Kilvius is partially correct. Violent as the Asmodials are, it would take someone with significant pull to get them to even consider such an action. But that’s only part of it."

"The binding?" Kilvius asked.

"It’s got to be." Nethtari let out a deep sigh. "The only reason I can see the Asmodials agreeing to something like this would be if the person in question—Guemon, most likely—agreed to a binding."

"But why would he bind an Asmodial?" I asked.

"You misunderstand. He wouldn’t. For something of this scale, causing this level of upheaval, he would have to bind himself to them. Most likely to an arch-fiend." Nethtari looked sick.

Kilvius reacted uncomfortably to that, leaning back in his chair.

"What exactly does that mean?" I asked.

"It’s the most short-sighted thing an infernal can do." Kilvius shook his head. "When an infernal dies, they go to hades. The best of us are only there for a few moments before they are reincarnated, placed in another body to start anew. Evil folk, truly evil, can spend centuries there. But even they, eventually, are sent back. But the demonic legions do not have any such process. They exist primarily in hades, where they fight for territory and dominance. It’s a never-ending struggle.

"If a person binds themselves to a demon, they are committing themselves to an eternity of pointless struggle, a soldier in the armies of the legions." Nethtari chewed her lip, her expression distasteful.

It was interesting how parallel their beliefs were to the elven religious beliefs around the afterlife. Only, unlike the elves, the infernals didn’t have any chance of achieving nothingness. Their goal was to live decent lives to minimize the time their souls spent in the afterlife.

It wasn’t so unlike the human myths of Valhalla, only humans seemed to take the idea of a never-ending battle as a positive thing, an honor reserved for those of the highest regard. A year ago, I dreamed of Valhalla. Mornings of "glorious battle" alongside the demigods, garnished with banquets and evenings lounging with Lillian within the Elysium halls.

But that was before I had tasted what fighting really was. That had changed things.

The main difference between Hades and Valhalla seemed to be that the infernals did not pretend it was anything other than what it was. Eternal anguish and bloodshed. Given the choice, I’d happily take the Elysium halls over Valhalla.

"Why would Guemon do something so rash for such a short-term gain?" I asked. "For that matter, why attack his people so brutally? There are easier ways to frame me, if that’s what he’s looking to do."

"Motive aside, we have bigger problems." Nethtari stood, glancing out the window. "Members of the high council are subjected to scrutiny, mainly to prevent exactly this sort of thing. There are wards in place to establish whether an infernal has sold their soul. There are also defenses that are meant to trigger in the event of an uprising. All members of the high council can activate them through magical means, as well as the council itself should it reach a majority."

"But that didn’t happen. So, you’re saying, for the vision to come to pass…" I mused.

"All members of the high council, save Guemon, would need to be dead. But the upside is, that means the binding has not yet taken place. The attack on the enclave is not yet set in stone." Nethtari smiled grimly. "But this is too big of a problem for us, Cairn. We need to bring in Ralakos."

I hesitated. "But, the leak—"

"I know." Nethtari said. "I think I can impress upon him the need for discretion. He’s a bit of a skeptic, so it’s likely better to keep the foresight business to yourself." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "If Maya was not so utterly convinced of it, I likely would not believe it either. But there are too many details to your story, things you’d have no way of knowing. We’ll cook up some sort of story for him. I’ll need to think about that. If possible, we need to locate an Asmodial outside the purview of the masters."

I nodded. "Already working on that last order of business. I started building up an information network last night. It’s small, but growing. And I made a contact in the Thulian District that may prove helpful. Gold is going to be an issue eventually, but I have some ideas on how to remedy that."

They both slowly turned to look at me.

"Cairn, when, exactly, did you have the vision?" Kilvius asked.

"Uh. Yesterday. A little after we left Maya at the lift."

"Well, he doesn’t waste any time." Kilvius laughed.

"He should have said something." Nethtari eyed me judgmentally. "Who’s this contact you made, while prowling the Thulian District like a misguided youth?"

I shifted uncomfortably at the memory. "Her name is Persephone."

The atmosphere in the room immediately grew cold. Nethtari looked at Kilvius. Kilvius looked down at the table idly, drawing patterns into it with his fingers.

"Did you?" Nethtari started.

"Nope," Kilvius said.

"Are you certain?

"Haven’t said a word about her, haven’t thought about her in years."

"So of all the dive bars in the district, he just happened to stumble into hers?"

"I wouldn’t lie to you, Ni’lend."

I cleared my throat. "I’m uh, sensing a bit of history here."

Kilvius tried to make eye-contact with Nethtari, but she looked away towards the papered wall. He sighed. "Once upon a time, I lived a very different life. Persephone was part of it. Then I married Nethtari. And I now have three beautiful children. The end."

I’m sure I could have filled volumes with the quantity of story Kilvius was leaving out, but decided it was better not to press my luck, at least not with Nethtari present.

We briefly covered what the next steps would be. Nethtari would bring Ralakos into our little conspiracy. Ephira was best avoided for now, until we had a better idea of where she stood. Nethtari thought she would likely come down on our side eventually, wholesale slaughter being universally bad for business. Guemon and his men were to be avoided at all costs. I’d continue working the angle with Persephone to try and get a line on the Asmodials—despite Nethtari’s protests. And Kilvius would get me in touch with some of his old contacts, though I was still a little gray on what exactly that meant.

"Any other bombs to drop, Cairn? Before breakfast turns into lunch?" Nethtari asked dryly.

Now that she mentioned it, there was one last thing.

"Oh. I also had my second awakening."

The tension broke. Nethtari threw her hands up and walked away, while Kilvius laughed.

48

ENCLAVE XIX

I breathed the mana in, letting the surge of sensation and relief take over. I had no idea how I’d ever lived without it before. It was like finding a rock to cling to amidst a raging ocean. Then a face would bubble up from the deep, eyes slack and empty; sometimes it was Kilvius or Nethtari. Sometimes it was Tusk. The winds would pick up again, ruining the serenity and throwing the ocean of my inner-peace into chaos.

I found myself wondering how my father did it. At some point in his life, he must have felt something. Guilt at the very least, if not remorse. Yet, he remained completely unflappable and unconcerned. I could chalk it up to him being a homicidal monster, but in reality, that wasn’t true. He didn’t care for his children, but I’d seen him treat my mother kindly on more than one occasion, when there was no pragmatic reason for doing so. He had sired a few wartime bastards in the early years of their marriage, but there were no whispers or rumors of more recent indiscretions. So it stood to reason that he felt something for her. Thus, reductively speaking, he felt something. Just less.

I didn’t want to be like my father. The very idea of it was nauseating. But if it meant calming the ocean of turmoil within me, maybe there was something to be learned from him.

"If you’ve recovered enough, try to unsettle the target." Ralakos’s deep voice roused me from my thoughts, back to the matter at hand. I focused, digging deep for the rage, sending the ocean of my mental landscape into an uproar. I let it flow outward towards the paper construction on a table five feet away—a horse made from folding paper—and felt a slight adulation as the current of air rippled through the hairs on my arm.

The paper horse lifted onto its back legs, as if intending to rear-up, only to suddenly and anticlimactically change its mind. I growled deep in my throat, fist clenching in frustration. I could remember it like it was yesterday, picking up the demons like they were nothing and hurling them to the side. The difference between that night and today was so drastic it was almost painful.

What had changed?

Ralakos was delighted to hear the news of my second awakening, tossing around overly complimentary terms like, "Prodigy," and, "Genius." Words that had generally never been applied to me before. His enthusiasm shined brightly, even when he witnessed the paltry nature of my current ability. I didn’t understand why. Compared to the demon-fire, air magic was practically useless, even in its most raw elemental form—which was, coincidentally, the only form I could use. I mumbled something along those lines to Ralakos, who just shook his head in that infuriatingly cryptic, sage manner of his.

"You are being too practical by half. What would you say of a miner who discards a gem embedded in stone for the exposed bronze that lay next to it, just because it is less bothersome to trade?" Ralakos asked.

"A terrible miner," I groused. His expression turned chiding and strangely morose.

"Yes. Because only a fool trades exponential long-term growth for short-term gain."

In something of a rare series of events, he’d escorted me past the personal library we typically held our lessons in, up the long winding stairs of the foyer, and through a maze of halls to a private training area adjacent to his study.

I took this to mean he was finally taking me seriously.

Instead of traditional targets like straw-men or rings, there were a series of crystal spheres that measured magical output to the decimal point. Some of them stood alone on posts. Others were mounted on the "branches" of something that looked very much like a wire tree. The idea was when you hit it, it would rotate, forcing you to adjust your aim for movement while measuring the strength of the mana imbuing the element.

Ralakos admitted to me they weren’t particularly accurate for anything other than measuring the raw output of mana. He demonstrated this by casting three spells. A simple firebolt, a spout of water, and a rock the size of my fist. The level of force exuded by his magic increased exponentially with each spell, ending with the boulder, which sent the iron tree spinning frantically. Yet, each of them showed the same number. The demonic marker for twenty-five, exactly halfway on the scale.

A marker of one was so small even the most recently awakened child could manage it, while a marker of fifty generally only resulted from the type of spells you were better off not casting inside, especially in a warded room.

But even in elemental form, the slight breeze that resulted from my attempt at air magic didn’t even register. In a flash of heat, I sent a simple fireball at the nearest target sphere. It lit up with a dull red, showing the indicator for thirteen.

No matter what I tried, the gust of air didn’t summon a number. Hence, the paper horse. Casting air magic felt fundamentally different than demon-fire. Demon-fire felt like creating something from nothing. One moment it was there, the next, it was gone. Air magic was like trying to access an invisible and intangible network that connected the world. It just felt too big.

I tried everything. Compressing it in my palm down to a single point and using my hands to shape the direction. Putting more muscle into the movement. It felt silly and childish.

Worse, it took significantly more mana than the demon fire. In less than a half-hour I’d tapped myself out, sweat beading on my forehead, my vision graying around the edges.

And the stupid horse hadn’t moved.

With the last drop of safe mana I had, I cast a small bolt of demon fire, expanding the flame at the moment of impact, incinerating the paper construction in a split second.

"Your control of the flame is impressive," Ralakos said dryly, "But I have to wonder what the poor horse did to you." He approached the podium and wiped the ash off with a quick swipe of his robe. I watched in a mix of wonder and muted jealousy as he levitated a piece of paper above his hand, completing a series of intricate folds. He constructed a dragon this time. It floated down to his hand, flapping its wings, then crawled from his palm onto the podium.

"Something has changed in you." Ralakos looked me over and stroked his chin. "I take it this has something to do with what Nethtari mentioned."

"What did she mention, exactly?"

Ralakos’s smile was thin. "That my house is not nearly as in order as I once thought it was. And that our mutual friend has been building up to a proxy war."

Nethtari had already talked to him, then. I braced myself for an onslaught of questions regarding the sourcing of our information, and was surprised when none came.

"Funny thing, that. Nethtari made almost exactly the same face." Ralakos’s lips pressed together. "I’ve known her a long time. She’s not the sort to chase after conspiracies. The specifics are frustratingly vague, but she seems convinced. And it’s been quite obvious there’s more to you than meets the eye after your miraculous recovery from the soul damage."

That was logical, though the lack of curiosity struck me as bizarre.

"What are our next steps then?"

"Our?" Ralakos laughed. "This is out of your depth, child. If Guemon truly intends to turn the entire enclave against you, there’s very little you can do about it. I’ll be looking into him from my end. He’s been isolating himself within his quarters for the better part of a week, claiming illness. Feigned or not."

"Sounds like bullshit," I said. Ralakos’s intent to exclude me was a minor surprise. Nethtari was a lawyer, not a miracle worker. But something about the idea of Guemon hiding within his home didn’t sit well with me.

If I were taking part in a conspiracy of this magnitude, my first order of business would be to make myself as visible as possible. Absence is keenly felt in a situation like this, with thousands of survivors searching their memories for anything out of the ordinary and someone to blame. Keeping my usual routine would be crucial, any diversion from the norm a possible tell. Hiding myself away for extended periods of time before a literal coup would be tantamount to a signed confession.

Guemon was no genius, but I'd at least thought he was smarter than this.

"A handful of my most trusted will be watching his abode," Ralakos said. "I’ve kept the knowledge to a selected few, all of whom took oaths of compulsion beforehand. If he leaves, I’ll know it. If anyone comes to visit him, I’ll know it. It’s practically already handled." Ralakos shrugged. His words and posture radiated confidence.

As relieving as it might have been to believe this was a problem that could be solved through thorough surveillance, I couldn’t quite buy it. Ralakos wasn't there. He had not seen the casual brutality of the attack. How the demons had swept over everything before them.

My vision returned to normal. Instead of waving my arms in the air like a neanderthal, I reached for the air and attempted to channel, as I had learned to for the flame. A small group of white shimmers and specular dust clustered around my arm, traveling up towards my shoulder before petering out.

I nearly launched another fire-bolt at the new horse before thinking better of it.

"What about Ephira?" I asked.

"What about Ephira?"

"Is she trustworthy? She backed Guemon in the trial, or at least, she planned to."

"Things have changed. Back then, you represented a vague packaging of unpleasantness with little upside. Then you demonstrated your value. That little trade deal with the dwarves was a stroke of brilliance." Ralakos drew water from an octagonal receptacle in the corner. The water flowed around his arms in a diagonal loop. I watched, feeling more than a little envious. Spell weaving was often beautiful to look at, filled with complex motions and intricate entwining of mana and elemental particles—elemental was, by comparison, rather crude. But Ralakos hadn’t generated this water, he had drawn it, meaning that what I was seeing was pure elemental manipulation. The level of control was unbelievable.

"You’re not worried about her at all?" I asked dubiously. The water jumped from receptacle to receptacle, occasionally reversing or defying gravity altogether.

Ralakos scoffed. "I’m always worried about Ephira. The woman is as attached to gold as she is unbound from reality. There’s no trusting a person like that. Predicting them, on the other hand, is easy."

I mulled that over, feeling the strange prickling of my pores as I absorbed the surrounding mana from the air. "If material gain is her goal, it’s possible that she is being bribed by an outside entity."

The water darted at my face, and I dodged, glaring at Ralakos.

"Just making sure you’re maintaining presence of mind," Ralakos said. "And you’re massively underestimating the amount of gold generated by the Sanctum, and by extension, Ephira."

It was true that I didn’t know much to that end. There was so much nuance to the arcane side of the Enclave that I hadn’t paid much attention to the economics.

"So she can’t be bought."

He waggled a finger at me. "I didn’t say that. More that the price to buy her is likely so exorbitant that anyone looking to do so would likely resort to other means. Blood is always cheaper than diplomacy."

The water hopped towards the container nearest me, directly over the paper horse. I reached out one last time with the air, picturing a sideways cup. The stream of water impacted the invisible barrier and rained in a deluge down onto the paper horse below, knocking it over.

I nearly let out a whoop of triumph before—in a demonstration of insufferable showmanship—the stream of water seemed to move in reverse down to the movement of the individual drips, gathering on the podium and righting the paper horse. I watched, slack-jawed, as the constructed paper—once waterlogged and flattened—became as dry as the moment Ralakos had built it.

I glared at him.

"That’s cheating, councillor."

"Besmirching a respectable infernal’s honor. How crude." Ralakos said, flicking his wrist absentmindedly and sending the stream of water back into the original stone receptacle "You know, I just realized what you need."

"What?"

"Accessing a newly awakened element is difficult for any magician, but it should not be this difficult. You have not been classically trained, so that explains the lack of potency. Still, having seen the dantalion for myself, your abilities should not be this deficient. I would wager self-doubt is your primary obstacle. Stress is a factor of course, it always is, but at the moment you are having trouble feeling the element itself."

"So what’s the solution?" I asked. "It’s hard to pin down what works when nothing I do seems to result in significant gain."

"If you yoke an ox, they learn quickly how to make efficient movements to lessen the strain of the load. You need a yoke."

I suddenly had a vague notion of what he was talking about and shivered slightly, remembering a wooden sword striking the ground so hard it kicked up dirt.

"You need a void magician. And I know just the one." Ralakos smiled.

49

ENCLAVE XX

For what must have been the hundredth time that day, I cursed Persephone’s name. I cursed her name and her entire lineage. Both sides of it. But I couldn’t just walk away. Kilvius’s contacts had said she was a solid source of information, if not a bit old school and vindictive.

I was not unfamiliar with the way these things worked, though most of my knowledge came from authored retellings rather than the real world. Of course, Persephone wouldn’t trust me right away. She’d string me along for a bit, test my patience and my ability to keep my mouth shut, then eventually—maybe—give me what I wanted.

The thing was, in the stories I’d read the initial favors were supposed to be small. Meaningless things. Like acting as a lookout, or gathering information.

But no, Persephone had skipped a few steps, and now I was roped into a plot to burgle a heavily guarded home, cursing her name, mentally preparing to commit high-risk larceny.

I’d stared at the imprints she’d handed me blankly, not quite believing what I was seeing. "Sorry, you want me to do what?"

"It’s a sapphire. About the size of a pomegranate." A dark, elongated finger stroked the depiction of the sapphire lovingly. "I want it."

"Yes," I said, my accent thick. "And I would love to live in a world where the dark elves did not drive us from Panthania all those years ago, yet we do not always get what we want."

"Don’t be mouthy." Persephone sniffed.

"It is not a matter of being mouthy, it is a matter of survival." I insisted. "This thing. It is not—how do you say—proportional."

"Oh? And the information you seek is so simple and consequence free?" Persephone arched an eyebrow and took a seat on the table next to me. "Anyone with any knowledge of the Asmodials is to bring it to the attention of the high council immediately. Withholding that knowledge is tantamount to treason. And I’m hardly asking you to commit treason. Just bring me one little gem."

I gawked at her. "Big gem. This is a big gem. Stolen from a woman I do not know, in a place I am unfamiliar with, with a plan that is not mine and the help of men I do not trust."

Persephone blinked owlishly, as if my observations were completely unfair. "I thought you’d appreciate the resources at my disposal. You’re welcome to bring an associate of your own… if you have any." Her smile was feral and victorious. She had somehow reasoned out that I was operating on my own.

"Why do you want it?" I asked.

"That’s irrelevant."

"Fine. This is all I have to do? I get you this sapphire, and in return I get access to the Asmodials. You will not go back on this?"

"You have my word." She glowered at me, then placed three golden rods on the table with a clink. "I’ll even throw in a bonus. To endow your escape fund."

And that was how I ended up recruiting a fourteen-year-old into a life of crime. Look, I get it. I know how it sounds. But without Maya, my options were limited. Kilvius was nowhere to be found. Nethtari would have looked at me like I’d grown horns. All I had to do, however, was mention the word "Heist" to Jorra and he was enthusiastically on board.

He bounded around his room, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over his shoulders like an oversize cloak. "This is the best day ever! What are we stealing, who are we stealing it from? Do we have a code word?"

Head in my hands, I was already regretting this decision more by the minute.

"We are not stealing anything. I’m going into a situation where there are many external factors and no constants for me to fall back on."

"You can just say you’re going into a risky situation." Jorra looked at me dubiously.

"Yes, but I’m trying to avoid exciting you further." I sighed. "My point is, I need at least one person I can rely on, and that person is you."

"This friendship is paying out already." Jorra grinned and jumped onto his bed, blanket trailing behind him like a cape. I watched, unamused, as he did his best impression of either a dragon, or some sort of large bird, complete with high-pitched undefinable sound effects.

"You know what, I’ll ask Ralakos for help." I turned to go.

Jorra leapt off the bed and tackled me, nearly toppling me. There was actual desperation in his eyes.

"Cairn. You can’t just talk about something like that then cut me out of it. Come on. Just give me a shot."

I gave him a level gaze. "I need to know you’re taking this seriously."

"Done." Jorra’s expression went completely stoic, his voice monotone, doing an excellent impression of his mother.

"Fine." I held a sack filled with empty glass beads out to him. "Talk to me about the range of your water."

"You’ve seen it before, in the surface caves. I back up as far as I can until I can no longer sustain it."

I considered that. The cave we practiced in was large, not massive, but at least big enough for our purposes. From what I remembered Jorra covered at least half of it. A hundred feet at the very least. But, as Maya had drilled into me, magic had limits.

"Is it affected by line of sight?" I asked.

"A bit?" Jorra scratched his head. "If it’s water I’ve summoned with mana, I can almost always sense it for a few hours—my tutor says that’s a rare trait—but sensing it without being able to see is pretty above me."

I frowned. That wasn’t quite ideal. I wanted Jorra as far away from the action as possible; functioning externally as a remote alarm system. I’d intended to have him fill a glass bead with summoned water, then place the bead in my pocket, so he could use it to alert me if anything seemed out of the ordinary. From what he was saying, that simply wasn’t going to happen. As much as I wanted to avoid it, he would need to come with me after all.

"Fine. You’ll need a cloak and a proper mask. Do you have one already?"

"What, the blanket won’t work?"

We entered the building together. It seemed that, as Jorra had never wandered into the outside world, there had been no reason for him to own a disguise. I’d dug into my newly replenished finances for the purchase. Jorra scratched at his yellow-green dragon mask.

I’d given him strict instructions not to speak.

There were two men: a crimson infernal and—completely shattering my expectations—an honest-to-Elphion dwarf. I’d seen a few of them in the Enclave from a distance, noticeable only by their stature, but never this close. The man’s arms were large, corded with muscle and bristling with dark hair thicker than a horse’s mane.

"Keep looking. Maybe I’ll get taller." He leered at me and I realized I’d been staring.

"Apologies," I said, slipping smoothly into character, sensing the movement as Jorra’s head jerked slightly towards me.

"I take it you’re the new toy Percy’s trying on for size?" The man who spoke was wide and muscled, but slightly hunchbacked, as if he’d lived his entire life stooping to avoid the ceiling. He looked me up and down, unimpressed. "She really does have a thing for the strange ones."

The dwarf pointed a finger at him irritably. "If she hears you been calling her that, Shear, we’ll be spending the rest of our days in the Sanctum."

He caught me looking and sighed. "Sontar, right? I’m Shear, and since no one can pronounce the Dwarf’s name and he gets very particular about it, I just call him Ginger."

"The name is Thurm," the Dwarf said, "S’not my fault you lot can’t pronounce your damn r’s properly."

I cocked my head the moment he’d spoken his name. Dwarven names weren’t known for being particularly difficult, though I’d only seen them in text. Hearing it though. It was like a rolled r, if the roll barreled into a harmonic corkscrew with a low vibrating inflection caked in phlegm.

"Thurm?" I tried to roll the R.

"Thurm!" The dwarf exploded, his enunciation as inconceivable as it was the first time. His companion looked up at the ceiling as if pleading with the heavens.

"Ginger then," I concluded.

Thurm glowered, but Shear ignored him.

Shear sidestepped the topic in a practiced manner that made it clear he was quite tired of exploring this avenue of conversation. "Let us move on, while there is still daylight left." His eyes narrowed. "And who is this?" He asked, looking at Jorra.

Jorra breathed in, and I hastened to cut off the disaster of a lie that was likely to come out of his mouth. "This is my associate, Adage. He doesn’t speak much. I’ll be sourcing the alchemical side of things. He’ll be handling logistics."

I want to be clear, the name was not my idea.

"Logistics." Shear said flatly.

"Yes." I said, maintaining silence after the brief answer.

If I were newer to this sort of thing, I would have been tempted to explain. To go into detail and blabber on, filling the awkward quiet. But that was exactly the sort of overacting that would flag me as false in the eye of an experienced criminal, one who lived the sort of life I was only playing at.

So, I said nothing, staring Shear in the eye.

Shear groaned. "Fine. We’re all here because we’ve got Persephone’s boot on our neck. Let’s go over the plan, then we’ll talk about how the two of you fit in."

Ginger unrolled the blueprints, and Shear began to speak with the calm and practiced cadence of a lecturer. His voice was clear and concise, to the extent that it surprised me. His manner seemed more appropriate to a politician than a thief, but I kept that opinion to myself.

"It’s a textbook smash and grab." Shear looked at all of us. "Easy on the smashing, but Persephone was clear on that point. None of that enter and leave without a trace nonsense. It’s in Highpoint, so we’ll need to be quiet going in, but once we’re inside, everything is fair game.

Something about that rubbed me the wrong way.

"Why?" I asked, "Seems a little sloppy, don’t you think?"

"It’s what Percy wants," Shear insisted, tapping the blueprint twice for emphasis. "Probably a grudge involved. End of the day, it’s none of my business, or yours."

"Yeh," Ginger said, "Keep it to yourself, killjoy."

I approached Shear’s side of the table, happy to have a little distance from the leering dwarf. The house in question was more of a mansion, not quite as large as Ralakos’ estate. There was no training yard to speak of, but it was similar in size.

"What are the red X’s?" I asked, pointing to a half-dozen marked areas on the map.

"Security posts."

What?

Even by wealthy Whitefall standards that was paranoid.

"Why the heavy security?" I asked.

Shear shrugged. "Percy didn’t tell you much, did she? Every precious gem recovered from the sanctum and lower caves goes through Mifral. She’s the resident baron around these parts when it comes to the gem trade. Makes an absolute killing.

I reached up to squeeze the bridge of my nose absent-mindedly, fingers knocking off the surface of my mask and further souring my mood.

This was not what I’d signed up for. But there was too much time invested to back down now. I was beginning to regret ever meeting Persephone.

"And where’s the sapphire located?"

Shear and Ginger shared an uncomfortable look.

"That’s the bad news." Ginger grimaced.

"We don’t know." Shear said.

I stared at them both.

"Adage?" I said. Jorra didn’t respond. "Adage!" I snapped my fingers and he jumped.

"Uh, yes?" Jorra tried far too hard to make his voice sound deep, and it came out sounding strangled.

I looked back to Shear and Ginger. "I think we’re leaving."

"Now, now, don’t be that way." Shear held both hands palms out, placatingly.

"Let ‘em go, Shear. Bunch of short-ass pusses." Ginger said.

"Shut up, dwarf," Shear hissed.

"Persephone said you’d have a plan in place." I shook my head. "But this isn’t a plan."

"You haven’t heard the plan yet, lad," Ginger said. "Maybe listen for a moment, before yeh get your panties in a stevedore’s hitch"

"I don’t even—What? Just—never mind. Fine. Tell me the rest of the plan. But keep in mind, while my friend and I are capable, neither of us are miracle workers."

"Yeah." Jorra piped in, his voice a normal pitch. Everyone turned to look at him and he shrank back.

"Is that a kid?" Shear asked, incredulous. "Did you bring a kid in here?"

"Do I sound uncertain?" I asked, putting every bit of frigid, biting ice I could manage into the question.

"No," Shear admitted. "But if anything happens to him, it’s on you. Let’s just get this over with before we kill each other."

He pointed out two separate areas on the map where the gem could be, and I had to admit they had planned slightly better than I’d originally thought. The possible locations included a safe in Mifral’s bedroom, and a trophy room adjacent to the downstairs loft.

On the bottom section of the map, there was a downstairs area marked as "Panic room."

"No chance she has it in there?" I pointed to the lower section on the map.

"Not a chance in heaven," Ginger confirmed. "The whole point of a room like that is to maximize the difficulty of getting in while minimizing the reward."

"Of course, we need to stop her from reaching that room. If she gets inside and locks the mansion down, things get very difficult for us," Shear said.

"And how do we do that?" I asked.

Ginger grinned, and with a grunt, hefted a giant bag onto the table and unzipped it. There was a cluster of devices inscribed with runes, filled with blue liquid. Though I’d never seen this particular design before, I recognized the purpose.

"Are these… bombs?" I couldn’t quite believe it, even as I spoke.

Ginger laughed. "Not exactly."

50

ENCLAVE XXI

"I’m going to need a minute to confer with my colleague."

I left the building at a brisk pace with Jorra on my heels. He stopped, but I kept walking, heading towards the city center.

"Cairn—er, Sontar, where are you going?" Jorra called after me.

"We’re leaving," I stated.

"Why?" Jorra asked.

"Because this is ridiculous and not worth our time." The words were bitter in my mouth.

"I don’t get it." Jorra said.

I rounded on him, pulling him off the road into an abandoned side-street littered with boxes. "The woman who gave me this job, she’s not insane. She’s just an asshole. She knows I’ll turn this down. She’s just toying with me and wasting my time. In a few weeks, she’ll offer me a smaller task instead and string me along for a few months."

A few months I don’t fucking have.

A surge of frustration rose within me and I kicked an overturned crate, sending it skittering down the pavement.

Jorra looked between me and the crate I'd kicked. "I don’t know what’s going on, but I know you’re not really the sort to go around robbing places. Especially not for the thrill of it. So, this has to do with whatever you were talking to my parents about, right?" Jorra asked.

"Yes," I took off the mask and wiped a sheen of sweat on my forehead, leaning against the wall. "It’s... not really something I can wait around for, so at the end of the day, I have to go back in there with those idiots and give this a shot regardless." I looked at him. "But this is far more dangerous than I thought it’d be. I can’t, in good conscience, bring you along."

Jorra removed his mask and stared at the ground, considering. "Well that’s too bad." His lips spread into a wide grin. "I’m terrified of what mother will say when I tell her you took me to meet Persephone."

I stared at him, feeling more amused than betrayed. "You wouldn’t."

"You sure?" Jorra peered at me. "Dad says my number one responsibility is looking out for you. Now, I’m not sure how he’d feel about this whole situation in general, but I’m pretty sure that he’d want me to do everything in my power to help. Not to mention the part where I’ve kind of gotten used to you, and it would suck if you died." He punched me lightly in the chest. "Especially over something as stupid as this."

I rolled my eyes. "Very noble. I’m not entirely sure how that noble sentiment translates to blackmail, but noble nonetheless."

"If you die, or if they lock you up, I lose my partner in the Sanctum. I’ve invested way too much time in you to risk switching things up now."

"That’s literally the definition of the sunk-cost fallacy."

"And you act like a phallus every time you talk over my head like that, but you don’t see me holding it against you."

The side of my mouth quirked. "Fair."

There was quiet as we both considered the next few moments. Jorra and I both put our masks to our faces as a woman in a frilly dress passed by the mouth of the ally, gawked at both of us, then hurried on her way, her shoes clomping against the stone.

A snort escaped me, and Jorra started to laugh.

"So, what now?" He asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Well. First, we go back and tell them we’re in."

"And then?"

The ideas began to multiply.

"We do what we said we were going to do. We handle logistics."

I let myself through the backdoor of Casikas’s shop, counting my blessings that this was his day off and I didn’t have to explain the bevy of suspicious things I was about to create. The downside of this entire operation was that, if things went sideways and turned violent, I was effectively handicapped from using the most useful magic I had. It would be effectively signing the scene with a violet-flaming brush.

So, barring magic, I’d need to get creative.

There were the usual suspects. Coagulants, painkillers, and an iron-lung potion. The last one wasn’t strictly needed as we weren’t spending any time underwater, but the secondary effects had been extremely beneficial the night of the ambush. It kept me calm and rational despite the world going to hell all around me, and I was certain there were several points where I would have panicked and been easily picked off had the potion’s calming effect not kept me dialed in. It was too expensive to be used for this purpose, but I’d have to look at researching an alternative later.

Thankfully, I was getting better at making the potion, and got lucky on the second try.

The next stage was not nearly so pleasant. With Casikas’s urging, I’d been branching from medicine to general alchemy. He had scolded me for my misgivings on the subject, claiming that as a magician with my level of botany knowledge, it would be a shame not to do so.

I’d been reticent and taken up the charge slowly. I’d inherited most of my strong feelings on Alchemists from Gunther, and by extension, Lillian, and practicing alchemy using the knowledge they’d taught me felt like a betrayal.

But, like so many other things, I didn’t have the luxury of being choosy. The primary difference of alchemy was that it required a magical catalyst. One did not have to be a magician to be an alchemist—though there were various ways of acquiring a catalyst if you could not create your own, however, it was limiting and prohibitively expensive.

For a magician, though, forming a catalyst was as simple as imbuing a sterile object with element-infused mana. Thankfully, the requisite ingredients were all here, though my tab towards Casikas was growing substantial.

I mixed half a dozen elixirs, trying to keep the magic within my catalyst—a sewing needle—steady and constant. On the seventh, I heard a noise and mistook it for the door opening. My focus slipped for a split second.

The tincture began to hiss and belch out a foul-smelling yellow smoke that filled the workshop. The fumes burned my lungs and I choked, running to the window to air out the shop. The noxious cloud was dense and slow to dissipate.

An idea struck me. I called the surrounding air. While I still couldn’t form it into anything that resembled a respectable projectile—I had yet to follow Ralakos’s mandate to work with Bell—it was almost comically easy to push most of the smoke out of the shop. After removing the bulk of it, I began to experiment. With a little additional mental effort, I could shape the air-current itself, encapsulating the smoke and guiding it in long-strand like fingers.

Interesting.

I directed a segment of shaped air towards a specific spot on the wall where the paint had chipped. It was incredibly accurate.

A dozen possible applications went through my head. Things that were limited by inability to make low-grade explosives suddenly became possible.

Oh yes. I could use this.

Unfortunately, that also meant I’d be in the workshop for far longer than planned

Breakfast the next morning was fraught with tension. I felt conflicted dragging Jorra into this, but I made sure he knew the risks, and prepared us as much as I was able. I had dismissed his words from the previous day as naive, but in truth, the fact that we had trained so extensively together was likely why I’d gone to him first.

Still, the idea of taking larger risks because of the resets sat a lot better with me when it was only my life on the line.

Jorra didn't seem to be feeling the pressure. It affected his appetite, but not adversely. The boy was on his second plate. He scarfed the food down silently, as if on a mission to intake as many calories as possible.

Nethtari seemed to notice something was off. She asked a few probing questions about our plans for the day, then seemingly decided to stay out of it. In truth, I’d been especially moody as of late, so the only one acting out of the ordinary was Jorra.

Like some strange pair of masked ghosts, we waited until Nethtari left, then donned our cloaks.

We met in the same building from the previous day.

Steadying my nerves, I reached in a pouch and placed four glass beads filled with water on the table. "We’ll be using these to communicate in the event of an emergency. Keep them on your person at all times."

Shear picked up a bead and studied it, then rolled one over to Ginger. "Must have cost you a pretty penny." He picked up on my lack of response, gaze sliding over to Jorra. "Ah. So that explains the kid."

"I’m not a kid," Jorra said in the same low, strangled voice.

"He’s not your business," I glared at Shear, hoping he’d pick up on the not-so-subtle prompt to drop the line of questioning.

"How do these work then?" Ginger asked, tossing the bead up into the air and catching it again. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jorra lean forward with each upward toss, as if he might dive forward to save it should it accidentally tumble out of Ginger’s meaty hands. I shared his concern. We really should have made a spare.

"It’s a simple silent alarm." I lied. "If you run into trouble, crush the bead. Adage and I will be able to track you and help with the retreat."

The truth was, the beads served another primary purpose. Ever since Shear had told me the plan, one aspect of it had made me incredibly uneasy: the initial period we split-up to search for the safe. It was an ideal way to handle the situation since the two areas were on opposite ends of the estate, but that didn’t change the fact that it made for an incredibly vulnerable period.

I’d mentally gamed it out instead of sleeping the previous night. If Persephone was looking to screw me, it would be during that initial period. In the worst-case scenario, Ginger and Shear already knew where the gem was located. They’d send us to the dummy location, then leave us holding the bag. If we didn’t die in the resulting trap, we’d be left with little more than the name of the Enclave underworld’s mythical entity, while Guemon’s security force shook their heads and chastised us for telling such ridiculous tall tales.

Something about it seemed very unlikely. But I had already learned to hedge my bets. Since Jorra could track the water within the beads, we would know fairly quickly if anything was off with their movements. Like, for example, if they reached their destination, then spontaneously left the estate.

It would also work for its intended purpose, but nothing was wrong with a little additional insurance.

I pulled the potions out of my bag and distributed them. Coagulant and painkillers, as well as several philters of molten smoke. Shear took in the legion of bottles on the table.

"Elphion. It’s a theft, not a war zone." He said. Still, he took his share and placed it into his bag, as did Ginger.

"Logistics indeed." Ginger chortled to himself

"It never hurts to be prepared." I said, glancing at Jorra.

"Let’s get this show on the road." Shear hefted his bag and we followed.

I fell into the character, relaxed and confident, as if I’d done this sort of thing many times before, as if my list of thefts extended beyond the occasional wineskin and occasionally running out on my tab.

51

ENCLAVE XXII

There was a loathsome image in my mind ever since Persephone had given me this job. The image of a man dressed in black sneaking about in the dead of night, skulking between houses, his heavy breath fogging dimly lit windows while he spied on oblivious couples mid-coitus. As much as I told myself I would eventually make it up to our victim—and would to some extent be doing just that by stopping the impending slaughter taking place a mere two weeks from now—it didn’t change the fact that it felt dirty, and the image of that stubble-ridden dark-eyed thief slinking through the night never quite left me.

Which is why it came as quite a surprise when Shear revealed the theft was to take place in the middle of the day. According to Shear, only fools or amateurs plied their craft at night. Why enter someone’s home when they were most likely to be there, potentially with company, putting both them and yourself at risk?

The best timing for this sort of mischief was just after one in the afternoon on a workday. The subject of the theft, as well as those around them are more likely to be mentally preoccupied, in the middle of their daily tasks, trying to shrug off the inevitable sluggishness that takes place after a meal. There will be a moment of hesitation, of confusion, if the would-be housebreaker is caught in the act. Are they supposed to be there? Who breaks into a home in the middle of the day? That single moment of hesitation can make the difference between a getaway or an arrest.

Shear’s confidence and friendly explanations made me feel slightly less queasy about the whole thing. He almost made it sound glamorous. Mifral was notoriously vain, selfish, and abusive towards her servants. She was part of the Enclave mercantile elite. Shear wove a beautiful tale in which all of us were heroes, robbing from the rich for the sake of the poor. This narrative disregarded the point that Persephone herself was quite wealthy and was entirely ignorant of the fact that I was involved. But I had no desire or intention to inform Shear of the truth: that this was actually a case of the rich robbing the rich for the sake of the rich.

I liked his version better.

Jorra, Ginger, and I were all hidden under a tarp in a moving cart pulled by a slow moving dire-mole. Despite the cool climate of the enclave, the mid-day auric sun glaring down directly on the covering combined with our layered clothes and masks made the situation nigh unbearable. Shear’s cart was just a bit too narrow for all three of us to fit properly spaced, so we pressed together, vestigial comfort squandered the moment anyone shifted. And the dwarf shifted constantly. The scent of sweat was mingled with plastic and garlic.

I found myself slightly nauseous—a combination of the environment or the way the two wheeled cart rattled over cobbled stone, swaying us from side to side.

I shifted onto my shoulder to face Jorra, who looked away and stifled a burp. "Did you really have to eat half a mess-hall’s worth of breakfast?" I asked.

"I get hungry when I’m nervous," Jorra whispered back. He sounded much less confident than he had a matter of hours ago.

"There’s still time to back out." I said, completely conflicted on that point. On one hand, there was no denying that I wanted him here. But at the same time I hated the idea of putting him in danger. It was something I had to get used to, that was clear. A king could not send his men into battle consumed with crippling worry for their lives. But that didn’t mean I had to like it, or that I wanted to start with Jorra.

Jorra appeared to consider the question, and leaned towards me as if to whisper something.

Burrrrrrrp. The belch was gargantuan and laden with garlic. I imagined vampires holed up in a cave hundreds of miles away fleeing into the sunlight as a reprieve.

"Ah! Gods! Why? You little shit!"

"Little? I’m taller than you."

"Barely."

"Stone Maiden take me now, let this suffering end." Ginger stared up at the tarp, eyes dead with the torment of a suffering saint.

I had to mentally repeat the exchange to make sure my accent had stayed intact and was relieved to find that it had. It would be incredibly unfortunate for all the effort I’d put into this so far to be undone by a simple slip of the tongue.

As we grew closer to our destination, the thick chatter and bustle of people lessened to a slow trickle of infrequent conversations. The bumpy road grew smoother. Before long, the cart ground to a halt. Someone knocked twice against the wood. I caught a glimpse of the outside through a gap in the tarp.

We were at the outer fringes of Mifral’s estate, all that separated us from it was a short stone dividing wall. The house itself towered skyward. It was larger than Ralakos’s home, by a significant margin.

The architect had eschewed style for scale. The mansion was an overly stylized box with two wings that extended outward, a massive fountain in its courtyard encircled by a roundabout path. Two guards stood posted in front of the iron gates while several single-man patrols circled the grounds themselves. In the distance, I saw the telltale frilly green-jacket of one of Ephira’s guards. Likely delivering a message.

It was now or never. I popped the cap on the iron-lung potion, the acid brine taste bringing tears to my eyes. My heart-rate slowed and a sense of calm washed over me.

I mentally bumped my intention to research a cheaper alternative for iron-lung up a few notches in terms of priority.

Ginger nearly bowled me over, pushing me aside to move the carpet and open the hatch in the bottom of the cart. He lifted it easily, then laid down on his stomach to grip a drain cover below, which he set to the side. Shear kept watch as we lowered ourselves down the hole. The iron rungs of the ladder had long since rusted and the smell of the sewer made me gag.

Thankfully, sewers in the Enclave were laid out logically. There was a convenient path along the side for maintenance, meaning that, unlike the stories, we did not have to trudge through the filth. There were a series of ascended steel gates that should have been nearly impenetrable. Shear and Ginger passed right through without giving the gates a second thought. Jorra paused at the gate and bent down, picking up a massive security lock and studying it. He wrinkled his nose and handed it to me.

"Who uses xescalt for a lock?" Jorra sounded disgusted.

He was right. It was ascended steel at first glance, but reinforced around the edges with the same dark bronze of Maya’s staff. But there was something more interesting: the two prongs that once made up the loop of the lock were blackened and charred.

"Ginger," I whispered. The dwarf didn’t slow. I sped up to catch him, mindful of the slick concrete and grabbed his arm. Finally, he stopped and looked at me, then down at the lock in my hands.

"What?" He snarled.

I held the lock up. "What can burn through xescalt like this?"

Ginger’s face turned coy, as if he was about to reveal a grand secret.

"Why, demon-fire, of course."

My jaw dropped. This was the closest thing to a hint I’d found on the topic of other infernals with demon-fire. I peppered him with questions until Shear hissed for us both to shut the hells up.

Ginger didn’t seem to know much about it other than the fact that Persephone "had people." Before big jobs like this, there were often prep-crews that would roll through, smoothing the way for the main group. But this was huge. It meant Persephone had access to someone with the flame—maybe there was more than one, but on the off chance there wasn’t, that simplified my situation immensely.

This had to go well. If it did, it could be my solution to both the outside source of demon-fire and the demons themselves.

The sewer tunnel split off into three branches. Shear nodded to me and took the passage to the right. I felt a twinge of trepidation as Ginger followed after. If they were going to screw us, this was their moment.

I looked from them over to Jorra. He was quivering like a leaf in a high-wind.

Damn.

"Are you okay?

"Uh. Yeah. It just kind of hit me all at once. We’re really doing this. We’re just going to waltz up to Madam Mifral’s doorstep." Jorra’s hands shook and his breathing grew shallow.

"It’s just the adrenaline." I put my hands on his arms and maneuvered him backwards. "Put your back against the wall. Now take ten breaths and count them."

Jorra gave me a funny look, but did as I asked. The tension in his forehead slackened. "That actually works."

"I’ve had some practice warding off panic." I loosened the collar of his tunic, giving him more space to breathe. "I’d ask you again if you want to go back, but I’m terrified of a repeat performance from earlier."

It was a joke, but I left the option open, just in case he wanted it.

Jorra shook his head. "No. No, I’m good now. It’s just…"

"Real." I said. "I know. It’ll pass. If it starts to bother you again, count."

"Okay." Jorra said. But he seemed to take his own moment of weakness as a personal affront, and kept moving forward, his eyes vigilant.

Mental fortitude ran in the family, it seemed. Nethtari, Maya, and Jorra were all rock solid under pressure. I couldn’t speak for Kilvius, but somehow I doubted he was any different.

We placed both devices I’d mistaken for bombs at the areas Shear had marked on the map, both set under the southeast and southwest corners of the mansion. Unless something terrible went wrong, Shear and Ginger would have already done the same on the opposite end of the mansion.

"Think we’ll need them?" Jorra eyed the last device warily.

"Considering everything you ate this morning? I hope not." I said.

Backtracking, we found the ladder leading up to the garden. As Shear had predicted, it was open and mostly unmonitored. I crouched behind a hedge, waiting for a pair of patrolling guards to pass, then scampered up a trellis onto a wide second-floor balcony. I grabbed Jorra’s wrist and hoisted him up behind me.

So far, so good. The balcony door was unlocked. I entered.

To say the interior was gaudy would be an understatement. Suddenly, I understood a great deal about Mifral: She wasn’t just rich. She was actively terrified of being poor. I could see her fear imprinted in the plush sheen of the overly ornate carpet, reflected in the many vases. A mess of art from various periods was horrifically augmented by gaudy golden frames. There was a bevy of display cases filled with hundreds of gems held in black velvet.

In the mansion, I saw Mifral, and within Mifral, I saw myself. My old self. I’d been like her, once—with better taste, but similar, regardless. I met and lost Lillian. Then the coronation and subsequent invasion. Then Thoth. A series of events that had changed my perspective so vividly I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore.

I shook my head. It was hardly the time to reminisce

Jorra and I headed down the hallway of the second floor, finding it largely abandoned, headed towards the bedroom.

"Where are they?" I whispered to Jorra.

He cocked his head, peering at the ceiling. His hands glowed slightly. "Down that way." He pointed behind us and downstairs towards the area where the showroom should have been.

Good. Now it’s just a matter of getting in and out—

There was a keening screech. A mix of static and the sound of a metal echoing across ice. A shout of surprise came from up ahead. A gray bubble formed in the center atrium and expanded, encasing the entire house.

"Was that—" Jorra started, interrupted as gravity itself answered his question and he began to rise in the air, his arms and legs pinwheeling. The feeling of weightlessness turned my stomach, but I managed to keep my wits in check, grateful for the calm from the iron-lung potion. I grabbed a nearby curtain with one hand and snagged him with the other.

They had a dwarfish name. Shear had simply called it a gravity field—a fiendishly complicated mix of magic and dwarven engineering. It was intended to cover our escape in the chaos and make a bit of a mess.

From over the railing a face appeared. A violet infernal wearing a white bathrobe, looking besottedly pissed, slowly rose from the first floor in a lazy ascent, her arms crossed.

I recognized her stern features immediately and felt the blood drain from my face.

Ephira.

We were monumentally fucked.

52

ENCLAVE XXIII

King Gil walked away from the dueling grounds. Flecks of red adorned his ascended steel armor like bloody stars.

Ashby of House Morrow lay crumpled in the dirt, whimpering, his left arm bent at an odd angle. I watched from a distance as his three sons, including my once friend, Feran, gathered around their father in an uncoordinated effort to lift the man from the ground.

On the first attempt, Ashby’s broken face came up for a moment, only to limply plant itself back into the dirt. Then they successfully hoisted him and moved him to the medical tent. I only caught Feran’s eye for a moment, but that was long enough for his cold hostility to be clearly felt.

My father tossed the broadsword in my general direction, underhanded, so the hilt rotated bounced off the earth next to my feet.

"Do your job, squire." He commanded.

I did as he asked, silently collecting his sword and the helmet he discarded on the ground. The murmurs of disapproval and gossip wafting over from the rows of spectators silenced immediately when the king glared in their direction, slowly returning when he went to the water barrel. Father seemed to consider dipping his skin into it then disregarded the notion. Instead, he lifted the entire barrel and drank from it in large gulps, then overturned it on his head.

A stomach curdling wail sounded from the medical tent. I cringed.

"Tell me why I did what I did." My father took a seat, his face stony, water dripping in beads from his long hair and chin.

"I understand the transgression." I said, careful to keep my tone respectful. "House Morrow overstepped. They sought to increase their station out of turn. You corrected their misgivings."

"If I wanted a flabby politician’s interpretation of the events, I’d have dragged one from the stands." My father’s gaze focused on me, his mouth firm and tight. "Tell me why I did what I did."

It was clear from the way he said it that further obfuscation would cost me dearly.

"I don’t know." I admitted. "They’re hardly the first to critique the crown. We have more enemies than friends these days. Perhaps you had a grander purpose in mind, but from where I stood that looked…"

Petty.

I remembered the way my father had drawn out the duel when he could have ended it cleanly nearly a dozen times. This particular broadsword—a simple Uskarrian blade—was thicker than a standard sword and blunted at the edges. He’d hacked at the joints of the other man’s arms and the back of his legs, blade singing against armor and crunching against bone.

"Unnecessary," I finished.

"Is that compassion I see, boy?" The muscles in his neck bulged.

"No, father."

"I don’t believe you."

"At the very most, it’s empathy." I held my hands out as if to ward off the accusation. Experiencing my father’s wrath was not an experience soon forgotten, even if it had never been quite so physical for me as it had been for Ashby. Still, his eyes had that look of a shrewd analysis, as he decided whether I needed to be reminded of the proper outlook for a prince.

In moments like these, it was best to distract him. "What I don’t understand is why you went so far. It was necessary to demonstrate strength in response to House Morrow. If House Morrow was a military house, I would understand. But they’ve been mostly scribes for over a decade. Feran could barely ride a horse. I had to practically bribe the boy to get him out of the library."

"Yes. Your little friendship. Perhaps that is the source of your lack of will." A small group of servants gathered around him with platters of pungent food, which he sampled absent-mindedly. "I did what I did because Ashby asked me to."

"He… asked you to?" I repeated, not understanding.

"That’s the thing all these diplomats and politicians will never understand, son." Gil looked towards the murmuring throng, resentment clear on his face. "A man speaks more truly and honestly with his hands than his voice ever could."

"That almost sounds like an excuse to routinely eschew diplomacy with violence." I said blandly, staring straight ahead despite feeling his eyes on me.

"Perhaps to some flowery pup untouched by war. Diplomacy has its place, boy. No one is contesting that. Otherwise, we’d still be fighting with the dwarves over the eastern subterranean."

As I remembered, the only reason that particular conflict had ended was that the dwarves had finally banded together and barricaded themselves within a mountain fortress. Their many earth magicians and networks of tunnels made it practically impossible to cut off their supply lines for a significant amount of time. Couple that with their ability to reinforce defenses almost infinitely and the loss of life from trying to press unto the mountain was simply not worth the loss of life, even for King Gil.

"And Ashby was asking to be beaten within an inch of his life?" I asked, unable to hold my tongue.

"No. It was the way he fought. He was holding himself back, but it was clear as day." My father leaned back on the bench. His cold blue eyes were distant. "They would have seceded at the very least. Or continued stirring unrest until it boiled over into a full-blown rebellion. So, which is better, my son?" His fingers tapped against the bench. "Crippling a man of little worth now? Or the loss of life that occurs later if I do nothing out of compassion?

I ignored the hypothetical. There wasn’t an answer I could give him that he’d be satisfied with.

"You can really tell all that from fighting someone?" I asked.

"Everyone is a liar, son. They open their mouths and they lie. They can’t help it. That’s what the absence of conflict does to a person. Once they no longer have to struggle to survive, they grow bored and deceitful."

"But, people lie in war." I pointed out. "All the time. That’s what strategy is. Otherwise, everyone would just line up and take swings."

"I am talking about lies for vanity." He said vehemently. "Lies that accomplish nothing. People go about their daily lives playing a part. How they act, and who they actually are, become concepts so distinct you might never be able to connect the two. But in combat, those two halves become whole."

It always rankled when my father was right.

And he was right. I knew the truth even before the scene exploded into violence.

Ephira was a killer.

She should have looked comical, floating in the gravity field, her face covered in some sort of pink salve, gray bathrobe tassels trailing behind her like twin snakes. Anyone else would have called for the guard by now. But the way her mouth crooked upwards and her fist tightened told the truth. People like my father are the exception to the rule.

Despite her evolved manner, and air of appearing above it all, Ephira had been waiting for the opportunity to discharge her strength. And we’d just given it to her.

I floated, keeping a hold on Jorra while I tried to think through what to do next. The hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end and there was a metallic taste in my mouth.

Ephira smiled. Then brought her hand forward incredibly quickly, palm glowing blue. I raised both feet and kicked Jorra away from me, sending us careening through the air in opposite directions. The bolt of lightning struck the curtain I’d been clinging to just a moment ago, the sound of impact mind-flinchingly loud.

I floated through the air helplessly, bouncing against a wall, finally managing to grab the leg of a display case, which was thankfully bolted to the floor. Ephira wasn’t faring much better, her body slowly spinning across the center of the room like a child’s top, slowly drifting.

Her head twisted wildly as she spun, arm outstretched, trying to keep track of the two of us. She fired off two more quick bolts towards Jorra. Every time she casted, her graying hair would stiffen with static and fall slack again.

Jorra was the most maneuverable out of all of us. He’d already recovered and was using his whip to pull himself around the room effectively.

I was paralyzed for a moment. This was a bad fight, win or lose. Ephira was a violet, which meant we were unlikely to outlast her. But even if we won, the results were disastrous. Jorra seemed equally unsure, propelling himself headfirst in an octagonal holding pattern around her, his whip flinging him from bannister, to chandelier, to doorknob.

I considered removing my mask.

It would be the fastest way to de-escalate. But I had no doubt doing so would ruin my relationship with Persephone. And that would likely be the death of any possibility of ending this with the current reset.

Right now, Persephone was more important than Ephira.

I pulled out the pair of hooked gloves Shear had given me out of my bag, sliding one of them on.

Picking up on the movement, Ephira summoned a crackling ball of electricity the size of a grapefruit. It floated upwards, then darted towards me, homing in. I shoved off to the side. The second glove was obliterated as the ball of electricity passed over it, arcing towards me.

Ephira’s face was a mask of frustration. She clearly wanted to let loose, but every time she cast a major spell it destabilized her and sent her spinning away.

I landed feet first against the wall, the ball of lightning still right on my ass. The glove was grippy with metallic hooks on the end. They were meant to assist the user in navigating a low-gravity environment with a motion not unlike swimming. It was a good idea, but one that only worked if you had both gloves to speak of.

As it was, I had to awkwardly fling myself with my gloved hand straight up, lest I end up with the same problem as Ephira.

The ball of lightning grew larger as it grew closer to me, and a tingling ran up my legs.

My most immediate problem was that I was running out of wall. "Adage!" I yelled, "Little help?"

With nowhere else to go, I coiled my legs beneath me and kicked off the wall, sending myself catapulting across the empty air of the foyer. The ball of lightning followed doggedly behind.

Jorra looked between me and Ephira. Her arm was still outstretched, glowing hand guiding the projectile. He seemed to have come to a decision.

In a practiced motion I’d seen a dozen times, Jorra cast a water projectile at the counselor’s face. I was expecting her to block it, hoping for a moment of distraction.

What I wasn’t expecting was for her to cancel the projectile all together, focusing all her efforts on diffusing Jorra’s attack. The aegis she summoned was massive and cone shaped, ensuring she wasn’t touched by a single drop of the water.

Jorra catapulted himself away from a forking branch of lightning, swinging upwards and awkwardly landing on the ceiling, where he fired another water bomb at her face. Again, Ephira responded with the absurdly oversized aegis.

It was almost as if—

Several things occurred to me at once. First was that Ephira was a single element mage. Second, was that most elements had the same self-immunity as demon-fire. That was due to the mage’s unique mana being used to shape the element, sort of like a fingerprint. A fire magician could still be burned by another fire magician. In theory, Ephira should not be able to shock herself.

But what if her element was filtered through another magicians?

It was worth a shot.

"Adage."

Jorra rotated to look at me, jetting down from the ceiling towards the floor. We locked eyes for just a moment.

"Quantity over quality." I said.

He looked puzzled. Then smiled. "They did say to make a mess—oh shit!"

Thunder cracked, but the lightning hit the opposite wall, momentum from the spell sending a shape hurtling towards me. It seemed that Ephira had finally adjusted to the absence of gravity. Her fist cracked into the side of my head, and I spun head over heels away from the wall, grasping at it with my clawed hand and missing by less than an inch. Helplessly, I floated out into space.

I saw her glide over towards me. She tossed a few bolts of electricity at Jorra, nailing him in the shoulder and sending him flying. I couldn’t see his face, but his body was limp.

Ephira spoke as if she was talking to a mentally deficient pet. "You know, my staff made me come here. Take a day for yourself, they said. Spend time with Mifral. You like her, right? Have a ladies' day." Ephira’s hand gripped my throat. "And you, most ignoble guest, are interrupting my ladies’ day."

Ephira reached forward with her other hand, intent on removing my mask when I caught a flash of movement above me. But she saw it too.

Time to commit.

I swiped out with my gloveless hand, scraping some of the pink salve on her face into her eye. She let out a cry of surprise, instinctively retreating to cover it, when enough water to fill a small lake came crashing down on our heads, submersing us both and sending us tumbling towards the floor.

We bounced off the ground. I blinked water away, and it fled from me in tiny droplets.

Ephira stared venomously, eyes swollen shut, face twisted in pathetic rage. Her hair hung over her face and she looked vaguely horrifying. But she didn't try to cast.

I'd gotten it right.

I had no doubt from her expression. She'd tear the enclave apart looking for us. But I'd bought us time.

Jorra descended to my side, pulling me out of the free float. "Guards are coming. We’ve gotta move."

"Sorry!" Jorra yelled back to Ephira as we fled.

53

ENCLAVE XXIV

It was tempting to call everything off at that point. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the operation to begin with. In the hypothetical scenario it went off without a snag, and we were miles beyond that now.

Not to mention, I really didn’t like the look in Ephira’s eye. It went beyond simple animosity. She would be hunting for the thieves stupid enough to rob her friend for the rest of the reset, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she leaned on Guemon to help her do it.

If Ephira and Guemon weren’t co-conspirators, I needed to do everything in my power to head that off.

I just didn’t know how.

Ginger’s gravity field certainly did what it was intended to do. If it wasn’t for the chaos, I had no doubt the initial conflict with Ephira would have been over in seconds, with every guard from the surrounding area swooping in to grab us. But these were trained men, and unlike the guards of Whitefall—who I had no doubt would still be haphazardly spinning about in the air—these men had grown up in the enclave. Most of them were magicians, and they were accustomed to improvising within the bounds of strange situations that cropped up when magic was involved.

It only took them a matter of minutes to adjust. Soon they were zipping about the hallways, using a combination of magic and teamwork to maneuver around the estate.

Though my inability to use demon-fire in this situation was a serious handicap, my lesser magic finally found some use. I found that if I manipulated an air current to push slightly downward against my upper back and shoulders, I was able to better stick to surfaces. I’d occasionally kick-off from the wall or floor too hard and lose traction, but within a weightless environment, even the insignificant current of air I produced was enough to bring me back down.

A guard swung drunkenly around the corner, clinging to a light fixture and cursing, entirely focused on the burdensome task of navigating. I grabbed Jorra by the back of his collar and dove into a side room. The guard cursed loudly as he passed.

Jorra made a muted, choking sound, and I released him, using a downward thrust of air to bring myself to the floor. The side-room was some sort of inspection area. Dozens, if not hundreds of gems—some still encased in rock—floated freely above tables where they’d once rested, forming a prismatic galaxy. The lenses of loupes and reflectometers refracted harsh-white light from the industrial lumen lamps above, and a half dozen metal tools and hammers—likely used for shaping or scratch testing—floated freely, having been disturbed by either vibrations or air currents from elsewhere in the house.

Jorra made a quiet exclamation. His whip curled around the leg of one of the examination tables, and he pulled himself over to the dazzling array of floating gemstones.

"Beautiful," Jorra said.

I couldn’t quite drag my gaze away from the door, but his reaction was amusing.

"Didn’t take you as the type."

"Mother tells the story often. She wouldn’t let father buy her a ring. Some moral quibble about pointless displays. According to her, gold is the root of all evil things."

That sounded like Nethtari.

Jorra reached up to touch a floating cross-rose cut ruby, his finger sending it spinning in the specular light. "How can something so beautiful cause so much trouble?" His voice had a wistfulness to it.

"That question has been asked more times, in more contexts than either of us are likely to know."

"What would something like this be worth in golden slivers?"

"The ruby? More than slivers. A couple of rods at least. It depends on the cut and clarity. Color factors in as well. Gems are complicated."

He looked over to me, his eyes wide. I could almost read his mind. A few golden rods was a sum likely exponentially larger than what Kilvius and Nethtari made in a year.

I wondered what he was imagining using the money for. Something for the sanctum maybe. A xescalt sword perhaps. Or maybe a void bag.

"We could finally get the floors fixed." Jorra whispered. "Maybe hire a tutor for Agarin."

Damn.

"There sure are a lot of them." I said, innocently. "I doubt it’d be a problem if one more went missing."

Jorra glared at me. "That would be stealing."

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing aloud.

"What exactly do you think we’re doing here?" I asked.

"Nope. No sir. You’re stealing." Jorra jutted a finger at me. "I was recruited under duress. I am an unwitting accomplice."

"Unwitting indeed." I chuckled. His reasoning was undoubtedly foolish. But it only made me like him more.

Jorra confirmed that Shear and Ginger had reached the far corner of the house and were holding there. Their movements did not appear to be erratic, so we assumed they weren’t in any trouble. After checking out the doorway, we moved silently down the hall, approaching the area on the map where Mifral’s bedroom was supposed to be. The room was segmented by double doors with the sort of gaudy gold-trimmings and elegant inlays I’d come to expect from the woman.

Using the air current to stabilize myself, I rotated until my head was pressed against the ground and peered through the crack. A violet infernal with curly hair and a rotund figure cowered in the back left corner next to the bed. I could also see the long metallic limbs of armed guards in front of the door. My view was limited, but I could see them from the waist down: their legs were set in ready stances, their scabbards empty.

Difficult. But not unexpected.

I turned back towards Jorra and held out two fingers. Then I opened my bag and pulled two of the alchemical poultices. Jorra kicked backwards a few feet, pulled in a deep breath, and held it.

I didn’t have the luxury of distance, but held my breath all the same and drew my sword. Then stomped down on the two bottles. The mixture made my eyes fill with stinging tears and my vision swam instantly. It took everything I had to not lose focus. I reached out and encircled the dispersing powder with a current of air, then shoved it under the door.

Immediately, the guards on the other side began to hack and cough. I noted with grim satisfaction how quickly it had kicked in.

Jorra’s water bomb detonated against the doors and sent the guards flying back.

One used earth magic, a slab of granite emerging from the floor as a stepping stone, while the other used standard fire, one hand held behind him to counteract the momentum.

Mifral shrieked at the sudden explosion, then opened her eyes and shrieked again. "My floors! Look what they’ve done to my floors!" Both guards were wise enough not to comment, but I knew all too well the awkward air between them, the one that occurred when a master embarrassed their charges.

They both coughed loudly, their eyes red.

"Wait—" The earth-guard said. But I had already kicked off the doorframe. A chunk of marble passed narrowly by my ear as I flew head first towards the fire-guard. He reacted poorly, lashing out with a diversionary gout of flame which I dove straight through, twisting in the air to deliver a quick two-handed blow.

Fire-guard had expected me to flinch and didn’t quite manage to get his sword up in time. The flat of my sword struck the tip of his helmet with a might clang, and his eyes glazed, his whole body slackening for just a moment.

From the side, I saw Jorra chasing earth-mage up the side wall, swearing as the man erected barrier after barrier behind him, creating a rocky series of henges that formed a strange landscape where a once pedestrian surface used to be. Mifral’s wails went up an octave each time magic scarred another part of her abode, as if the house itself was an extension of her body.

I had no way of stopping my momentum and slammed into the stunned fire mage, our limbs tangling. I smashed the pointed pommel of my sword against his wrist, and his sword came loose, spinning off beneath the bed. Using a gust of air to rotate us so my back was facing the floor, I kicked out with both feet, sending him flying up towards the ceiling where Jorra fought the earth-guard. Jorra’s whip caught the earth-guard around the neck and yanked him forward.

There was a crash as the fire-guard collided with his comrade.

"You useless bastards!" Mifral screamed up at them. "You’ll never work in the Enclave again!"

The pang of sympathy I felt for the guards didn’t change what had to be done. I ran to the window and pulled it open. Jorra picked up on the cue immediately and anchored himself against the chandelier, using his whip to fling them both downward.

With surprisingly little effort, I guided them out. They hung in the air almost comically before reaching the edge of the gravity field, and plummeting to the ground below with a painful crash.

"Where are they?" I called up to Jorra.

"On their way."

Then he yelped. I didn’t respond because I was falling face-first into the tile floor. Gravity returned with a vengeance, furious with the mere mortals that had dared to toy with it.

From where I’d fallen, I saw Jorra smash through the canopy of Mifral’s bed. She shrieked as he landed next to her.

My entire body felt interminably heavy, as if I’d put on twice the mass and was trying to swim through tar. My vision swam, and I was unable to keep my eyes on one spot. It felt like the hangover from a weeklong bender, only worse.

Jorra sat up groggily in the bed. With his back to Mifral, he removed his mask and vomited into an urn on the end table.

Mifral herself was curled in a ball, unmoving.

In that moment of sheer misery, I swore to get back at the dwarf for leaving that particular side-effect out of the conversation.

As if on cue, Shear and Ginger both staggered in. Shear looked haggard but unblemished. Ginger was bleeding from a cut above his eye.

"Nice of you to join us after the trouble is dealt with." I groused and hiccuped.

Shear fell to his knees, panting. Ginger looked at all of us as if we were idiots. "Yeh pusses think that’s bad? Wait till you’re on the business end of a gravity inversion. Now that’ll ruin your day."

"Can we leave him?" Jorra asked.

"I’ll leave you in a draxen’s mud pie on a sunny day, ya’ turrly gobshite."

"I don’t even know what any of those things mean!"

"Can it, you two. Where’s the safe?" Shear had finally caught his breath.

I’d been so distracted in the fight I’d all but forgotten. We scoured the room. I was sweating heavily, moisture soaking the robe’s fabric at my armpits and lower back.

Ginger found the safe in Mifral’s closet, then let loose a string of curses. Jorra and I crowded in behind them.

The safe was embedded within the floor beneath a legion of fashionable boots and heeled shoes, it's face a sheer wall of dark xescalt.

"Can’t open it?" Shear asked.

"I could," Ginger said "If I had half an hour. I’d have to pick it manually. The guards are going to wise up any minute now."

Shear swore. "Just do what you can."

I pulled Shear aside as Ginger began to work. "What the hell happened?"

Shear shook his head. "I don’t know. Wasn’t supposed to go down like that. The field activated when the dwarf put the last one down."

I lowered my voice further. "As in, it activated as soon as he placed it? Or after."

Shear’s face grew tight. "I’ve been thinking about that as well. It activated the moment he set it."

I processed that.

"Doesn’t look good," Shear added.

This was getting too complicated. I looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Mifral’s chandelier was still shifted to the side. There were too many moving parts to this scenario. My biggest concern going in was that Persephone and her minions intended to leave me holding the bag. That no longer seemed to be the case—at least, not in the way that I originally thought. Both Ginger and Shear seemed genuinely alarmed, and they were already neck-deep in this with us.

So, who gained what, exactly?

"Guards!" Jorra shouted.

Shear ran over and threw his shoulder against the doors as Jorra and I barricaded them with every piece of furniture that wasn’t tied down.

"Fuck it." Ginger threw down his lock-picks. "Just gonna have to beat it out of her." He stalked over towards where Mifral was crumpled on the floor.

That would undoubtedly escalate things in a direction we didn’t want. I caught his shoulder. "Wait. Let me give it a go." I nodded to the safe.

Ginger stared incredulously. "Now you’re a safe cracker, too?"

"Not… exactly." I hedged. "Look, she’s not even conscious. Right now, I’m our best shot. If I can’t get it open, you ask the lady. Preferably nicely."

"Why not?" Ginger’s voice raised in pitch. "Waste our precious time. How about this? I’ll go ask her nicely now, and after you make a fool of yourself, I'll ask her not so nicely."

"Fine."

Ginger crossed the room to Mifral and began prodding her with his boot. Shear and Jorra’s barricade appeared to be holding. Satisfied that they were all focused on their respective tasks, I shut myself in the closet and called the flame.

Three minutes later, I emerged.

The guards had given up trying to get through the doors and were likely in the midst of trying something else.

Ginger paused mid-action. He held a bucket of water, which was just inches away from pouring on Mifral’s sleeping face. "Catch a nap in there did yeh?"

I reached in my pocket and tossed it to him. The massive rock glittered blue like an ocean at noon. Ginger caught it with both hands, his lips pulling back in a grin. "Well, I’ll be damned."

Shear pushed in next to him. "This is it. A bit smaller than reported, but close enough." He turned to me. "Was there anything else in the safe?"

"Empty." I shrugged.

Everyone jumped as the side door to Mifral’s connected parlor disintegrated and ozone filled the room.

Ephira stepped through the door. She looked like a completely different person. Along with being completely dry, her hair had been tied up in a vicious knot, and she wore a sheer white dress that didn’t quite fit her. The only remaining evidence of our conflict in the atrium was the combination of her swollen eye and the fact that her feet were still bare. Her nails clicked against the tile as she walked.

I swallowed. We’d barely managed to delay her when the gravity field had been running, and we had the element of surprise. Even with Shear and Ginger here, there was no chance. I doubted the same trick would work twice.

"All that gumption from earlier. Gone. How disappointing." Ephira summoned with both hands. Electricity arced off her, filling the room with golden light. The lumen lamps went black.

We were so close. My many options disappeared into nothing. Despair clawed at me.

The memory of the trial came back to me out of nowhere. There was no question that, as I was now, I couldn’t beat her. But maybe I didn’t have to. Maybe there was a way to keep my cover intact, and take Ephira out of play simultaneously.

It was a huge risk. In the end, the way this played out would all depend on her.

I reached up and tapped my shoulder three times.

54

ENCLAVE XXV

The burgeoning storm within the room lessened in intensity.

Ephira’s expression barely changed. But the palpable bloodlust she emitted slackened, and an expression of puzzlement played across her brows.

Before anyone could do anything to throw us back into chaos, I pulled an alchemical potion from my bag and threw it towards her. A flash of nerve-scalding white brighter than any sun exploded outward from the shattered bottle filling the once-dim room. My throw was intentionally short and my companions shouted, confused and alarmed. Despite shielding my eyes with my sleeve, my vision was still fraught with a purpling after-image that faded to bruise green.

I rushed forward and tackled Ephira into the parlor, careful to cushion her head from the fall. My wrist jarred painfully against the floor, pinioned between the back of her neck and the cool wooden slats.

"What the—" She sputtered.

I clamped a hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear. "Persephone is moving on you."

She immediately stilled, confirming my suspicions. It was pure unadulterated conjecture. There had to be another motive. Seeing how wealthy Mifral’s estate was—almost irresponsibly so, with troves of wealth sitting out like the beginning of a dragon’s hoard—it didn’t make sense to break into the place to acquire a single sapphire. I still didn’t have the whole picture yet, but Ephira’s presence here had not been a mistake. The hypothesis was beginning to form in the back of my mind.

"I’m working on it from the inside." I continued, sparing a panicky glance over my shoulder.

"And you think I’ll just let you go, after you’ve made a fool of me?" Ephira’s grip on my arms tightened to a painful squeeze.

"Think of all you stand to gain. I’ll make reparations. I swear it." We had seconds. Maybe less.

Greed and pride warred in her expression, greed eventually winning out. "And what do you propose?" Ephira asked.

I told her.

Shear stumbled into the room, still concussed.

In the end, I didn’t have to tell her to make it look good. Ephira pulled back a fist imbued with electricity and punched me in the gut.

It was far from a glamorous escape. Ginger blew out the back wall of the parlor with an explosive charge. Unable to hide the pang of regret at the expending of resources, I threw down two bottles of molten smoke, leaving only one remaining.

My air magic wasn’t nearly fine-tuned enough to manipulate all of it, but I could capture enough that it formed a black moving cloud around us, maneuvered to block the view from ranged attackers and pursuers.

We sprinted across the artificial turf of Mifral’s estate, still weakened and sick from the effects of the gravity field while a half-dozen guards chased after us, equally weakened and sick.

I spared a glance back at the gaping hole in the wall we’d escaped from and wished I hadn’t. Ephira’s feet were planted firmly on the edge. Her arms outstretched. A massive disk of blue-white electricity formed above us. Lightning struck with a roaring boom, over and over, each strike a near miss that tossed sod into the air, showering us with detritus. A few bolts landed perilously close to my feet, as if Ephira was going out of her way to remind me that there would be a part two to our conversation.

We were too clumped together.

Jorra tripped, almost going down, and I used the opportunity to slow down and hoist him up. Then, I opened a window in the smoke, revealing Shear.

The bolt of lightning struck out immediately and pierced Shear through his back. The man’s shirt ripped open, pale Lichtenberg figures crossing his spine. His left boot flew off as if forcibly expelled from his foot and he collapsed, body rolling limply in the dirt.

Ginger’s swearing increased in volume and propensity, but he picked up speed rather than slowing down. Despite the franticness of the scene, I’d been waiting for it, and committed Ginger’s reaction to memory. There was no emotional jolt when Shear was hit. The dwarf didn’t even consider stopping to grab him. His reaction was one of pure fear and nothing more.

The fact that they were new colleagues was likely not an act then.

There was a feeling of an unbelievable amount of static that built through the left side of my body the second before another jagged bolt of lightning struck the ground before me. I lost my footing and fell into a roll, shoulder throbbing.

I fought the urge to turn around and glare at Ephira. She was going overboard in terms of selling this. Any more enthusiasm on her end and she wouldn’t be pretending.

We closed on one of the grates that led down into the sewer. I gathered the smoke around us to make it as dense as possible. Jorra opened the grate and Ginger prepared to enter.

"Get the gem where it needs to go," I yelled at him. "We’ll draw them off."

"We’ll do what?" Jorra gawked at me.

"It’ll be fine." I reiterated. Ginger didn’t have to be told twice. Sparing me a glance of respect, he lowered himself into the grate and slid down the ladder into the sewer below.

The sound of guards shouting through the smoke grew closer. I replaced the grate.

We managed to get out of Highpoint before everything was locked down. I had no doubt that Ephira had run interference, or at least waited to call for additional backup.

Still, a small group of guards from Mifral’s faction pursued us doggedly. We had made fools of them, and there’s few things that motivates a man more assuredly than pride.

They followed relentlessly no matter what we did, leaping over fences and knocking shingles down as we navigated across the tops of buildings.

It would have been wiser to split up, but I had a few resources left to spend, while Jorra was close to tapped. As the fool who’d gotten him into this, it was my responsibility to get him out.

Someone waved at me in the distance: a whiskery, balding infernal I recognized as one of the homeless I’d been paying for information. He summoned us over towards the mouth of an alley. Wordlessly, he waved us through and cluttered up the path with his belongings.

Seconds later I heard a crash. The man cried out in pain. I winced.

Poor bastard.

I’d find a way to make it up to him later.

We darted through an alley and found ourselves in the Enclave’s temple district. It was bustling and crowded this time of the afternoon, with thousands of infernals taking a break from their day for mid-afternoon communion. In the center square, there were statues of various arch-fiends, as well as the occasional merchant selling miniaturized icons and idols. Grand temples to various elements lined the streets, adorned with banners and lit by lumen lamps shaded in the color of their associated element.

"Shit," I hissed.

"What’s wrong?" Jorra asked. We began to press our way through the throng of people.

"It’s too populated. The moment the Guards arrive we’ll be pinned in. We need a place to disappear."

Jorra turned around in a full circle, considering the area. "There." He pointed to a temple at the corner. It was smaller than the rest, absent the fluorescent and borderline gaudy ornamentation of the other temples. Four pillars thicker around than a crimson oak adorned its front, supporting a massive overhang that covered the entrance in shadow. A simple black banner was plastered across the front, emblazoned with a circle that gave the vague impression of a porthole’s view to the stars.

It would have to do.

We pushed our way through the crowd. Jorra looked back, his face grim. Our pursuers stopped at the outskirts to scan the many faces. I pushed Jorra to the side. He separated from me, and we moved calmly towards several yards parallel to each other. The guards were looking for two cloaked thieves, not one.

As long as they didn’t spot our masks, we had a chance.

Unlike the other open-form temples, the black-banner temple had a gate formed from dark burnished wood. For a moment, I was terrified the temple was closed, and we’d be left exposed at the top of the stairs in clear view. But almost as if by magic, the doors swung open.

The inside was pitch-black and smelled of must. We stepped inside, and the doors swung shut behind us. I waited until my eyes adjusted. There was some light, its origin a huge assortment of floating white specks that were embedded everywhere. The temple mainly consisted of one massive room—the same starry pattern that was on the banner decorating the walls and floors. In the center of the room were a series of charcoal-colored stone gates with empty centers. They looked too similar to the dimensional gate for it to be a coincidence.

"What is this place?" I asked Jorra, still too relieved from escaping the guards to feel any real tension from the alien surroundings.

"The void temple. What the hells happened back there, Cairn?" Jorra collapsed against a nearby wall.

"Don’t call me that." I looked around. It seemed to be empty, but there were plenty of dark corners someone could be hiding.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Sontar. Relax. No one ever comes here. Even void-users, on the off-chance the legends are true and worshipping at a temple increases the chances of awakening the element." The words came out sharp. On closer inspection, I realized Jorra was as close to angry as I’d ever seen him.

"Wait," I blinked. "Why are you mad at me? I gave you all the time in the world to back out."

"It's not that." Jorra blew air through his teeth. "Just, if you knew it was going to go that wrong, I wish you would have told me."

"Jorra, I didn’t know—"

"Maya told me about your thing. The visions."

"Did she also tell you I don’t always get them?" I asked.

Jorra took off his mask. He looked troubled. "Yes. But it seemed like you knew something was going to go wrong. You had those alchemy potions. And you got the best of Ephira there, at the end. Gods. Ephira." Jorra shivered.

His misunderstanding became clear.

I gave him a strong push in the small of his back. Jorra staggered forward, then he caught his balance.

With a growl of outrage, Jorra planted his hands on my chest and pushed. He was stronger than he looked, and I nearly fell. He stepped towards me again, but paused when I held out a hand to stop him.

"Wait." I said, more commanding. "I’m trying to prove a point."

"Oh? Is that what you call it?" Jorra snapped.

I reached out with the same amount of strength and pushed against his chest. Jorra didn’t budge. His eyebrows knitted together, confused.

"You didn’t move this time." I pointed out. "Why?"

"Because I knew it was coming." He straightened his robe with a scowl. "That’s the point you’re trying to make? That it’s better to leave me in the dark, so I react more genuinely and don’t give your plans away?"

"Not at all." I countered. " Leaving people in the dark has burned me too many times already. Think about it. I pushed you from the back, when you weren’t expecting it. The second time, I pushed you from the front. You didn’t need to have the exact same thing happen twice to react correctly. The point I’m making is that I’m used to seeing shit go sideways. It’s always in the back of my head, how many ways even the simplest things can go wrong. And nothing about that situation was simple. I didn’t know what would happen at Mifral’s estate. But I recognized the potential shit-show that it could have been and prepared accordingly."

Jorra mulled that over. The stiffness in his posture marginally faded.

"So, you really didn’t know."

"No. Gods. What a mess."

I circled the small temple, taking in the various carvings, using my spark for light. The relief of a raven was prominently featured. Ravens flying across landscapes, ravens consuming other animals. They were always positioned so the head was horizontal in perspective, a single dark eye staring out at the observer.

"My whole body is shaking. Feels like it won’t ever stop." Jorra said it as a joke, but I heard the fear in his words.

"It just takes time." I told him. No one had been there to tell me how these things worked, and walking someone else through it felt like righting old wrongs. "Your body is crashing. You never realize how much energy you’re using while the adrenaline is pumping through your system, and as soon as it’s gone everything feels magnified. The gravity field probably didn’t help, either."

Jorra groaned. "That thing was the worst. Wait, so what happened exactly?" He looked at me suspiciously. "Did you make it go off?"

"Gods no." I shook my head. My stomach still felt like hell.

"Next time you want to steal something, leave me out of it." Jorra shook his head. "All that work and nothing to show for it."

"Not exactly—" I was cut off by the sound of wood striking metal. A torch lit from behind us.

I spun.

An infernal stood outlined in the dim light. She was about a head shorter than me and held a wooden practice sword in her hand.

"You know, I heard the disturbance outside." Her voice was familiar. "All those guards, shouting about a couple of thieves." She circled us. "Then I come back, and, lo’ and behold, a couple of folks I’ve never seen in this temple before talking about stealing. That can’t be a coincidence, right?"

"Sure it can," Jorra said. "Lots of things can be a coincidence."

"It’s not." I admitted easily. Jorra made a choking sound. "How have you been, Bell?"

Bellarex stopped mid-stride. She pointed her practice sword at my neck. "How do you know me?"

I took off my mask. There was no point in hiding my face. She’d seen Jorra unmasked, and it would be easy enough to connect the two of us—and I needed her to trust me.

"The human!" Bell exclaimed.

"I awakened a second element. Ralakos pointed me your way for help with training. I’m sure your father told you about it."

"Yes!" Bell’s smile faded as quickly as it appeared. "But, I’m not sure how that has anything to do with stealing."

"Well," I glanced at Jorra, "In my culture it’s common to provide a gift to a new teacher."

"You stole something for me?" Bell looked horrified.

"Of course not. More like borrowed, to show you in person." I said carefully. "Can’t let you keep it. That’d be wrong and all, but…"

I reached in my pocket and pulled the sapphire from the safe out. Jorra’s jaw dropped. Placing it carefully on the ground, I rolled it across the floor to her.

"Wait, what? Didn’t you give it to Ginger?" He whispered to me.

I shrugged. "We’ll talk about it later."

Bell dropped her practice sword immediately, suspicions forgotten, and took the gem in both hands. She looked past it towards me, her smile returned at full-blast.

"I have so many questions." Bell said.

I coughed to hide a laugh, remembering all too well how extensively she’d interrogated us after the test in the previous life.

"Somehow, I thought you might."

55

ENCLAVE XXVI

I realize, communicating this after the fact, that it probably sounds like I took an unconscionable risk revealing myself to Bellarex. She was, after all, a relatively uninvolved party. But in the short time I’d spent with her during the initial reset, I recognized in her the same sort of walled-off loneliness I knew all too well. Constantly pushed by a father figure who withheld approval and expected obedience at all cost, isolated from friends and peers, excited by the unknown and unexpected because the rote routine of her life had grown so damn dull.

Well, she was exponentially more excitable than me, but the point still stood.

The guards eventually came knocking. Bellarex hid us in one of several meditation rooms within the Void Temple.

I expected the barrage of questions, but Jorra was taken aback. He didn’t seem to dislike her as much as the first time around—I suspect because she was helping us, and his first impression wasn’t a frantic battle spent trying to beat the hell out of each other.

Jorra had tried to swear her to secrecy before answering anything, and instead of a simple promise, Bellarex had sworn an oath, surprising me. She really was the trusting sort, though, I couldn’t decide if that made her an excellent or terrible judge of character.

We sat cross-legged in the meditation room. Bellarex munched thoughtfully on a round fruit that resembled a cerulean plum.

"The part that shocks me," She said between bites, "Is that you got out of the Dregre Estate at all. She’s not known for being light-handed with intruders."

"I think you’re underestimating the dwarf’s gravity thing. The worst feeling I’ve ever had. Like an army of spear-wielding pixies went to town on my brain."

"Why would pixies want anything to do with your brain?" Bell asked. "Is it a haven of precious resources?"

"It could be." Jorra muttered.

I covered my smile with a hand.

"I worry this experience might have ruined drinking for you, my friend. Bad hangovers are not dissimilar."

Jorra stared at me incredulous. "People pay to feel like this?"

"I think it is more interesting that Cairn is on a familiar enough basis with hangovers to speak on them definitively." Bell laughed. "They must start them early in Whitefall."

I nodded. "Oh yes. Alcohol tolerance is a critical aspect of Silodan politics. The inability to hold one’s liquor is considered vastly more important than petty things like pedigree and moral fibre."

Bell considered that. "In that case, I believe my father would excel at politics in your kingdom."

Jorra froze. I wanted to laugh, but Bell had such a nonchalant way of saying things that it was impossible to know for sure whether she was joking.

"I… see." I shifted uncomfortably.

Then Bell laughed, loud and merrily, and when she laughed it was impossible not to laugh with her.

We spent the rest of the day practicing. The void temple meditation rooms were markedly similar to Guemon’s containment cells, as they made channeling magic more difficult—though to a much lesser degree.

Bell had many talents, but teaching was not one of them. I had to ask her quite a few questions to get direct answers as to what I was doing wrong, and what should be done in its stead. As I summoned the air within the meditation room, I could see small tendrils of wasted energy much more clearly as they faded away. It made it much easier to isolate the problem, and by the end of the day I could summon a small amount of air mana, though not enough to cast anything substantial.

Jorra and Bell got into a small spat when she referred to the crevasse-side as the "rundown" part of the enclave. It wasn’t done with any intentional elitism, Bell was the sort of spiteless upper-crust that grew up in and around privilege, and wasn’t used to considering that not everyone she spoke to had the same background as her.

I managed to calm things down between them. Bell apologized, though Jorra refused. The mood was ruined, so we decided to call things for the day, making plans for a second meeting sometime soon. Bell seemed serious about making a schedule and proposed something in the next few days, then meeting weekly. Which sounded great, but the fact was it only gave us two meetings before the demons tore through the Enclave again.

Bell let us throw away our cloaks and masks in the waste bins behind the temple. It rankled, especially when money was so short, but I’d be getting a gold infusion from Persephone very shortly. A substantial one, if I played my cards right.

I hoped I was right about Shear. It had been a split-second decision. There’d been something in his face I didn’t like when he was talking about Ginger and the gravity-field. He’d waited for me to pose the question about it—he wasn’t foolish enough to bring it up himself—but once I’d stated the barest of concerns, he’d leaned in too hard. As if he needed me to believe him.

That was why I’d given Ginger the sapphire I’d pilfered from the gem-collection room, rather than Shear. Whatever game Shear was playing, I didn’t trust him, which was why I’d offered him up to Ephira. She likely had men interrogating him at that very moment.

The image made me wince.

I really hoped I was right.

Nethtari stopped us at the door. She set a handful of folders down to check Jorra’s forehead with the back of her palm, accepted his mumbled excuse that he wasn’t feeling well and sent him to bed. I hid the sapphire beneath a section of carpet where the floorboards had peeled up to reveal a hollowed-out section of foundation beneath.

As always, when I closed my eyes, I saw their bodies strewn about on the floor, myself standing over them.

What had they thought, in their final moments? How betrayed had they felt?

I thought of Agarin. And my mind shut it all away.

It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.

I still hadn’t decided how to handle everything, but this was the first reset. I needed to get comfortable with the idea of winging things and seeing what happened. If everything went poorly, Kilvius and Nethtari knew the date and time of the invasion. They’d be able to get out. Something about that felt selfish and unselfish, all at the same time. Like I should have cared more for the rest of the infernals.

Don’t get me wrong. I did care for them. As a whole they’d been welcoming, kind, and surprisingly inclusive. Much more so than the city of Whitefall would have been, if the roles were reversed.

But Maya’s family had taken me in and cared for me, despite the unenviable position it put them in. At the end of the day, they were the priority, Enclave be damned.

For the first time in nearly a week, I slept. There were no dreams or interruptions. Just a darkness so sweet and whole that it consumed all worries and fears, even if that tender moment of peace was nothing more than an illusion.

I awoke to Nethtari shaking me. Her hair was uncharacteristically messy, and the barely withheld panic in her face jolted me to high alert, my heart racing.

"What’s wrong?"

"Ephira’s men are outside. She sent a carriage. Said you’d know what it’s about."

The relief I felt was marginal. No one was attacking, no one had died. I still had a likely irate politician to deal with and a story to spin that I hadn’t quite finished forming.

"We have minutes, at most." Nethtari said. "When I told them I wasn’t sure if you came in last night, they tried to push their way in."

I shook my head. Even if I wanted to escape, Ephira likely had someone watching the house who saw me come in the previous night. She wouldn’t skimp on security, not on something like this. I needed to deal with it head-on. Delaying would only make things worse and potentially ruin my plans for the rest of the reset.

I took my time getting ready. Ephira was the sort that would judge me if a hair was out of place—normally not the sort of thing I’d care about, but at this particular moment I was the one who needed something from her, and coming to our meeting frumpled and unkempt would be detrimental at best, disastrous at worse.

I’d be less concerned if she hadn’t sent the carriage, rather than letting me come to her. It sent a definitive message: We do this on my terms.

Ephira’s carriage was lush, but I wasn’t able to appreciate the fine silks and ample space for long. Her guards, dressed in their frilly green tabards, piled in and surrounded me. Two on either side, three directly across.

I wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment that Ephira thought so highly of me, or an insult that she was trying to dominate me right from the beginning.

The image of Jorra soaking her with a massive globe of water came back to me.

Maybe the pettiness was justified.

The carriage creaked and bumped, the ride extending beyond an hour. I tried to talk to the guards, but they simply stared in return, regardless of what I said. I went through a long-list of jokes, trying to get at least one to crack a smile. When the one about the donkey and the honeycomb failed—though I didn’t know how, everyone with a soul laughed at that—I fell silent.

I reminded myself that there was no reason for alarm. Ephira would be a fool to kill me—especially when dozens of people had seen the carriage come and go. This was all just part of how the game was played. Ephira was a controlled, reserved person who hated to lose, and I had unsettled that status quo. Now it was her turn to show how capable she was of responding in kind.

The carriage finally rolled to a stop. I stepped out and found myself in an unfamiliar section of the surface caves. One half looked strikingly similar to the cave that Jorra and I practiced in. The other half looked closer to something out of the twilight chambers: a miniature ocean of clear blue water that led out to a platform no larger than a hundred square feet.

Ephira was sitting at a table covered in a rich green tablecloth. The table itself was set right at the edge of a sheer cliff. If the person in either chair were to attempt to rise on the wrong side of the table, they would fall screaming into the abyss below. I nearly rolled my eyes.

I get it already.

There was a small gondola waiting at the rocky shore. One of the guards, whom I’d been referring to in my head as the quiet one, ferried me out to the table where Ephira waited, hands held in her lap, eyes staring unblinkingly at me as I approached.

Careful to keep my footing, I stepped off the Gondola on to the shelf and bowed. "Greetings, Councillor."

Wordlessly, Ephira indicated the chair across from her with a graceful gesture.

I swallowed, and eased into the chair, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking over the precipice and inevitably failing. Far below, I could hear things snarling and fighting in the dark. Distant shapes collided and tore at each other. The legs of the chair were uneven, and it shifted. My stomach flipped, and I grabbed onto the table in fear.

Ephira studied me silently. The raging warrior that had been boiling beneath her demeanor only yesterday was nowhere to be seen. She was cold, serene, and calculating. I let the silence drag out. This was her meeting, her prerogative.

Ephira finally spoke over steepled hands. "I have some questions."

56

ENCLAVE XXVII

The degree to which I’d underestimated Ephira became clear the moment I took a seat at the table. I’d thought her to be melodramatic and petty. She was those things, but she was also more.

I was skilled in negotiation and statecraft.

Ephira was a master.

The chefs at the long table to my left side chopped food just a bit louder than necessary. The table was pulled slightly too far away from me to be comfortable. And I had no doubt the wobbly chair had its legs intentionally shortened. Every time it shook I was forced to cling to the table, and my eyes would naturally go to the massive chasm to my right.

At the distant base of the chasm, I saw a massive demon with a head half the size of its body skewer a smaller one, tossing it dozens of feet in the air, only to be tackled. Every time the chair shifted, it made it nearly impossible to think.

My father once told me that there are three aspects to a successful interrogation. Patience, leverage, and destabilization. She’d shown patience by sending a carriage for me and bringing me to her, rather than showing up at my house. She already had ample leverage over me for everything that had occurred at the Derdre Estate. And this entire set-up was her attempt at the latter—the attempt more literal and direct than most, but still effective and well-executed.

"I’m happy to answer whatever questions you have." I said.

"Oh, not yet, dear. I’m not so rude as to invite a guest to lunch and not feed them." She drank from her glass—a colorful mixture garnished with a black cherry sitting at its base.

I didn’t like the way she said it. Or the way any of this was going. I needed to get her to break from the script.

"We can dispose of the pretense, councillor. I am aware that I overstepped yesterday, and intend to make good on my promise to make it up to you."

She extended a finger from the hand holding her glass, emphasizing each word. "Nonsense. Pretense is important. As a prince, you of all people should know this."

I waved her point away. "I find that pretense is often little more than an excuse for high-born and nobility to edify themselves with boring pageantry."

"My, my, are you currently bored, my dear Cairn?" Ephira asked. She wasn’t wrong. I was many things, but bored was not one of them.

"Sorry, sometimes I gloat," Ephira continued. "It’s a character flaw. My point is that pretense is part of ritual. And ritual is all that separates us from them." She pointed down at the warring demons in the abyss with her glass.

I might as well ask. I’m sure she was dying for me to.

"Why are they fighting?"

"They are fighting because that is a particularly resource-rich section of the Sanctum shallows, fraught with soul fragments and blood glass. But if you mean in a philosophical sense—"

"I didn’t—" I interrupted, but Ephira barreled on regardless.

"They are fighting because they are animals. And animals must struggle to survive. It is in their very nature. Just as it is in our nature to jockey and negotiate for position."

"You look down on them."

"On the contrary, I enjoy watching them because they remind me how important the simple institutions of cordiality and manners really are. Should those institutions fall, we will be down in the dirt with them, murdering over scraps, consuming the flesh of the fallen. It is a struggle of the soul, if you will."

It was a common line of thought amongst the wealthy in Whitefall as well, typically brought up and bandied about whenever there was an uprising. Funny, how important manners were, when you wanted for nothing.

"So that’s all we are, in your eyes. Animals capable of higher thought, but animals just the same."

"After a fashion." Ephira confirmed.

I decided to engage with her, if only to distract me from the surrounding environment.

"I’d like to think we’re better than that. That the soul—or the essence of what makes us people, individuals, that it elevates us beyond the four-legged creatures that snuffle the ground and demons that battle in the dark."

"Isn’t that the same argument that allows your kind to dismiss us wholesale? The purity of the soul?" Ephira asked. As her gaze pierced me, I noticed for the first time that her eyes weren’t completely white. An outline of iris lurked beneath the ivory sheen.

"Shall I take responsibility for every slight a human has made against an infernal, then?" I regretted the jab as soon as it was spoken. Sarcasm would come off as petty and defensive.

"I suppose not. Perhaps we should stay on topic."

"Yes." I sighed in relief. "Let's get to it then,"

"To lunch." Ephira said, and I suppressed a groan. The chefs brought a handful of plates, their portions incredibly small. The appetizers included a simple wedge salad with a balsamic dressing and a small portion of soup, but what really gave me pause was the main course.

On first inspection it was nothing but ice, served in a steel bowl that reflected my questioning face as I peered down into it. As I looked closer, I noticed something of a visual distortion on the ice itself.

Then it moved. I jumped. There were perhaps a dozen small translucent squares. Ephira was watching me, a self-satisfied look on her face.

"I know your hosts aren’t exactly wealthy, but surely, you haven’t lived in the Enclave for a year now without hearing about sceo?"

As it happened, I had. Sceoquel gossamer slugs were mentioned around the enclave the same way humans might reference the Tacorn beef of Hiawakira.

"Only in passing."

"They are a cultural treasure." Ephira blew out the small odd candle that was offset next to her silverware. She picked up the smallest spoon on the plate and dug it into the reserve of wax that had formed. "First, you balm." She ran the spoon over her pale lips, giving them a blue sheen from the light reflected off the cavern pool.

I mirrored her, feeling uneasy.

"Now, traditionally, Sceo is eaten first, before the appetizer, without anything to drink." Ephira’s voice took on an instructional lilt. "You want the digestive tract working at full-capacity. It will reform too quickly if the squares are not cut exactly to spec. Now, you take a square and swallow." She placed the fork rather deep in her mouth to demonstrate.

"Do not, under any circumstances, chew."

"Why?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Because once the membrane breaks, it will be the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted. But it will also be the last." Ephira’s words were bereft of any humor. "The digestive enzymes in the Sceo will dissolve the tissues in your mouth, your gums, even your tongue.

My appetite, which was already hanging on by little more than a thread, fled completely.

Ephira smiled, clearly enjoying my reaction. "However, if you consume it properly, your stomach acid will neutralize the enzyme. And just a whisper of the taste that bubbles up is enough to render the memory of any delicacy you have ever consumed…" Ephira waved her hand in a mystical half-circle, "…utterly obsolescent."

I looked down at the tiny squares navigating the ice. The goal here was obvious. Ephira was trying to form psychological cracks. If I backed down and refused to eat, it would—in theory—upset the power balance between us, and make me more malleable for other aspects of conversation. Consuming the slug was also a form of submission in a way, but the alternative was worse.

Steeling myself, I skewered a piece. The ice clinked beneath the tines of my fork. The translucent creature expanded outward and inward, as if it was breathing. It slowly climbed to the root of the fork, a small tendril extending towards the neck of the fork itself.

I closed my eyes and thrust it into my mouth, swallowing quickly. My eyes widened when it refused to be swallowed. It’s texture burning and phlegmy. It was like being in the throes of a horrible cold.

It moved. It was climbing my throat.

And it was only then I noticed that my glass was still empty.

Ephira was watching me. Her mirth had died the moment I took my first bite. She knew what I needed, but she was waiting for me to ask.

Fuck manners.

I stood, keeping eye-contact with her, then with movements much more controlled and measured than I actually felt, I took my empty glass to the surrounding water and filled it. I drained the glass. Perhaps it was my desperation coloring the memory, but I remember the water tasting surprisingly good. The nasty thing clinging to the back of my throat finally went with it.

Ephira waited for me to explode at her. To rant and rave. But I simply refilled my glass and returned to the table. Then swallowed another square of sceo. This one went down much easier than the first, though whether the roiling, crawling sensation in my stomach was real or in my head I still don’t know.

"Leave us." Ephira spoke over her shoulder. The cooks silently packed up their things and entered the gondola, the sloshing of water the only sound in the cavern as they returned to the shore.

"Don’t trust your own people?" I asked.

"I trust them as much as is proper to trust anyone." Ephira said. She tidied her mouth with the corner of a napkin then settled her hands on her lap. "When did you first come in contact with Persephone?"

"What did you learn from Shear?" I shot back.

"Oh? Is that his name?"

"The one he gave."

"So not his name, then."

"I came into contact with Persephone nearly a week ago. What did you learn from Shear?" I repeated.

"I learned that Persephone has been employing a geis limiter on her employees, or a tethered oath, or something along those lines. He was sufficiently motivated to speak with me, he spoke with me—about half a sentence—then foamed at the mouth and expired, choking on his own spittle. What led you to Persephone in the first place?"

I cringed inwardly, but kept my face impassive. "I was directed to her." The image of the little girl with the deep brown eyes returned to me again. I recognized those eyes from somewhere. But where? "Investigating an external matter."

"External?" Ephira asked.

"External, as in it does not concern you."

"It certainly concerns me now." She paused for a beat, then continued when I did not respond. "Fine. You were directed to Persephone, where you, what? Arbitrarily decided to pick up a life of crime?"

"Not arbitrarily, no."

"So quid pro quo. You have chemical dependencies, but nothing so exotic you’d need someone like Persephone for, nothing on that level." Ephira mused. I bristled at the implication she’d just made, but she continued on unimpeded. "That leaves two possibilities, gold or demons. And I’m guessing it’s the latter."

"I went to her for information. Take it or leave it."

"And once she named her price, what did she say you were there to do?" Ephira asked.

"Acquire a sapphire. I’m confident now, though, that’s not actually what we were there to do." I drummed my fingers on the table.

"But that’s what you were told?"

"Yes."

"What tipped you off?" Ephira asked.

"A number of things. The fact that we weren’t told where the gem was. We were given two possible locations." I thought back to those initial planning moments. The way Shear had seemed completely comfortable with the haphazard nature of the plan. "But when we got there, the way was already unbarred for us. Shear said another team had swept through and cleared the way, but that didn’t make sense. The sewer passage being open was one thing. But the grates leading up from the sewer were unlocked from above. There was no way for a person to access the locks unless they were already in the yard."

"Implying Persephone has someone inside." Ephira observed.

"Right. If she has someone on the inside, why wouldn’t she know where the sapphire is?"

"Maybe the person doesn’t have access. Mifral employs a number of gardeners and landscapers, any of whom would be uniquely positioned to unlock the grates but not have a free-range within the rest of the estate. Could be a fluke.

"Not when you combine it with everything else," I insisted. "The gravity field was supposed to go off when we made our exit. Yet it went off nearly immediately, and Shear tried to pin it on another person. Add to that the fact that they sent us to check the bedroom safe, rather than the trophy room, when I’d imagine the chances were much higher it would be in the bedroom instead of out on display."

"You’re not wrong." Ephira admitted. She pushed the bowl containing her sceo aside, and I watched in muted fascination as it began to reform. "Mifral loves to flaunt her wealth, but the truly exceptional pieces she always keeps safeguarded and hidden."

"But the biggest giveaway of all," I continued, "Was that you were there."

"Me?"

"Yes. This thing was planned down to the minute. And if Persephone is as competent as she pretends to be—"

"She is." Ephira confirmed.

"—Then it seems highly unlikely she wouldn’t know a high councillor was scheduled to visit the target of a theft."

"So, if the point wasn’t the sapphire, what was it?" Ephira asked, in a voice that hinted she already knew the answer.

"Mifral is the biggest gem trader within the Enclave." I cocked my head at her. "You weren’t there for rest and relaxation—or if you were, it was a business meeting couched as a spa day."

"Nothing you’re saying is exactly hidden knowledge, Prince." Ephira said dryly.

"Persephone knew you would be there. She wanted you to lose face with Mifral, and intended to use a spectacular but ultimately bungled robbery to do so. Although…" I got lost in thought, having reached the end of my mental rope. "I’m not sure on the specifics of why."

For the first time since the discussion began, there was a silence that hung between us.

"Well…" Ephira finally said. "I know why."

I perked up at that. "Oh?"

"First, I’ll need some assurances."

Once I’d sworn the proper oaths and assured Ephira that my relationship with Persephone was nothing more than a matter of convenience, and that I would work with her to achieve the half-demon’s downfall, she finally explained the situation.

Mifral dealt mainly in gems, that was true. But she also dealt in rare artifacts that housed gems. These were often decorative, but as gems could be used to augment mana, they could be extremely powerful.

A few months ago a seventeen-year-old infernal returning from the Sanctum had brought back an artifact: a scepter crowned with a diamond the size of a fist. It had been sold to Mifral for a fraction of what it was likely worth. Only no one knew what it was worth because Mifral was holding it jealously, and not allowing for it to be appraised, forcing a blind bidding war.

There was an anonymous party in the bidding war that Ephira was confident was Persephone, and she was running out of money.

"What could an artifact of that class possibly do?" I asked

"The possibilities are almost endless." Greed danced in Ephira’s eyes. "But generally speaking, diamonds are most commonly used in artifacts that create illusions—often illusions so powerful, they’re indistinguishable from reality."

I stilled. I remembered my dark shadow, leaving Maya’s home, soaked in blood. Everything seemed to come into focus.

"So best-case scenario, Shear finds the scepter. But that’s less likely than the alternative."

Ephira nodded. "Persephone is trying to spook Mifral into selling early, while she’s still in the lead."

"I take it Guemon’s involved in this bidding war?" I asked, coolly.

"Not anymore. He dropped off in the last few weeks." Ephira said.

That confused me. "Then who’s left?"

It was that moment, the membrane of the slugs writhing in my stomach finally burst. The taste—though I didn’t taste it, exactly, more breathed it—was full, and savory, and exquisite, and overwhelming, as if I’d never truly tasted anything before.

But I only had a moment to enjoy it.

Ephira held up three fingers. "The remaining bidders are me, Persephone, and Ralakos."

57

ENCLAVE XXVIII

Sometimes, in the never-ending torrent of pontificating politicians and overpromising, over-literate clergy, we forget how powerful words are. A fool can say little with an entire dictionary. But sometimes, all it takes is a single word to change your entire perspective. Or in this case, a name.

Ralakos.

It’s not that I trusted him completely. I’m not convinced that I was capable of complete trust towards anyone but Maya, even then. But some part of it seemed absurd. It reminded me of an off-comment Cephur made, during our trek through the Everwood:

"You run into an asshole one day, you ran into an asshole. But if you run into an asshole every day? You’re the asshole."

Barion was a hermit with delusions of grandeur. Ralakos was a wealthy, well-respected council member and an arch-magician. But I had to admit, there were similarities between him and Ralakos. Both were egocentric, intelligent, and kind at first glance. They’d both gone out of their way to help me.

What were the chances, then, that both were secretly working against me?

The likelihood of that seemed low. Exceptionally low.

Still. Perhaps, subconsciously, some part of me had recognized the similarities. Maybe that was why I never quite warmed up to Ralakos, despite how he’d gone out of his way to welcome me, and help with my preparations for the Sanctum.

I remembered, vividly, the way he had lied at my hearing—acting outraged at the fact that I’d been held in one of Guemon’s Magus cells, as if it were the first he’d heard of it. The lie had been exceptional. So exceptional, that I’d asked Nethtari about it afterwards, only to learn that yes, he had known.

That alone meant little. But what it did mean is that if he was working against me, I was unlikely to realize it. But it still felt wrong. Barion only had to play his part for a week. Ralakos had been playing it for the better part of a year. It didn’t matter how good of an actor you were, eventually, something real would slip through. And I hadn’t felt a hint of malevolence from Ralakos.

And he’d told me about his son. It was one thing to use your dead child as a koss piece once. I knew a thing or two about parents who used their children as pawns. It was another entirely to do so repeatedly.

You will have no friends in the Enclave. Maya’s voice echoed in my head.

I needed to take myself out of the equation. What would happen between the councillors if I wasn’t here? Who would end up with the illusory scepter?

I thought on that for a long time. Ephira, surprisingly, did not interrupt me. In her line of work, of course she’d understand when to stop selling.

Finally, I came to a definitive point.

I was running out of days before the Asmodials attacked the Enclave. It was time to fully accept that this was likely not something I could solve in one attempt. I’d been forcing myself to think that way for far too long, using the resets as an excuse to take more risks, but not going so far as to consider discarding a reset entirely.

I told Ephira part of my plan, under the guise of strengthening our partnership by assisting her in acquiring the scepter. The artifact really was the key to all this. It didn’t matter who bought it, what mattered was who acquired it after the fact and used it to create my copy. After some quibbling over the details, she agreed, looking more than a little pleased at the outcome of our meeting.

I took one more look down into the battle-torn depths of the Sanctum, and muttered a quick prayer that my fate would end up better than theirs.

There was an ever-growing list of things I needed to do and not nearly enough time to do all of them. Ephira had set the meeting with Mifral four days from our lunch, roughly a week from the day of the attack.

It was my job to leak the details of the meeting to Ralakos and Persephone. The former would be easy. Just a side comment made during one of our meetings would suffice. The latter was much more difficult. After much deliberation, I finally decided to operate as if I hadn’t screwed her at all, leaving the sapphire out of it entirely.

It turned out, Persephone either didn’t realize we’d gotten the wrong one, or didn’t care. The entire point of the exercise was to stir up Mifral and she’d gotten that in spades. The sapphire itself was just a bonus. I manufactured a story about being scooped up by Ephira’s guards and questioned on the topic of the scepter, shaking Persephone down for "information I’d overheard" from her guards.

Overnight, between Persephone and Ephira, I went from having to pinch silver slivers together to afford ingredients for potions and alchemical tinctures, to having more gold than I knew what to do with.

I replenished the stock I’d all but exhausted in Mifral’s estate. After I was satisfied with my supplies, I set about spending my money in other, more creative ways.

First, I visited an inscriber. The idea of inscription magic had been nibbling at me ever since Maya had explained what it was, despite its drawbacks. I intended to have a few spells inscribed on my body, but discovered it was too late. Self-inscription was painful and would take nearly two weeks to heal. Even more problematically, it would weaken me significantly until my body accepted the runes.

So, I settled for regular old inscription magic. It required me to halve what I had just earned, but I ended up buying two scrolls: one would serve as an emergency healing spell, but the other I was most excited about. A teleportation scroll. It cost more than a house, but it was worth it. No more getting cornered and torn to pieces. If things went bad, I could get out fast.

I almost mindlessly set the recall location to Maya’s home, but quickly realized the folly of that. It would be as foolish as a prisoner escaping a jail only to visit home before fleeing across the ocean. Instead, I set the recall point to a remote rooftop on the residential side of town, and stashed a few of my healing salves and alchemical agents should I need them.

It didn’t take much to convince Kilvius and Nethtari to take a brief vacation. I was about to disturb the den of an unknown animal, and while they were certainly brave, they were not suicidal. All I really had to do was mention the fact that Ralakos’s alliance was uncertain; that alone was enough to send the color fleeing from Nethtari’s face.

Kilvius asked me quite a few questions regarding my meeting with Ephira, and it was clear he had a personal grudge against the woman, though I couldn’t pry the reason from him. I gave them a sizable portion of my remaining gold. More than enough to charter a wagon with an armed escort and pay for food for a few weeks.

Jorra begged to stay behind. I was relieved when Nethtari jumped in, preventing me from having to play the role of the villain.

I really didn’t want to have to tell Jorra to shove off. He acted immature sometimes, but that was to be expected considering his age. Beyond being a sparring partner and eventual companion within the Sanctum, Jorra had shown his mettle.

He tried to argue reasons he should stay. Then Nethtari made a slanted comment about there being plenty of time for reckless house robberies later, to which I started coughing and Jorra flushed purple.

I hugged Kilvius and Nethtari goodbye, and Nethtari brought over Agarin. My stomach twisted at the sight of him. But I couldn’t help myself. I held out a finger and he grasped it with both hands, cooing happily. I felt guilty. I’d been avoiding Agarin ever since the end of the last reset, even ignoring his cries the few times I’d been lying awake in bed, and he woke in the middle of the night.

Out of everything I’d seen, it was still the image of him that bothered me most. But none of that was his fault.

They left in the middle of the night, leaving me alone in the house with only my thoughts and memories for company

When Ephira’s carriage picked me up for the meeting, she was already waiting inside. All smiles and pleasantries now that we were working together, she gave me a gift: a new mask. The quality was much higher and it had been freshly painted, but it was close enough to my previous face-wear to be its double. We had talked briefly about this and decided it was best if I came in disguise, not because I necessarily needed to hide my identity, but because it would likely play to our strengths should the meeting play out as we hoped.

"You know, I could get used to this." Ephira considered me thoughtfully. "Having a prince at my beck and call."

"I’m hardly at your beck and call. Our—"

"Interests align, yes, I know. Still, sometimes it’s fun to pretend." Ephira said. The meeting was taking place outside an abandoned mining quarry, which was, coincidentally, the only information I’d leaked to Ralakos and Persephone. They’d have to do quite a bit of research and work on their own to narrow down which one.

"How do you want to play this?" I asked. "Blade or hammer?"

Ephira’s eyes were hard. "The time for subtlety is over. It is time for me to get what I am due."

"Hammer it is, then." I said.

We exited the carriage and navigated the winding upward path towards the mine. I caught glimpses of Ephira’s guards, hiding behind dilapidated equipment and piles of detritus, wearing unmarked armor. Persephone had been a thorn in Ephira’s side for too long, and now it was time to collect.

Goosebumps formed on the back of my neck as I looked at the men hiding in wait. I told myself that the unmarked armor didn’t mean anything. It made sense to use unbranded men for a situation like this, but it still felt far too reminiscent of the ambush within the twilight chambers.

It doesn’t matter whose side you’re on. You’re here to shake the tree and see what falls out.

There was the faint sound of arguing up ahead, coming off an old building that looked like a defunct mess hall. It had two guards in rose-colored tabards posted outside the doors, quietly facing outward as several less disciplined men in mercenary grays paced, before them, their eyes sharp. The tension was palpable, before we even entered the scene. Then it somehow ratcheted up even higher. The three groups of guards faced off. Ephira stepped forward.

"I have a meeting with Madame Derdre."

One of the guards in pink looked at the other, disquiet clear in his expression. "She’s a bit busy at the moment, Councillor."

"High Councillor. And what is your name?" Ephira asked sweetly. I’d been on the other side of that particular tone not long ago, and did not envy the guard whatsoever.

"Higat, ma’am."

"Excellent. Higat, let me explain to you how this is going to go." Ephira stepped forward and her men stayed behind, rather than escalating the situation. "You’re just doing your job. I get it. But my time is precious. I’m not going to threaten you. But what I am going to do is leave. Just that. Leave. And whatever plans your master intended to make with me will be null and forfeit. It is not my place to predict how blame will be assigned, but…" Ephira let the silence hang. The guards once more exchanged a meaningful look, this time laden with exhaustion, then stepped aside.

"Just you." The guard clarified.

"And my companion." Ephira held out a hand towards me.

"Fine." The guard rolled his eyes. "Just the two of you, then."

We walked through the double doors of the run-down mess. Rubble was strewn across the dust-laden ground, and dim light poked specular beams through holes in the roof. Considering the garish, gaudy nature of her estate, the break-in and theft must have shaken Mifral up quite seriously to cause her to stoop so low.

The voices arguing grew louder as we delved deeper and passed a few other guards, who gave tired looks but did not attempt to stop us.

"Just give me the scepter. The bid is already outrageous, there’s no way it’s even worth close to what I’m willing to pay."

"After everything I’ve been through in the last week? You can kiss my ass. It doesn’t matter how much you throw your weight around. I’m this close to calling off the auction all together and keeping it for myself. You can all go back to Hades for all I care."

I stepped through the door to find Persephone grabbing Mifral by the collar. She towered over the plump woman and looked ready to throttle her.

Mifral saw me and pointed. "You!"

Persephone’s mouth turned downward. "‘You,’ indeed."

58

ENCLAVE XXIX

I was incredibly relieved that Ralakos had not shown.

No one wanted to move first. Everyone stood across from each other, feet planted, eyes narrowed. The straining tension was insufferably thick.

Mifral, suddenly released by Persephone, shifted backwards on her heels like a leaf stirred by a summer breeze.

Ephira rolled her eyes. "For Nyx’s sake, sit down before you fall down."

Mifral did as she was told, only to pop right back up, defiant. "No. Not until you explain what he’s doing here." She pointed the same chubby finger at me again.

"Certainly. This is Sontar. He has been assisting me over the last few months in rooting out some… undesirables… in the Thulian District." Ephira’s gaze flicked to Persephone.

Persephone must have expected what was coming because she didn’t even bother trying to lie. Instead, she glowered at me from across the room. "Careful with that one, Councillor. From my experience, the loyalty of elves is easily bought."

"As if you didn’t set me up." I snapped.

"No idea what you’re talking about." Persephone shot back.

Mifral looked like a woman trying to watch all three fields at a tournament.

"Wait. So." She traced an invisible line from me to Ephira, to Persephone.

Ephira nodded. "It’s all a bit convoluted. The short version is that Sontar got word of a conspiracy to rob your estate. He didn’t have time to come to me, so instead, he inserted himself into the situation to help mitigate the damage."

"Mitigate!" Mifral’s face screwed up into a wrinkly mass. "They’re still cleaning up the damage! Thousands of rods. Not to mention—" she caught herself.

"Not to mention the sapphire you lost?" I asked. I pulled the giant gem from the pocket of my robe and approached her, placing it in her outstretched hand, bowing. "There were three of them, and only one of me. I apologize I was not able to do more."

From out of Mifral’s view, I saw Persephone visibly deflate.

Mifral stared into the sapphire, and a small sickly smile graced her lips. "Well. At least that’s something. Doesn’t excuse you for treating me like a savage, though." Her face grew furious and her furor shifted to Ephira. "You really ought to train your help better."

The slightest rumble of a growl emitted from Ephira’s throat. I didn’t bother pointing out that I had not, at any point, touched her. It likely wouldn’t have made a difference.

"Of course, Mifral." Ephira said, clearly losing patience as Mifral pulled a magnifying lens from her pocket to inspect the gem. "But there are more important matters to discuss. I did not invite this woman, and I suspect, neither did you. Though it is nice to finally get confirmation of the fourth bidder’s identity…" Ephira scanned Persephone up and down. "I’m not sure why you’d bother letting a half-demon bid on anything. Everyone knows her kind loves to cheat."

"She’s never been a problem before this scepter nightmare." Mifral muttered.

Persephone had been visibly deciding whether to stay or leave, and Ephira’s final taunt had made that decision for her. "Really. We’re going there? Why don’t you come down from your tower, councillor? Everyone knows the rumors of how you keep industry under your thumb. Bowing and scraping to the humans. Enforcing the tax mercilessly, then publicly decrying it as if it doesn’t line your pockets. You’re more of a thief than I am."

"Mifral." Ephira said, never looking away from Persephone. "You do not know this woman like I do. You have never had a bad experience with her because you have never had anything she truly wanted. She will not stop. The sacking of your home was just the beginning."

Hands trembling, Mifral visibly quivered at the words, clinging to the hem of her silk skirt. It was clear she wasn’t used to doing this sort of business in person, while Ephira was. If Persephone did nothing, Ephira would demolish any resistance and take what was hers.

As if sensing exactly that, Persephone closed on Mifral, coiling around her like a snake. "The councillor sounds so sure of herself, when in reality, she’s here for the same reason I am. The nobility is an act. The truth is, she’d rob you blind if she could get away with it."

"An argument that would have carried more weight had you not already gone out of your way to cause Mifral’s pain and suffering." I extended a hand out towards her, palm up. "Your men had every intention of harming Lady Mifral if she didn’t give up the key to the safe. They would have, had I not intervened."

"Yes." Persephone said dryly. "Thank goodness you were there, to protect her. As if you and your master weren’t scouting out the scepter to begin with."

I heard a deep, booming voice coming from the mess hall doors.

Ralakos.

I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing myself mentally. It didn’t mean anything, not yet. But it certainly wasn’t a good sign. Ralakos strode into the room, his arms moving freely, the easy-going nature that I knew him for all but vanished.

He saw all of us and did a double-take.

"Ephira." He observed.

"Ralakos," Ephira retorted, her voice an over-serious mockery of his. "We only need one more member to make this a meeting of the High Council."

Ralakos’s cool white eyes traveled the room, passing over Mifral, Persephone, and finally me. The edge of his mouth pulled upward. "And who is this gem in the rough?"

I was grateful my mask hid my face, as I’m not entirely sure whether I could have quashed the surprise in time. It was unmistakably a callback to the conversation we had in his advanced training room.

Ralakos knew.

All he had to do was take a single look at me, and he knew.

But why not keep it to himself? Why signal me?

Whatever he was doing, he was playing it close.

"My assistant." Ephira raised a slow eyebrow. "And what are you doing here, Ralakos? Just in the neighborhood?"

"Erdos likes to patrol the surface caves for demons." Ralakos shrugged. "Sometimes I accompany them. Keeps the nerves sharp in my old age."

Persephone had a faraway look on her face and was clearly regretting her decision to stay. The hate simmering in my direction was not lost on me. I would be wise to distance myself from her districts from now on. It was unfortunate. I didn’t really have anything against her, other than the fact that she had threatened to kill me.

The negotiation continued. Persephone was heated and Ephira’s ire rose until the two were just slightly short of shouting at each other, while Mifral quivered beneath, all but forgotten. Ralakos would chime in with a comment every once in a while but mainly seemed to treat the conversation like an outside observer would. He somehow ended up next to me.

"How goes the air magic?" He whispered conspiratorially to me, his hands behind his back.

I sighed, all at once feeling very silly in my disguise. "It could be better."

"You’ve been practicing?" Ralakos asked.

"What?"

"With Erdos’ daughter?" He continued, as if this were a completely normal conversation to be having and there wasn’t a civil war brewing right in front of us.

"Yeah. She’s helping me." I answered.

"She’s lovely."

"Mhm. Opposite of Erdos."

Ralakos looked to the side to hide a laugh. There was a sinking feeling in my gut then, as if I’d missed something critical.

It couldn’t hurt to ask. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That it was me?"

"Because you are my student." Ralakos grinned down at me, and for just a moment, I felt shame for suspecting him, even as fleeting as it was. "Also, I’ve been having you followed—"

"What?!"

"—for reasons we will talk about later." His smile disappeared, and his gaze went to the hole riddled-roof. A small stream of unsettled dust rained down.

Then another. And another. Until even the argument in front of us faded to quiet, all faces upturned towards the ceiling.

"You sent Kilvius and Nethtari away, correct?" His voice was tense.

"Yes."

"Good. Hide." Ralakos said. In a motion so fast it blurred, he called a combination of water and fire, weaving it together into a spell pattern more complex than any I had seen before, like a vibrant never-ending spiral of ovals within lines.

Then, before I could even react, or throw a hand up, he grabbed my shoulder and flung me backwards. Warmth transferred from his hand to my shoulder. He was incredibly strong and the force propelled me across the room.

My head bounced off the ground brutally, and my vision swam. There was a surge of alarm as my arms and legs disappeared, before I realized it was a result of the spell Ralakos cast.

I wasn’t completely invisible—there was still a distortion there if you looked close enough, but it was close.

The roof caved in, and a dozen dark shapes descended. Blue-eyed demons covered in that deep, frothing blackness crashed to the floor. Mifral started to run one direction and tripped, while Persephone dove beneath a nearby table.

I thought I’d seen real magic before, the night of the ambush in the twilight chambers. At the time it was completely overwhelming.

But that was the moment I understood:

I had seen nothing.

What I saw made the fighting in the chambers look like children attacking each other with sticks. There were dozens of demons, perhaps hundreds. An endless horrible stream of ripping claws and tearing teeth and fingers that extended like shadows.

Mifral died almost immediately, bisected diagonally, her mouth frozen open in a permanent fixture of horrified surprise. Persephone tried to run, but was pulled to the ground by a mass of smaller demons with glowing blue horns and torn apart by their clawing hands.

Ephira and Ralakos became gods given form.

Ephira glowed so brightly she was almost impossible to behold, the detailed lines of her form reduced to the glowing mass within a lumen lamp.

She flickered in and out of existence, smiting demons with a sizzling splatter every time she reappeared. I thought it was pure elemental magic, at first, but then she cast what can only be described as an electric firestorm, the roiling cloud she’d used to strike down Shear but in the shape of a tornado. A great white horse covered her back, trampling the demons behind her.

I knew she’d been holding back in the estate, for Mifral’s sake, but I had no idea the extent to which that was true.

Ralakos ran on floating fragments of earth, soaking demons in water so that Ephira could finish them, casting constant morphing waves of fire and flanged discs of stone. His shadow seemed to stretch out alongside him and break away from his actions, casting spells all on its own. The mess hall was reduced to rubble in seconds. Most of the soldiers had died in the initial surprise attack. There were a handful of small groups remaining, all with less than a dozen men.

I caught a glimpse of Erdos and his group being forced back down the path by an onslaught of greater demons.

It was happening again. I wanted to scream, or break something, or anything to let the gods know that I was tired of watching people around me die, and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Praying, I reached for the air.

It came to me as a breeze, as weak and limpid as it had been ever since that first time.

Strong as they were, Ephira and Ralakos were simply too outnumbered. Ephira kept trying to teleport, to weave the symbol that I recognized from my scroll, but there were too many, and she was interrupted before being able to complete the spell.

Ralakos was still holding strong.

Then it happened. I saw him for the first time. My bones turned to jelly.

The Arch-Fiend.

59

ENCLAVE XXX

It wasn’t dissimilar from the feeling Thoth gave off. This black aura of unbelievable power. He was around six feet tall. A foot taller than me, but only literally speaking. He was clad in a gray robe. His head, shoulders, and legs could have passed for a regular human’s.

But both his arms were armored in black chitin that reflected the constant blasts of fire and electricity. Cruel black blades jutted from the elbows of the gauntlets, the fingers of his hands extending into vicious claws. Shadow wrapped around him like a slinking, malevolent wreathe, and jagged horns formed a strange, oversized crown around his head. He floated in the air, several feet above the ground.

Ephira and Ralakos saw him simultaneously and stopped short.

Ralakos looked terrified.

The Arch-Fiend looked in my direction and I ducked down behind a boulder on the outskirts of the battlefield, invisibility be damned. I felt his eyes, searching, scalding, like the heat of a lumen searchlight.

The heat dissipated. I peeked up over the rock just in time to see the creature move. His hand barely left his side.

Ephira fell, clutching her neck, throat slit with a crimson gash.

Ralakos tried to cover her, but the Arch-Fiend pushed him back. Every time Ralakos tried to form a spell, the fiend moved his left hand with a dark glow, and Ralakos’s spell fizzled out.

Ralakos pulled his sword and imbued it with a glowing white light. The fiend didn’t try to cancel it, just watched with muted interest, like a predator observing trapped prey.

My hand squeezed on the hilt of my sword. I’d coated it in rose oil beforehand, but I knew from my experience with Kastramoth that demon-fire would do next to nothing for me in this situation. I had my alchemical flash powder and molten smoke, but Ralakos was surrounded by a legion of demons. They weren’t waiting politely, either. Every time he would drift too close to the edge of the circle, they would swipe at him.

There was nothing I could do.

Ralakos dove at the Arch-Fiend, sword swinging in impossibly fast patterns only to be slapped out of the air. He landed on his side, and the Arch-Fiend’s hand glowed blue, forcing Ralakos into a kneeling position.

"Take him." The Arch-Fiend’s voice was loud enough that I felt it resonate in my lower back, a vibrating fire that shuddered down my spine and through my sciatic nerves.

Through the terrifying fog, I had enough conscious thought left to realize the discrepancy.

They were taking Ralakos captive. Why?

Logically, it had to be him. All other possibilities had been slaughtered. Ephira was close to Ralakos in skill, if not stronger. So, why take him?

The Arch-Fiend’s head snapped over towards me. I dove to the ground and swore when I realized I could see my hands.

The invisibility had worn off. In a shaking, sweating panic, I pulled the teleportation scroll from my side and unrolled it, pouring mana into the rune. It must have taken only seconds to fill, but each one ticked by agonizingly slowly.

I felt that spotlight heat on the back of my neck again.

Slowly, I looked up. The Arch-Fiend was watching me ominously, floating above the rock.

"Don’t make me chase you."

My entire body vibrated with the sound. For a moment, I almost considered it. It was over. But then I remembered what Nethtari had said about demons and royal blood. Somehow, I didn’t think they would just let me die. The random Greater Demon that killed me the first time in the Enclave likely did so on instinct.

This one was different.

There would be other things in store for me.

I finished channeling. There was a snapping whoosh and I felt my body being flattened and pulled all at the same time. For a moment, the Arch-Fiend’s face disappeared, and I was pulled into a shimmering blue light.

Then, from below, I felt pain. A monstrous black hand had reached through the distortion and grabbed my ankle. It yanked me backward; the entirety of my skin strained under the force, feeling as if it might tear loose.

I hit the ground, a whimpering, shivering mess. I was back behind the same boulder as before. The scroll had failed.

Two demons hauled me up by my arms. They cackled and giggled like sadistic children. The arch-fiend looked on, impassive, as they dragged me away.

"I told you not to run." The Arch-Fiend’s eyes bored into me.

I hung upside down from a chain, slowly swaying from side to side. The chamber was somewhere under-ground. For now, the agony had receded into the cold, cool, annals of shock. Droplets of blood trickled down the back of my neck through my hair, dripping steadily onto the floor.

I had thought that I no longer feared death. That pain—while horrible and never something I could ignore—could eventually be shrugged off. After I died, the pain would go away. It was rational. What had happened with Kastramoth happened because everything was still so new. I wasn’t used to it yet.

I was wrong.

I think it’s probably better to leave some of the details sparse. I’d rather not relive them, any more than you want to hear them. But I can’t just omit what happened to me completely. So much of that night has stayed with me, even after everything else.

The sound a ligament makes when it is severed.

How the open air feels on the uncovered nail bed of a finger.

The metal scrape of pliers on teeth.

How it feels to breathe when you no longer have a nose.

The unbearable pressure of a thumb on an eye, and the squelching sound it makes as it ruptures.

The sound of my voice, begging for it to stop, only I don’t remember speaking the words—only hearing them.

The reminder that no matter how many times—whether tens or hundreds—I revealed the truth and nature of my soul, they would never remember and always ask again, ignorant of my earlier confession.

How it feels as your mind peels away from your body and simply watches, observing as someone you don’t know is brutalized by someone who doesn’t matter, watched by another someone whose name you cannot recall.

The blissful escape that only dreams could provide.

"You have to remember, Cairn."

I blinked. Sunlight streamed down between the trees.

Startled, I tried to sit up. Soft hands pushed me down. Lillian’s chocolate brown eyes stared down at me through a canopy of mussed hair.

It was one of the fields we frequented for picnics, far from the castle, about a mile from the Everwood proper. It was Auburnswell, likely the first few weeks, as the leaves had faded to burnt orange but had not yet begun to fall.

"I’m dreaming," I said.

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Does it really matter?" Her voice was music. I looked down at myself. The skin on my left arm was intact. My fingers were whole and uncrushed. Over a distant hill, the distinct trill of a pine warbler echoed across the clearing.

"What matters is that you have to remember," Lillian insisted. Her fingers danced across my forehead.

"Remember what?"

"The name of the Arch-Demon."

As soon as the words ‘Arch-Demon’ were spoken my head began to ache. I draped an arm over my forehead, grimacing. "I’m trying."

"I know you are," Lillian said. "My dear, sweet, forgetful Cairn."

"I’m not the forgetful one here," I groused at her. "Miss apothecary-who-never-remembers-what-her-ingredients-are-called."

"True. I’ve forgotten the name of a plant or two—"

"—Or two." I chuckled at the understatement.

"But you, my darling, are much worse. You have forgotten more than most people have lived."

That felt important, somehow. I tried to sit up and look at her. "What does that mean?"

Lillian stayed silent. Her dress had slipped down her left shoulder, revealing a mass of freckles that speckled her collarbone. It was a familiar sight, one that had once filled me with longing and invited my lips.

But now that feeling had dulled to a mild throb.

I looked away, into the forest, sadness building in my chest.

"Do not feel guilty, my love." Lillian hugged my arm to her chest, planting tender kisses down my shoulder.

"How can I not?" I whispered.

"Look at me." She took my chin in her hand and tilted my head towards her. "You will always be my Tristan. And I will be here for you, if you need me. That will never change. But I am no longer your Eloise."

I wanted to deny it. But it was true. My mind had been so full of magic, and languages, and demons, that I had not thought of Lillian in months.

"If I remember," I asked, my voice catching, "do I have to go back?"

"Yes."

"Can I just stay with you here, instead?"

"You can."

"But you’re saying I shouldn’t."

"Yes."

I laid back on the blanket, staring up at the cloudless sky. Slowly, I breathed in the mana, letting it fill me, the chaos of my mind fading into serenity.

"His name… is Ozra."

I snapped back into the underground chamber the second the name left my lips. Everything hurt. I tried to scream, but a bloody, bubbly hack came out instead. I continued drawing the mana, trying to clear my mind and only partially succeeding. With my remaining eye, I panned the room.

There was a table with bloody implements to my right.

They’d tied my wrists together with ropes, as they were too swollen for manacles.

Immediately, I tried to summon the spark, but it fizzled out.

After what felt like hours, I managed to free a hand

The door creaked open and I began to whimper. A small body was tossed through, legs and feet bound.

A demon stepped through the doorway—it was one of shadowy greater demons, the same sort that had killed me the first time. She pulled the hood off the infernal’s head.

"Guess who came looking for you?" The demon whispered.

Only then did I see his face.

Jorra was hyperventilating. His eyes were dyed an excruciating pink, and trails of snot dripped down from his nose on to his chin.

"Jorra." I said. It came out more like "Jooaaa."

Jorra started weeping, his eyes glistening in the dim light. "Cairn? Cairn! Please. Please. Tell me you have a plan. Cairn, they’re going to kill me if you don’t tell them what they want to know."

I froze. He was bound, I was bound. My gaze went to the tools on the plate.

"Ki. Thh Staa."

Kick the stand.

"What?" Jorra asked, his eyes wide, "Oh my god. Oh, gods. What did they do to you? Cairn, your face—"

I repeated it again, and this time he got it.

With a bit of rolling and maneuvering, he could kick it an inch or two towards me. Though my whole body screamed, I began to shift my weight from side to side, swinging the chain, arm outstretched desperately. The thumb and index finger on my hand were both still good, so it’d be less of a grab, more of a pinch.

I heard the demon’s voice outside. She was talking to someone, their conversation carrying a low, mirthful tone.

Metal clinked beneath my fingertips. I was aiming for a saw, or really anything to cut through my binds but came up with the short, sharp blade of a scalpel instead.

I swore, and started trying awkwardly to cut through the rope that held my other hand, the blade biting into me repeatedly as I sawed. Slowly, the hope drained out of Jorra’s face.

He saw it before I did. We weren’t getting out of this.

I heard the clink of keys outside the door.

There was only one way I could help Jorra now.

"Clo yoh eyes."

Close your eyes.

It comforted me that he listened.

No one saw me cut my own throat.

It took two tries.

The first time I pulled back right before the vein. The second time the blade struck true; warm red gushed down my throat, past where my nose used to be and into my eyes and splattered in a torrent onto the floor.

I heard Jorra cry out before the world went black.

Again.

60

ENCLAVE XXXI

Again.

I heard the words, but the darkness did not flee. It gathered around me like a blanket, muffling my perception with a dull groaning buzz. I held on to the void and immersed myself in it. Strangely, it was no longer as terrifying as it once was. It felt familiar.

It felt safe.

The great black beast rose from the ebony pools, dark matter drifting off its colossal form. The feel of it had changed. Once, it had the aura of a reptile, like the dragons of decades gone by. Now, if I had a bit more definition, it could have easily passed as a beastly horse, its appearance alien and equine in equal measure.

"Why are you here?" It repeated the same question as so long ago, the question seizing all conscious thought.

I opened my mouth to speak, surprised to find that—unlike the last time—I could.

"Because the gods are cruel." The words were bitter. "I am here because the gods decided it would be amusing to make a coward a hero."

"Mmmmm." The great black beast vibrated. It could have meant anything, but it felt like anger, somehow. "Wrong. You are here because you have not yet learned the lesson."

"What lesson?"

The beast bent down until all that stood before me was a massive wall of blackened flesh. "The cycle must end. That is tantamount. Your life does not matter. The lives of those around you do not matter. All that matters is that the cycle is ended, and this world is allowed to come to its natural conclusion."

A surge of anger cut through the terror. "So, what’s left then? Giving up? Letting Thoth win? I don’t understand." As soon as her name was mentioned, the black beast seemed to shudder in revulsion.

"The linchpin must be sundered." The black beast rumbled. "As long as it exists, this world will be forever held in stasis, its gods unable to return to the cosmos."

"Wait. Thoth is the linchpin?" Even within the fog of my mind, I knew this was important. It was so difficult to think clearly here. "So what happens if she dies?"

"The linchpin must be sundered," the black beast repeated in the same tone of voice.

It looked like I wasn’t going to get much more in terms of usable information. Still, the timing of this felt strange. "Why are you telling me all this now? There were plenty of opportunities before."

The beast did not answer. Instead, a series of images flashed in front of my mind. I saw myself from the outside. I was laying in an infirmary bed on my back, arms resting over the blankets. At first, I thought I was sleeping. But my eyes were open and blank. I stared up at the ceiling. A trickle of drool ebbed from my mouth.

Nethtari was holding my hand while Kilvius dabbed perspiration from my forehead with a cloth, balancing Agarin in his other arm.

"Any news?" Nethtari had deep-seated bags under her eyes, and her complexion had suffered.

Kilvius shook his head, his face grim. "The same word as before. Nothing physically wrong with him. His mind is another story."

"Maybe we should call for Maya."

Kilvius snorted. "The life mages are more than capable. I doubt she could do anything they can’t."

"It’s not about that, Ni’lend. I mean, maybe she could make a difference, but that’s a shot in the dark." Nethtari rubbed her forehead with both hands. "They’re close. Maybe hearing her voice would make a difference."

While Kilvius considered it, he set Agarin down next to me on the infirmary bed. Agarin toddled, pushing himself on his knees, so he could pat my stomach. "I think you’re right. But… let’s give it a little more time, Neth. Ralakos’ elven healer could make the difference, once she gets here."

"Another week. Then we hire someone to find Maya and bring her back," Nethtari said. Kilvius scooped Agarin back up and left. After a moment’s consideration, Nethtari leaned in to speak to me, her brow furrowed, her monotone voice earnest.

"Sentimentality isn’t really my thing, but here it goes. Jorra’s been asking about you every day. He really got used to having you around." Nethtari wiped at her eye. "You know, you’ve always surprised me. From that very first day. We don’t really entertain visitors, I mean, you remember how much of a wreck the house was. The thought of bringing visiting royalty into my home—regardless of the circumstances—was horrifying. I was so embarrassed. But you didn’t turn your nose up, not in the slightest."

Nethtari’s mouth turned upwards, slightly.

"At first, I thought, oh, he’s just polite. Then we clashed at the trial. When Ralakos asked you to stay with him, I thought for sure you’d take it. After all, you’d seen our home, how we lived. Why stay in a hovel when you can stay in a mansion? And yet, you surprised me again." She squeezed my hand. "You’re like family to us. Maybe that’s silly, maybe it’s not. All I ask is that you surprise us, one last time."

The silence hung, as I watched outside myself.

Nethtari seemed to stir suddenly, gaze shifting towards the window at something beyond my view. "What’s happening out there?"

The auric sun turned red.

"I don’t want to see this," I said, looking around for the black beast.

"You seem to think, if you hide in the sickness of your mind, that nothing will happen. That you can simply cease to exist."

"Please stop."

The demons tore through Nethtari like she was made of paper.

"The linchpin must be sundered."

Kilvius fell to the ground in a spray of blood, holding Agarin to his chest protectively.

"You cannot hide."

Jorra opened the door, revealing a boy who looked like me. "Cairn! You’re back!"

I buried my sword in his stomach. He didn’t cry out. Just looked at it like it couldn’t possibly be true, like his mind was playing tricks on him.

"STOP!"

"This has already happened. You have been asleep for too long."

I watched it, again, and again, and again.

Three times, I lay comatose.

Three times, they died screaming, covered in blood as I floated, incorporeal.

Three times, I failed them.

Again.

A large figure leaned away from me, pulling his hands back. Theros backed away from the infirmary bed as if threatened by a poisonous snake.

"I didn’t do anything—" Theros started.

Kilvius pushed him aside, though in actuality the larger man barely moved.

"Cairn, you’re up!" The relief in Kilvius’s voice was palpable.

I was back. The thought flooded me with terror and relief in equal measure.

"Where’s Nethtari? Where’s Agarin and Jorra?" I panned the room a half dozen times in quick succession, the panic raising bile in my mouth.

Kilvius’s enthusiasm turned bemused. "Nethtari took Agarin home for a bit, Cairn. Everyone’s okay—"

"What day is it?" I interrupted him, my teeth gnashing together as I gripped the blankets tightly.

Kilvius seemed to understand how important the information was to me. He thanked Theros for his help, and the large man slipped out through the doorway and waved to me awkwardly in a gesture I did not return.

Then he pulled up a chair and sat next to me. "It’s the thirteenth, Cairn."

Eleven days. I’d already lost eleven days.

The wind rose around me, stirring several pieces of paper and knocking a metal stand over.

Kilvius did not falter. He put his hand on my wrist gently. "It’s okay. You’re safe." The contact felt comforting. I felt the tears begin to start again.

"You just collapsed, a few minutes after Maya left. Nethtari and I thought—" Kilvius paused. "Well, we thought it might have been something else. Can you tell me what happened?"

I had a vision.

The words stuck in my throat. How would I explain it to him? What? That I’d had a vision and it’d rendered me comatose?

No. That was pointless.

"I don’t know," I said numbly, too tired to make up a better lie.

"It’s important, Cairn."

"I don’t know, dammit!" I shouted at him. I wanted to rant and rave, but the way Kilvius leaned back from me made me sick to my stomach. "It’s all a blur" I said, my voice emotionless.

"That’s okay," Kilvius said. He reached over to hug me. His touch made me feel nauseous. I didn’t want understanding. I didn’t want compassion. They were useless emotions, and neither of them would help me fix this.

The light from outside seemed inordinately bright. Everything in the infirmary that was poorly aligned irritated me further, and the fog clouded my thoughts.

"Can you get a life mage to fix my head?" I asked.

Kilvius blinked. "They already did, Cairn. That’s why Theros was here. To see if an alternate element would have a better chance of awakening you."

Not good. Terrible, in fact. The way I felt now was worse than how I’d felt immediately following Kastramoth’s ending of my escape attempt in the Everwood.

Something played at the edge of my vision and I jumped. I thought for sure I’d seen the Arch-Fiend there leering—

Watching silently as the woman signed her demonic name within my flesh, the stroke of the scalpel her calligraphy pen, the blood leaking from me her ink. Over and over she asked me the same thing.

"What happened to your soul, little human?"

I told her frantically about the soul damage from my overuse of the demon-flame, but that did not satisfy her. She cut and cut and cut until my explanations spanned hundreds of lies, anything to make her stop, but she would not believe me no matter what I said, simply holding her pen to her lips and whetting the tip before the writing started once more—

"Cairn? Cairn." Kilvius shook me gently, his eyes full of concern. I did not deserve his kindness.

I did not want his kindness.

"Let me be," I said, my entire body shaking.

Kilvius looked torn.

"I need to think. Alone." I said. My voice deepened to a timbre that was not my own, but one I’d heard many times, all throughout my childhood.

Slowly, Kilvius stood. "I’ll be back later."

I didn’t respond.

I walked barefoot throughout the Enclave. Practically everyone I passed paused to gape, hinting at what a bizarre picture I made. My bare feet grew sore against the pavement, but still, I trudged on, following a familiar path to the surface caverns.

The shadows and whispers assaulted me at every turn. I could hear them laughing, taunting me. Chiding my weakness. Reminding me of the way I had begged, over and over, for it to end.

Maya. I wanted Maya back.

Mind entrenched in the depths of the memory, I found myself in the surface cavern that Jorra and I practiced in. The straw targets loomed distantly.

I let the mana wash over me in a torrent. It did not bring me peace. Nothing brought me peace. I breathed out air and began to weave the spell. Then, I released it.

Over and over, the invisible line of compressed air struck against the target, bits of yellowed straw splitting and flying free.

It wasn’t enough, not even close. But it was an improvement.

I cast projectile after projectile until my vision began to gray at the edges and my mind buzzed.

Exhausted, I immersed myself in the crystal lake. I heard my father’s voice. He was laughing at me. In my mind’s eye, I saw him lean over the shallow pool, his arms crossed.

"Weak."

For the first time in my life, I agreed with him wholeheartedly. I had been weak. I’d been afraid of failing. Afraid of dying. The demons had shown me exactly how useless that fear was.

There was something I needed to do. Something critical. This reset was almost certainly lost, but that didn’t change the fact that I could not let what happened to me happen again.

Never again.

I trudged back to the empty house and gathered all my gold. Then, having donned my clothes, I left the mask behind and made my way to the Thulian district.

There were many spells I wanted to have inscribed.

But one stood out beyond the rest.

61

ENCLAVE XXXII

"What kind of edgy adolescent crap is this? It’s a recipe for disaster, it is." The red infernal named Garth was bulky, wearing a simple black apron that reflected my face. I’d opted for the establishment that Persephone had pointed me to in the past life.

"It’s what I want."

I had done a good deal of research on this before bringing it to the inscriber. My biggest danger was no longer death. Rather, it was psychological damage. I hadn’t truly understood the gravity of that until now. But survival instinct wasn’t something I could just shake off. Even as desperate and horrid as my previous circumstances were, it was untenably difficult to cut my own throat. My mind fought me until the last moment.

Had Jorra’s life not also been on the line, I doubted I could have gone through with it, and could have easily lost track of time and missed the chance to restart the scenario. So, I needed to make it effortless to carry it out once the decision had been made.

I needed a way to take pain out of the equation.

"You’ve got no other inscriptions, and you want to start with that?"

"It’s important. And I’m paying." I shook the bag.

"If death is what you seek, boy, there are easier ways to find it." He said. He was sketching something on a paper pad, clearly having already dismissed me in his mind.

"It’s not about that. It’s about being able to live fearlessly, knowing the consequences of my actions cannot reach beyond a certain point."

The inscriber gave me a weary glance, then looked over the design again. "I’ve done this sort of thing before. Usually for mercenaries who work in the vast reaches of Uskar, and the occasional demonologist. There’s a problem with your design."

I looked down at the sketch. It was a simple inscription for a displacement lance, the sort of advanced air magic I couldn’t hope to form at my current stage. It was a form of hyper pressurized air-cannon that could force air through matter, a much tinier version of the wind-scythes I had been practicing just hours ago. Due to their size and the minimal mana bonding them together, they dissipated quickly and were more of a short-range tool. From what I read, these narrow focus short-ranged spells were often used for assassination when a dagger couldn’t get the job done.

"What’s wrong with it?" I asked, turning the design from side to side.

"It's too large." The man groused, fingers toying with his narrow mustache.

I was mildly offended. "The mana requirement is practically nothing."

"Aye. But not small enough." He eyed me knowingly. "Look here. If you’re serious, and this isn’t some strange-teenage-fascination-with-death thing, what you want is something brutally efficient. Something that will go off immediately, and take as little mana as possible to do so. This design," he tapped the page, "will take several seconds to charge, and it’s also not guaranteed to kill immediately."

"Really? The heart won’t do the job fast enough?"

From prior experience, I found that difficult to believe. When Barion’s sword had run me through in his basement my entire body started to shut down almost instantly.

"No," Garth confirmed, his face grim. "Especially if you run afoul of a dark elemental who decides he wants to keep you alive with the power of your own blood."

I watched, morbidly fascinated as he reworked the design, redrawing the lines until it was strangely symmetrical, like a monochrome rendition of a landscape reflected in a lake.

"This will go on your chest." He poked me in the sternum, considering the placement. "We’ll wire a mana shunt through here." He drew a line up past my neck to the back of my head. "You’d be surprised the amount of damage the body can sustain—"

I very much doubted that.

"—So we want to be particular in our target. There’s a part of the brain that no healer can touch, the base which connects it to the nervous system. A quick stab there, and it's all over. Lights out. No coming back, no matter how skilled the life or death magician involved."

The man seemed to be waiting for a reaction, for me to pull back due to the detailed description, and seemed perturbed when I didn’t blink.

Why would I? It sounded like exactly what I was looking for.

My confidence evaporated once I was in the chair. I had to remind myself over and over that, I was not constrained or strapped to it. I could leave any time I wanted.

Then he began to place the needles. The effect was instantaneous. My mind peeled back from my body and I found myself watching from the outside, unable to move.

The Arch-Fiend lurked over me again, immobile and silent. Ozra waved his hand and the demon that had been dismantling my nails excused herself, placing the tool on the tray and rising to her feet. His face was vaguely foreign, human enough that I wondered if he was once human, before whatever happened that made him into this.

"We were not told of your bloodline, before the promises were made. It is unfortunate and not in the spirit of our agreement. Our benefactor will pay for their deceit before the week is out."

He undid the bandage on my face covering my ruined nose, observed the damage impassively, then replaced it.

"Look at you. Terrified. Broken. It makes me wonder why they fear you so."

I groaned, a wave of pain hitting me all at once. What did he mean, they feared me? Who feared me?

Ozra bent down to study me. "And I do wonder. They insisted. We were never to mention them by name. Despite knowing we would have you well in hand, despite knowing that there is no chance of your escape. Still, they insisted. Never mention their name. Why is that? I don’t suppose you’ll cut to the chase and just tell me?" He waited idly for my response, then clapped his hands.

"Fair enough. I have an attack to organize. Ebi will get it out of you, one way or another. It’ll be better for you if you just tell us what you know. But I’m happy to wait if that’s what you want."

He left.

Of all the evil I’d encountered, Ozra was different. He had no patience for games or chewing the scenery. He simply existed and expected the world to bend to him accordingly, and had the power to back it up.

The demon called Ebi returned, and replaced my hand in the vice.

I sat forward in an explosion of movement, gasping for air. I was back in my body and the pain was a vivid throb. The inscriber cursed and pulled his pen away.

"The hells?" He sputtered.

"Can… can we take a break?" I panted.

The infernal stepped aside wordlessly and I rose, staggering to the sink. At first, I thought I might vomit, but the nausea subsided. I washed my face, gasping for air.

"First one’s the hardest," the infernal said, "though not usually as painful as it seems to be in your case."

I looked at it in the mirror. The jagged demonic text was nearly completed on one side of the vertical line that bisected my chest, meaning the inscription process was less than halfway done.

"It’s not uncommon for folk to do this over a matter of days," Garth said, picking up on my disquiet. "We can continue tomorrow, or the day after."

"No," I ran a dampened hand across my face. It was difficult enough to get up the nerve to do this the first time. I didn’t want to give myself the chance to back out. "Let’s finish it now."

I sat back down in the chair and Garth began to work on me again. My mind did not flee as it had the first time. Instead, I found myself pondering Ozra’s words.

"They insisted. Never mention their name."

That was critical. I knew it. There was another layer to this. I ran it all back in my mind over the course of hours. There were certain things that put me off about Ralakos and prevented me from disqualifying him directly. The way he had acted at the trial. His arcane savvy, his inscrutable nature, his family history. If it wasn’t Guemon—and I didn’t see how it was, given that Ralakos had men watching him for the majority of the previous reset—it was almost natural that it’d be Ralakos, controlling things from behind the scenes. It was a subtle, layered sort of manipulation, the kind I’d expect from someone of Thaddeus’s ilk, the kind that followed a natural narrative.

The more I thought about it, the more Ralakos seemed to be the person I was led to suspect. Led being the keyword.

Never mention their name.

Ralakos had been captured, while every other attendant at the mine had been killed.

Never mention their name.

It hit me all at once. The person behind it all was smarter than I’d given them credit for, and knew far more than I’d expected.

They knew. The person pulling the strings knew about my resets.

Or more specifically, they knew about my visions. That was the only reason for them to emphasize so strongly to the demons that they remain hidden behind the scenes. They knew there was a chance that any particular moment that I experienced could be gleaned and observed in the past.

I listed them out on one hand. Kilvius, Nethtari, Maya. All of them knew. As paranoid as I was, I was not willing to entertain the idea that any of them had betrayed me, at least not intentionally. It was entirely possible, however, that one of them had let the information slip. Likely early on, before I’d fully formed relationships with them and my presence was still novel and new.

Or, when my life was in danger, and Maya was bartering for my continued survival.

The possibility seemed disturbingly likely. They’d wanted to send me away, making sure that if I died, I died outside the enclave. Had Maya told someone? Had word carried from that person to the one who now held our lives in their hands?

My mind clouded, memories of pain and agony chasing away all rational thought. But even as the darkness descended upon me, I was certain I was right. Someone had been playing this game from the very beginning.

And I was done being toyed with.

Garth finished my inscription, handing me a small bottle of ointment to be applied in the mornings and evenings. It wasn’t as intensive as other inscriptions and would take a shorter time to heal, but he still advised me to take it easy on expending too much mana lest I risk an infection.

I thanked him for his time and left. He’d charged me much less than expected. I considered returning to the house, but the idea of facing Nethtari and Kilvius turned my stomach. Instead, I headed to Casikas’s apothecary. The time for subtlety and subterfuge were over. There were a few things I would need.

I didn’t care if he was sick.

It was time to visit Guemon.

Our conversation was long overdue.

62

ENCLAVE XXXIII

I read quietly within my mother’s quarters, as I often did when she was taken with sudden bouts of the consumption we eventually came to know as Nithia’s syndrome. It hadn’t gotten serious yet, Father still insisting it was nothing more than the occasional weakness of the body that had plagued her since childhood. Still, I had been practically raised on stories with protagonists who lost parents or parental figures to early tragedy, so some part of me was terrified that if I left her, even for a second, fate would take her from me as part of some overwrought inciting incident.

I couldn’t know then, of course, that losing a parent to sickness doesn’t motivate you to do much of anything. The opposite is more often true. When losing one of the precious few in the world who loves you unconditionally, the world itself loses much of its luster. You rally against the gods, against fate itself, and the things you used to enjoy lose their sheen, and the priorities you once held reorder themselves until the list is practically unrecognizable.

Not knowing any of that, I stuck to her side like glue, terrified that my life would take the same course as so many of the stories we had shared.

It was more difficult to delve into the serious, Neo-fable styled fiction I’d grown so accustomed to while she was sick. So instead, I read light things. Biographies of famous figures. Comedies. Stories about characters who had little to worry about other than going to school and learning.

The closest I’d come to reading a serious tale was the story I currently read. The Ghoul Charmer, an amusing, pulpy novel about a wandering bard that found himself in all manner of trouble. The bard had a chaotic and amusing relationship with a patron god who treated him well and looked after him, so long as he followed the rules.

"Do you dislike it?" my mother asked, setting her book down on her simple white gown. "You’re reading slower than usual."

"It’s not dislike, exactly, it’s just not really grabbing me." I closed my book, leaving my finger between the parchment to hold my place. "Ildran always seems to have things magically work out for him. Either his god interferes or he acquires a new spell that is exactly what he needs to overcome his problems."

"You’re unhappy that your lighthearted adventure story is lighthearted?" Mother teased.

"That’s reductive." I rolled my eyes. "And it’s not about tone, more about substance. I just wanted something more…"

I felt father coming through the slight vibrations in the floor before I saw him. He stepped into the room smoothly, holding something behind his back. The daisy looked comically small in his massive hand, smaller than a blade of grass.

He saw me, and the flower immediately disappeared within the gulf of a palm turned fist, a single crushed petal falling to the floor.

"Good afternoon, my King." My mother’s voice took on the smooth, measured nature it always did when she was talking to Gil.

"Wife," Gil grunted. He was still focused on me. "Why aren’t you in the practice yard with Sera?"

I shuddered slightly. The last time I’d sparred with Sera she’d left so many bruises that I was unable to sleep in any other position than supine. Instinctively, I pulled my legs up in front of me as a sort of shield.

"I was keeping Mother company."

King Gil studied me, blank-faced. "Oh? And was she so lonely she asked you to neglect your duties and attend to her instead?"

"Gil, please," Mother started, her face the expression of queasy disquiet she often wore when conflict brewed between the two of us.

"No. I’m here because I wanted to read," I said. My chin jutted out slightly, a whisper of the defiance I felt already growing within me.

"And what material are you teaching so studiously?" Father held his hand out to Mother. With pale fingers, she handed him the book, the arm of her dress slightly yellowed where it was pressed to her mouth during sudden fits of coughing.

I felt a vague sense of wrongness, almost a violation, as he leafed through the book. Father had never taken an interest in our reading before.

"Go to the yard." His voice was stoic. "Train with your sister."

Shooting an apologetic look to mother, I did as he asked. After exiting the room I paused, listening as their voices picked up in volume and tempo, then retreated to the yard.

King Gil summoned me a few days later. I hoped it was for something entirely unrelated, but that hope was dashed as soon as I entered his study. The Ghoul Charmer was splayed out spine-up on his desk. I felt immediately uncomfortable at the positioning of the book. I’d done something similar in my childhood, and the librarian had lectured me for over an hour.

"Father." I bowed in greeting.

"Sit. I don’t have much time." A scribe attended him, fussing with a massive stack of documents. My father’s face was uncharacteristically thoughtful, as if he was unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he reached out and seized the book, snapping it shut and pointing the outward edge at me much the same way as a man might brandish a knife. "This… trash. Is this the sort of thing the two of you always read?"

I considered the question. It was likely he’d already interrogated mother on the topic. My father disliked asking questions he didn’t already know at least part of the answer to. I decided to go with a slightly embellished truth.

"Not really. That particular tome is a bit more whimsical than our usual fare."

"Whimsical indeed." My father snorted.

"I take it you didn’t enjoy your reading then?" The worry I felt was partially replaced with the amusing image of father leafing through the tome, searching for the violent bits.

He ignored the subtle jibe. "I seldom enjoy trite flights of fancy, son. It is the philosophy of the thing I’m concerned with."

I cocked my head. If Slayer had an underlying philosophy it was news to me. It was equally light on symbols and motifs, acting as little more than wish-fulfillment. "What philosophy is that?"

"This bizarre interpretation of camaraderie with one’s enemy."

If it was anyone but my father, I would have laughed in their face. I tightened my lips. "It’s just a silly story, father."

"But it isn’t." King Gil stared at the book hatefully. "Or at least, it shouldn’t be. There are men that I’ve met that have held similar beliefs."

"I’ll retire the story," I said, quickly. "We’ll find something new."

"Why do you do that?" He asked.

"Do what?"

"I’ve been formalizing arrangements since before you were born. I know what it sounds like when a man is shutting down a conversation out of polite distaste." Despite being said so casually, it was unusually accurate. He stood, holding the book, and eying the small blaze that burned in the corner fireplace. I thought he might throw it in just to spite me. It certainly wouldn’t be out of character.

Instead, he held it out to me.

I took it, surprised. This was entirely uncharted territory for us. My usual conversations with Father either ended quickly or loudly.

"Shall I return this to the library?" I asked.

"No. I want you to read it again."

My mind immediately went to the stories of shapeshifters and parasitic slimes that overtook bodies. "Funny."

"This is serious, Cairn," Father reiterated. "Your mother enjoys the time spent reading, so I will not interfere. But read it again. This time, I want you to mark all the times the blithering idiot stays his hand. When he shows mercy to an enemy he should have slain, especially if he had no tactical or logical reason for doing so. And for each scenario, I want you to write out a list of possible consequences that might have happened, to him or those around him because he was too weak to do what was necessary."

"I will, Father." I said. In truth, the request took me aback.

"Victory is never easy, Cairn. It requires sacrifice. Sometimes the cost is small. Sometimes it is greater and more horrible than you could ever imagine. But there is always a cost."

The advice was oddly sage. Almost reasonable, if you were willing to ignore every terrible thing he’d ever done.

I feared this level of interest would become a common occurrence, but that did not come to pass. He never mentioned it again. But as I reread The Ghoul Slayer, it was as if the blinders had been removed.

I found myself ill at ease finding that my father was not wrong. Maybe he wasn’t right, either, but Ildran was an idiot. He showed mercy so regularly and easily it was almost pointless. Even to villains any would classify as despicable and worthy of death, he would stay his hand if they did as little as admitting the error of their ways.

As quickly as I could, I put this out of my mind and refused to think on it again. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a story.

Guemon’s estate was relatively small, a fraction of the size of the massive, spiraling estates the other council members lived in. Despite the difference in size, it was much more heavily guarded

I frowned. This didn’t look like business as usual, no matter how paranoid a person might be. There were four guards posted outside the front gates, and numerous sentries patrolling nearby rooftops with crossbows. As soon as they spotted me, there were a series of whistles, and while they did not visibly react or change patterns, every eye in the narrow street followed me closely.

Something had spooked Guemon. Badly.

Just in case, I kept my arms out at my sides, hands in clear view and away from the pockets of my robe. I was thankful I had decided to leave my sword at the house, though the cold lines of my dagger weighed heavily against my back.

I approached the guards at the front gate, fully prepared to be rebuffed, and have to argue and bully my way through.

The guards parted almost immediately. The gate slid open.

It threw me off momentarily. If Guemon was taking all these precautions, it was strange I was not restrained purely on principle. But no. If anything, it was almost as if he was expecting me. If this had happened last time, I would have been concerned about walking into a trap. But after the Asmodials, my perspective had shifted, warped almost. I hoped it was a trap. If my suspicions were wrong, and it did turn out to be Guemon at fault, that would only simplify things.

A man in red approached me. A human. He sauntered up to me with a disarming grin, not concerned at all with accosting a prince, lacking all the grim determination of the surrounding men. If anything, that general sense of apathy made him feel all the more dangerous.

Before he could pat me down, I pulled the sheathed dagger from my back, making sure to keep it in its sheath. The surrounding guards stiffened. From the corner of my eye, I saw a rooftop crossbowman take aim, settling the body of the weapon against a section of roof.

Guemon’s men were not screwing around.

The man in red did not react. His hand never strayed close to his sword. Slowly and carefully, I tossed it underhanded to him. He caught it with a spinning flourish—immediately locating the weight of the blade, he flipped it pommel up, flicking his thumb upwards against the cross-guard.

"Lowhil. Well." He looked me up and down. "How very metropolitan." When I didn’t rise to the bait, he walked around me, but did not physically pat me down as I had expected. "Anything else I need to be aware of?"

"No," I said honestly.

"If you say so." The man in red sounded disappointed. Then, he took me by the arm and led me towards the house. Rather than walking straight in, he diverted us to a golden platform set off to the side. The way it pressed into the grass implied it was a recent addition.

I stepped onto the platform. The man in red opened a book, as if he was returning to some afternoon reading. Beneath my feet, the platform buzzed, and a wave of foreign mana passed through me. It crackled at the still unhealed wound in my chest.

The man in red whistled once, and made a signal behind his back. Then, just as casually as before, he opened the sides of my robe, revealing the newly placed inscription.

He clucked his tongue. "Would you look at that? We match." He pulled down the neck of his shirt to reveal an inscription. It was different than mine, even at first glance. The only thing our two inscriptions had in common was the head as the focal point of the spell. His inscription was longer and winding. And I was pretty sure I picked out the individual words of demonic that related to fire and explosions.

It wasn’t a suicide contingency. It was the closest a man could come to a guarantee that the person who killed him would die violently.

He released my robe and led me into the house.

What had once been a modest, stately home was now overrun with heavily armed and armored guests. A pack of them played stones at the kitchen table. One exited the bathroom. The wide halls felt packed and claustrophobic, and I was suddenly furious with Guemon. Even if he had nothing to do with the attack, the size of the group must have meant more than a few of the men here had been pulled away from duties guarding the Enclave itself.

A number of Guemon’s doors were nailed shut and barricaded. Every window was closed off with wood, leaving small gaps that could have been seen through but not into. For the first time, I felt a slight pang of worry. Some of these fortifications looked permanent.

They took me into a back room.

The sight was horrifying. My mind flickered back to the Asmodials. It didn’t last long, but the flash was enough to leave me panting and covered in sweat.

The rumors of Guemon’s illness were not exaggerated.

His violet skin had faded to a sickly lilac. A gelatinous amber ooze covered his mouth and nose, which he breathed through heavily. A series of tubes filtered dull blood into a gray receptacle, which was then treated somehow, coming out bright red and returning to his arm.

Guemon wasn’t just sick. He was dying.

His eyes opened, scanning the room with the sort of malaise that goes together with a late stage illness. He saw me, and his lips turned downward, some fire coming back into his face and making him slightly more recognizable.

"Come to finish the job?" he asked.

63

ENCLAVE XXXIV

"Come to finish the job?"

It was with that question that the air around us subtly changed. The man in red was far too professional to show any outward sign of tension, but the mess of bodyguards and personal attendants were not. Hands crept towards swords, mouths tightened, and the air in the room grew thick and heavy with mounting anticipation.

It occurred to me briefly that I could easily die there. Guemon was clearly misinformed, but his deathly condition changed the dynamic entirely. I wouldn’t put it past the pudgy man to take me down with him out of spite.

I was not afraid. Perhaps, one day, my fear of death would return. But I still felt strangely detached. There was no fear. Only anger. And the strange, woeful, emancipating desire to light any fuse, apathetic of the powder keg.

The man in red moved ever so slightly, and I locked eyes with him. I raised a fist upward, then splayed them out in a gesture for an explosion, giving him a wicked smile. My message was clear. I would not make this easy, if it went that way. And maybe, just maybe, I’d take him with me. It was more recklessness than confidence, but the man stirred, looking uncomfortable for the first time.

I ignored him, turning to Guemon. "I’d say I’m sorry to see you so… tragically diminished, Councillor." I stared at him. "But I’d be lying."

His chuckles were weak, rattling noises that faded into coughs. "Showing your true colors, I see."

I looked over towards the man in red. "With all your grandstanding and dithering at the trial I thought you’d at least be consistent enough to never hire a human into your employ. So don’t talk to me about true colors, when you can’t even stick with your small-minded ideals."

"Show me the respect I deserve!" he snapped.

"Return my dagger, and I will."

The room grew dangerously tense. It was not beyond me that I was antagonizing the situation, but it was not a pointless effort. At the trial, Guemon had been relatively easy to unhinge. I was just several deaths past being coy about it.

All at once, the rage drained out of his clouded eyes. He sagged, then indicated the chair set out at the foot of his bed.

The man in red moved with me simultaneously, staying parallel. His movements were practiced and easy. It dawned on me why. Despite being nearly three feet away, he was staying within the range he was confident he could kill me in before I killed Guemon.

Mentally forcing myself to ratchet down the hostility, I took a seat.

Just say something nice.

I pointed to the amoeba on his face. "That looks… unpleasant."

Guemon snorted. "In theory, it’s supposed to purify and enrich the air. In practice, it’s like breathing through a wet towel, if the towel was constantly trying to fuck you in the throat." Somewhat apropos to his words, every time he breathed in, a portion of the ooze was sucked inwards.

Unpleasant indeed.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Poison. A particularly nasty poison, fashioned from Garrote Cap." He glared at me. "Exactly the sort of spineless, shitheel method you’d be capable of."

I blinked. Garrote Caps were valuable due to their almost godlike palliative properties when it came to fighting poison. Lillian told me that the fact they were dangerous when used in high concentrations was only recently discovered. The discovery was made by a hapless, short-lived governor who was continuously poisoned by his enemies. He eventually died from taking the powdered caps with every meal. Using them to kill was not only inefficient, it was borderline wasteful and morally dubious, even for poison.

Guemon shook his head when I conveyed this. "Hugo found a patch of them in a side cavern near where you and that red apothecary forage for ingredients. And I have it on good authority that you’re more than competent enough to make such a thing."

I parsed that, filing that particular tidbit of knowledge away for later. "Access to the ingredients and know-how? Sure. But I’ve not been within spitting distance of you for months."

His face clouded, as if he was deciding how much stock to put into my words. "There was one window of time we crossed paths, and the assassination attempt occurred within that window."

"When?"

"A few weeks ago, I met Ralakos for a meeting at his estate. There was wine involved, and a few hours later, I started pissing blood." Guemon said, and suddenly, I remembered. Ralakos had shooed me away, half-joking that my mortal enemy would be arriving soon, and I should make myself scarce. All at once, his theory seemed much more credible.

"As much as I hate the man, Ralakos is not stupid." Guemon’s breaths were heavy. "Especially when it comes to matters of state. If he intended to end my life quietly, it would not be nearly so sloppy. It would happen far, far away from him, with an ironclad alibi in place."

Unless his intention was to implicate me, my paranoia whispered.

"And you assumed I would be so sloppy?" I raised an eyebrow.

"You’re a child." He waved my derision away. "Children make mistakes constantly. It’s what they do. More likely you than the High Councillor, anyway."

"And here I thought I made it clear at the trial I wasn’t just some child to be toyed with."

He was silent then, struggling to breathe through the membrane that covered his nose and mouth.

"Do you still think I poisoned you?" I asked.

"… No." Guemon said, irritation clear on his face. "Unless this meeting somehow ends in my death. I’ve been waiting for a follow-up." He gestured to his guards and fortifications. "You waltzing through the front door put a sizable dent in that theory."

"Elphion’s beard. We actually agree on something." I leaned back in my chair. The front legs came off the ground and settled back with a dull scrape.

"How unfortunate," Guemon groused.

"Are you dying?" I asked.

His mouth grew tight. "It is death by another name. I will always need all this. Even if I don’t die, my life will never be the same." He raised his arm and shook the tubes.

"I heard you before. And I agree. But if you were to bet on it, how likely do you think it is that Ralakos was involved in what happened to you?" I asked.

"Right now?" Guemon looked through the cracks of his boarded up window to the world outside. "I wouldn’t bet on shit."

I had training in Ralakos’s yard with Jorra. By then, he knew something was wrong. We sparred, the clash of wooden swords raining together. I told myself it was fine. That I was safe. That once the inscription healed I would never have to worry again.

But knowing something would not happen in the future did not have the aftereffect of removing it from the past.

Why was it so hot? The auric sun beat down at me, drenching me with sweat. Jorra stood relatively unrumpled, his eyebrows wrinkled in concern.

Idiot. Why did he come back for me. The fucking idiot.

I smacked him across the forehead with my sword. He reeled back, his eyes flashing.

"A solid hit." Erdos said from off to the side.

But I ignored the praise. I moved in on Jorra, pressing the advantage. I was the better swordsman, but not by that wide a margin. He was going easy on me because he sensed something was wrong. His concern was worthless to me.

A voice, somewhere in the back of my head, whispered something about how unreasonable I was being. Jorra had come to save me. He was my friend.

A king does not have friends. He has allies.

I swung viciously, not aiming for Jorra but his practice sword. It splintered, spinning up out of his grip into the air. I called the air, slamming it into his chest. Jorra rolled away and rose up, hand pressed against his sternum. He had the fire in his eyes now he’d been missing, the worry and compassion gone.

A blade of water flew at my face and I dodged it by a narrow margin, but instead of going for his practice blade, Jorra bull rushed me, grabbing my legs and slamming me into the ground.

"Cairn, stop—"

I broke his grip, trying to wiggle out.

He managed to snake around me and get his arm around my neck, his other arm pressing my throat into it, cutting off the blood flow.

"Please stop," he said.

But I was no longer there.

I was back in the cave. The Asmodials crowded around me. A leather strap tightened around my neck slowly, so slowly I wasn’t even sure it was more than my imagination until the vein in my forehead started to pound as my heart picked up, struggling against the bond. My hands and my feet were tied.

Still, the strap tightened. My eyes began to bulge. I held out a shaking hand, calling the air to me, trying to force it into my lungs. They’d removed the manacles that prevented me from summoning. My success was diminutive. The air was too little, like a single raindrop to a man in a desert. Eventually, my eyes began to roll back in my head. My mind stretched like a rubber band.

I remembered Maya’s cool touch, her light fingers on the back of my neck. How they’d cleared my thoughts, my pain. She wasn’t here, but in those moments right before I blacked out, I could almost feel her there, holding my hand, willing my mind not to snap entirely.

Slowly, agony gave way to euphoria. A rush of emotion so pure and beautiful and light it nearly chased away the dark. Death was close. So very, very close. How I longed for it. Reached for it. In the darkness of the cave, the black beast reached back.

Then the strap would loosen. A lipless asmodial with a tattered blindfold and a face with the texture of a backwater road drove his fist into my gut.

They left me there, gasping for air, trying to reach for it though it would not come, straddling the gap between life and unconsciousness.

Only when I was a few moments from finally regaining my breath would the strap begin to tighten again.

The look on my face must have amused them. Because they laughed. Oh, how they laughed. The arch-fiend watched from across the room, disinterested. They’d long since stopped asking me questions. When they did, they were brief. It finally dawned on me that the asmodials didn’t expect me to tell them anything.

They didn’t care.

They smiled and snarled in the dark as I began to choke once more, their teeth gleaming white in the shadow.

"Cairn. Breathe deeply. Follow the sound of my voice. The things you’re seeing are not real. They’re just echoes." A man’s voice cut through the horrible images.

Someone was waving something in front of my face to fan me. I was drenched in sweat. I blinked the tears away, not knowing whether this was actually happening or another memory.

To my shock, Erdos was tending to me. His stern face was twisted in uncharacteristic concern. He fanned me gently, and raised a canteen to my lips.

"The things that happened before you came here." His wording was carefully vague. "That was the first time you saw violence, wasn’t it?"

I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

"It’s like this, sometimes. I’ve seen it before" Erdos dabbed at my forehead with a cloth. "Some men come out of violence seemingly unscathed. Then weeks, even months later, the savagery of it all hits them. They start jumping at ghosts. Sometimes they break down." He watched me knowingly.

"How do I stop it?" I could still feel the leather tightening, ever so slowly.

"You take care of yourself. You stop blaming yourself for everything."

I met his eyes for the first time then, shocked at the accuracy of his words.

He stepped away from me, giving me space. "Thinking that way is a trap. A soldier can’t take responsibility for everything. The things you’ve done, the things done to you. Trying to account for them all leads only to madness."

"Then what should I do?"

Erdos face was soft, and for the first time I could see the resemblance between him and Bellarex. "It’s a choice. One you’ll need to make every day. You look the past in the face, and accept it for what it is. Then move forward."

I tried to take his words to heart. But the simple fact was, his concept of moving forward and mine were very different.

64

ENCLAVE XXXV

Erdos gave me some breathing exercises. He also mentioned the idea of using a memory orb to view some of the trauma I’d experienced from a more distant perspective, citing the fact that he’d known several soldiers that had worked for.

I wanted one the moment he mentioned it and peppered him with questions. I’d never heard of them before because they were extremely niche. All but the most expensive globes were limited to a handful of seconds, though they could be overwritten. The rumors that powerful demons could steal memories stored within the globes was the most intriguing aspect of the conversation. Despite living in the enclave for over a year, I’d never heard of such a thing. Regrettably, my hopes of using that to get around the written and verbal restrictions of the loop were short-lived; that particular ability was largely believed to be a myth.

I apologized to Jorra for the way I’d treated him. He apologized for, and I quote, "choking the asshole out of me." There was still an air of awkwardness between us, the sort that always follows after friends who have just fought, but he followed me to the surface caves to practice, ribbing me good-naturedly about how it wasn’t fair that I’d hidden my second awakening. In truth, I forgot that he wasn’t aware of it in this reset. It reminded me that I needed to be careful. Reliving similar events meant it was easy for things to bleed through, and if I did something out of continuity to the wrong person it could easily cost me a reset.

We practiced for hours.

The lack of sleep and endless midnight sessions had begun to pay off. My air magic was now on the level of a red infernal. I was able to exude enough air mana to weave spells consistently, though it still cost me far more than it should have.

I chalked that up to the still healing inscription limiting my regeneration. It felt almost parasitic—or rather, like a constant leak that mana escaped from every time I cast. It bothered me that my power was still a shallow vestige of what I’d managed the night of the attack. I’d been able to lift two demons simultaneously and throw them with enough force to break through a shallow wall. Now, I could barely lift a small glass bottle.

I glared at it fiercely, hoping it would relent. What was the point of all this work if I couldn’t do something as simple as lift a tincture. An empty one at that. It floated on a cushion of air, wobbling back and forth like a ship in a storm. I knew that, realistically, my power would not develop enough to be a deciding factor on its own within the current loop.

Well, it could have, potentially. If I took the Great Black Beast’s advice to stop caring about those around me, and was willing to just run the loop repeatedly and allow the enclave to be overrun, doing nothing but focusing on my magic, maybe it would have been possible within a few cumulative years.

But I didn’t have the stomach for doing that without knowing for certain that there wasn’t an invisible countdown somewhere I was expending every time I died.

So, if brute forcing it wasn’t an option, I needed to get creative. What I’d managed in Mifral’s estate was significant, but very limited in how it restricted me to powders. Most alchemy required a liquid base and some sort of catalyst. If I could lift the tincture itself, that would solve both my problems. But of course, my precise control wasn’t that good yet.

Jorra waved his arms at me excitedly, crouching at the edge of the mineral pool. I gave up on the air magic for the moment and walked over to him. He pointed excitedly at a small patch of ice on the lake. My eyebrows shot up. That had never happened before, even after the heist. At first, it almost seemed random, puzzling me. Then I thought about it. We’d been working on precision control a lot this reset. Maybe Jorra was more likely to break through if I pushed him to work on the small, more minute elements of his magic, versus the big—but ultimately dumb—displays of magic he was typically prone to.

I’d need to keep it in mind.

Eventually, Jorra got bored and returned to the house. I pored over a few different texts, struggling to translate the demonic. My demonic knowledge was slowly getting more competent.

There was an element to all this I’d previously completely ignored. I knew a lot about the Asmodials. They were warmongering, violent, and ultimately sadists with secondary talents for information gathering. I knew their hierarchies were relatively simple: lesser, greater, and Arch-Fiend—the Arch-Fiends themselves being fairly rare, never exceeding thirteen and often far less. At the top of the hierarchy were the prime evils, monsters so elusive they were seen once a century.

What I knew next to nothing about was their relationships with other legions.

For the most part, things were strained. The Asmodial Legion had been decimated nearly fifty times over the last hundred years, the nearest Legion to that, the Leraje Legion at thirteen decimations, maintaining a distant second.

The Asmodials had warred with literally all twelve primary legions at some point in time. In terms of power structure, there were four that sat at the apex: The Decarabia, Malthus, Cemeries, and the Asmodials. Cemeries and Malthus often acted as allies to the Asmodials, as much as any demon can be expected to act as an ally, while the Decerabia reigned supreme and isolated. The number of infernals who had bound a Decerabia could be counted on one hand

The Malthus often took the form of armored skeletons, while the Cemeries were partial to the forms of monstrous insects. Spiders, mantises, and flies were all common but there were other, rarer forms. Most interestingly, the Decerabia were rumored to have borrowed their appearances from celestials, and claimed to be the direct descendents of fallen celestials themselves.

I scratched my head. I had no idea what a celestial was, other than the fact that they were similar to my folk’s belief in the mythical angels and valkyries. Then again, I hadn’t exactly believed in demons either, before one ended up eating me whole.

I scowled.

It would be an exaggeration to say that I missed Kastramoth. He was an asshole by any measure. But at least the hulking beast was straightforward. I knew what his motivations were. He wanted to feast on the flesh of his enemies, and not be slaughtered in return. The Asmodials wanted…

Well, what did they want? Violence? To prevent the portal from being opened?

A thought occurred to me. I’d been looking at the scepter solely as the source of my double and ignoring its most basic trait. A magical object of great value. According to Nethtari, magical objects often formed the basis to demonic contracts—they were similar to dragons in that, while gold was also hoarded, magical objects were held in much higher esteem due to their rarified status as collectables. The rarer the object, the higher the worth, that is obvious, but to demons the ramp up was exponential.

I’d experienced the Asmodial’s fetishism of violence first hand. They enjoyed it as easily and naturally as a laborer might enjoy a meal after a long day’s work. I wondered, not for the first time, if they would have worked me over so thoroughly if I’d been an infernal, rather than a human. Perhaps there was a source of novelty that factored into it.

The scepter, gold, and the promise of violence on a large scale with no reprisal. Would that be enough to tempt an entire legion of demons to turn against their master?

Perhaps.

Enough of my mana had returned. I stood, and took out my irritation on the straw men across the lake. I found that if I surrounded the projectile with a slight breeze it was possible to artificially focus the spell, leading to a stronger impact.

I was breathing hard, about to give up for the day when the hair on the back of my neck began to rise. Thinking back, I have no idea what tipped me off. Maybe the air in the chamber changed somehow. Maybe I caught a glimpse of a shadow in the reflection of the pool.

Or maybe, I’d spent enough time in the presence of beings that wanted me dead, people and monsters alike, to develop a sense for it.

I spun, and before I could get the sword out of my sheathe a man in a dark hood tackled me into the shallow pool, immediately soaking us both. With one red hand, he pressed me down into the water, and with the other he held a simple black iron dagger.

In the precious few seconds before I hit the bottom of the pool, it flashed through my mind how bad the situation was. The assassin had been watching for some time. He had waited for Jorra to leave and for me to fully expend my mana, and then struck.

He outweighed me by probably fifty pounds. In my panic, I grabbed onto the blade with both hands. White-hot pain sliced through my fingers as the tip of the knife entered my chest excruciatingly slowly.

I released a hand, called the spark and pressed it to the gauntlet of the arm that pinned me. It fizzled out. My eyes widened, and I nearly breathed out my remaining air in surprise. Rosewater.

A halo of black began to grow around my vision. I tried again, this time holding the spark to his exposed hands. The fire took root. He shrieked and swore, tearing the knife away. I felt a sickening, tearing sensation and saw the pinkie and ring finger of my left hand floating away.

A burst of anger escaped from me. My body had only just been restored, and now this.

My assailant was struggling to smother the fire when—disoriented and waterlogged—I managed to crawl to him, closing the distance between us and put my dagger through his leather boot and twisted it savagely, opening a hole. Then I set the blade of the dagger alight. The fire danced down the dagger to the flesh beneath, and the hole was wide enough that the rose water soaked armor could not prevent it from burning from the inside out.

The infernal screamed, and swatted me away with a panicked backhand that made my teeth hurt.

He jumped around and grabbed at the boot. If he’d retained the capacity to think, he likely would have realized that all he really had to do was leave the boot on and smother the gouged hole. Demon fire spread quickly, but it still required a decent amount of air to do so. Instead, he did what was possibly the worst thing he could have done. He took the boot off.

The fire spread up his leg. I reached out with my ruined hand and my vision grayed as I coaxed the flame. The result was horrifying. His leg served as an ignition point to the rest of his body, which burned more slowly due to the treated armor.

He fell to the ground and writhed. I struggled to my feet and walked over to him, clutching my robe against my bleeding wound. Some part of my mind considered lowering the fire to a minuscule amount and questioning him, but the idea brought a litany of painful images to the forefront of my mind and made me ill.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to ask him anything. His cowl had fallen backward and the answer was written all over his face, even as he moaned over his ruined leg.

Shear had tried to kill me.

65

ENCLAVE XXXVI

What the hells was Persephone doing? Shear was her man. The one person going into Mifral’s estate that knew what was actually happening. Not to mention, I hadn’t even met her this time around. Had someone contracted her to have me killed?

I had precious little time to think on that, staring down at Shear’s body, as my vision began to swim. My stomach flipped, and suddenly all I wanted to do was sit down. My breath came in tight shallow pulls that never filled my lungs.

My heartbeat was irregular.

Poison.

I flailed around in the pool to look for the dagger. When I found it, it was obvious that the water had washed away the scent of whatever substance coated it, preventing me from identifying it. With renewed panic, I staggered over to my bag and dumped it open. I didn’t have much in terms of medical supplies, and certainly not a wide suite of anything to stop poison. However I did have basic first aid supplies, including a stick to make a tourniquet.

I yanked my belt off and wrapped it around my shoulder, then hesitated.

Never put a tourniquet on a snake bite. Lillian’s voice. It isolates the venom to one area and makes it much more destructive than if it’s allowed to spread throughout the body. You might lose the use of that limb altogether.

That was true of snakes, yes. But this was poison from an assassin, engineered to kill. I looked down at my missing fingers. It was spreading up my left arm, closest to my heart.

No choice. I had to try and stop the flow. As quickly as possible, I tightened my belt around my arm and screamed. A dull fog of pain began to move in, shrouding my thoughts.

I mentally calculated the distance to Casikas’s apothecary. It was too far. With the way I felt now, I’d never make it in time. The more flourishing section of the caves where Casikas and I gathered ingredients from was a quarter-mile from here, maybe less. If Guemon was correct, I could find Garrote Cap there fairly easily.

Of course, that in and of itself was a risk. Because if they’d used the same poison on me as they had on Guemon, more Garrote Cap would simply kill me faster.

It was impossible to know for sure. I simply didn’t know as much about the symptoms of poisons as I did about general palliatives and medicines. It was a risk I had to take. I’d accepted the inevitability of dying, expected it, honestly, but I’d be damned if I let anyone decide it for me. I needed to know why Persephone had tried to kill me. Dying now would scuttle that knowledge, or force me to retrace my steps exactly to obtain it.

On my way out of the cave, I passed a body. An infernal wearing Ralakos’s blue. I remembered what he’d said about having me followed. Apparently, there was truth to that.

It took nearly an hour of searching to find the Garrote Caps, and in the end, I wasn’t truly sure I’d found them. They smelled right and looked right, but my vision was blurred and I was so disoriented that they could have just as easily been simple toadstools. I grabbed a handful and shoved them into my mouth, the flat and earthy taste unpleasant on my tongue. Then I laid back and waited, releasing the belt on my arm. The limb, which was swollen significantly and had begun to throb, vibrated with pins and needles as feeling slowly returned.

I laid on my back and waited for death. Or life. Whichever came first. My heart began to pump at a normal rhythm, and the nausea in my gut quelled. I found myself breathing a sigh of relief. The poison used on me and the poison used on Guemon was different after all. I took note of the garrote caps. About half of them had been harvested, but there was still a great number here, more than enough to raise a small fortune. But gold was the least of my worries.

I trekked my way back to the surface caves, where I found Shear dead. He’d turned on his stomach and tried to crawl away, only making it a few feet.

It would be less embarrassing to say that my manner of checking for signs of life—kicking him repeatedly in the face—was only intended to do just that, but the truth was I had a lot of anger with nowhere to put it.

I was tired of being ambushed, and cut open, and having pieces of me sliced off.

Briefly, I considered fishing around in the pool for my missing fingers but discarded the notion. That would take too long, and there was a chance Shear had backup that might look into his disappearance if he took too long to check-in.

I took the long way out of the surface caves towards the enclave, just in case any other would-be assassins were lying in wait.

I arrived at Ralakos’s estate, my anger still not fully expended by the exhaustion I felt. I gave him the shortest, most straightforward explanation of what had happened to me. One of Persephone’s men had attacked me at the pools. I killed him, but barely.

It’s amazing what missing fingers does for a person’s credibility. Ralakos barely stopped long enough to ask me how I knew Shear was one of Persephone’s men. A healer worked on my hand while I told my tale, a modified version of what had happened in the previous reset, me scouring the vice districts for an unrelated investigation and coming upon the names of Persephone and several in her employ.

Ralakos sent out several groups of men. One to retrieve Kilvius, a handful to get Shear’s body (and my lost fingers, he insisted), as well as a much larger contingent to accost Persephone herself under the guise of an invitation to Ralakos’s estate. Erdos stood guard over me uncomfortably, his eyes continuously flicking to the door as Ralakos made preparations.

"Something wrong, Captain?" I asked him.

"I should be with my men," he groused.

I felt a mild pang of sympathy for him. Despite knowing Persephone for a much shorter time than anyone else, I still wouldn’t have wanted to send men under my command into her spiderweb of a district.

"You don’t think she’ll come quietly?" I asked.

"Depends on if she did it or not." Erdos’s mouth set grimly.

"If who did what now?" Kilvius approached us, an easygoing grin on his face.

"Kilvius." Erdos nodded in respect.

"Good to see you as always, Erdos." Kilvius bowed deeply. The fact that they were familiar with each other was news to me. Kilvius’s smile lessened when he spoke to me, the discomfort of our last conversation clouding things.

"How do you know each other?" I asked.

"Erdos here is a regular at Koss night." Kilvius extended an arm towards the other infernal. "Often the only violet in attendance. Without his donations, I’m sure the whole thing would have fallen apart by now."

The way Erdos’ lips turned downward spoke to the likelihood these donations were not exactly voluntary. "You’re all a bunch of filthy red cheaters."

Kilvius didn’t bristle at all. Instead, he extended an arm, and the two men embraced, with only minor reluctance on Erdos’s part. Kilvius’s face dipped into a frown as he noticed my bandaged hand and chest.

"What happened to you?" He asked, closing the distance between us instantly, any awkwardness between us quickly and easily cast aside.

"I’m fine now."

"Your fingers…" Kilvius’s voice was mournful. I felt badly for how I’d treated him earlier, but now wasn’t the time for apologies.

"It’s fine. I have eight more and it’s not my sword hand," I said, keeping my voice steady. "There’s something else we need to talk about." I noticed Erdos on the periphery. "Can you leave us for a moment?" I asked him.

Erdos grumbled, but let me know he’d be right outside the door and excused himself. Once he’d left, I turned to Kilvius.

"Persephone tried to kill me."

Kilvius froze.

I continued. "I know you have some sort of history with her, though I don’t know the details."

"How could you possibly—" Kilvius started, then trailed off. "Ah. The visions."

"Correct. The reason I called for just you, is I have a feeling that discussing that history with Nethtari here would be more than a little uncomfortable for both of you."

He gave me a flat look. "Very accurate, for a feeling."

I shrugged.

Kilvius sighed and launched into the story.

He was born an orphan. Crime in the Enclave forty years ago was much worse as the Council was largely corrupt, so it was only natural for infernals like him—which I inferred to mean poor with little magic to speak of—to fall in with the wrong crowd. Still, Kilvius took to it more quickly than most. He was a natural-born thief and burglar, talented at getting into and out of houses and stores in the wealthier sections of the Enclave beyond the crevasse.

The orphans of the Enclave had a simple rule, one that was rarely broken. They never stole from each other. This uneasy truce allowed them to cluster together in various hideouts and rooftops—using safety in numbers to mitigate the many horrible things that could happen to an orphan within the bounds of a city as large as the enclave.

There was an exception to this rule, Kilvius noted, his lips thin. Persephone. Her demonic traits were notable even then, though not as pronounced as they once were. She was relentlessly targeted by the other orphans. Over and over, her possessions were stolen from her. Kilvius felt bad for her, but what could he have possibly done?

Still, the fact remained that Persephone was forced to work harder than the other children. Exponentially so. He once watched her break into a house he’d been casing and clear it out in minutes. Her skills as a thief eclipsed his easily.

As Kilvius grew older, into his early teens, he began to protect Persephone from the other children. His view of right and wrong were warped of course, due to his upbringing, but the way she was targeted bothered him. His efforts isolated him from the other children, and before he knew it, the two of them were a mated pair. Persephone was his first love, and as such, had a talent for fogging his judgement. She used him as both a partner in crime and an enforcer, constantly pushing the boundaries to lay the foundations of what would one day become her empire.

Then his luck ran out. He was caught in the middle of a robbery he had argued against, the theft of a powerful Councillor’s magical artifacts, and was looking at an execution.

Then he met Nethtari. She was a new solicitor then, though she worked much in the same capacity she worked now. As a civil servant for those who could not afford one. Nethtari brought him out of the darkness in more ways than one. He had learned to see violets as nothing more than walking meal-tickets, but Nethtari was different from the start.

Persephone never once came to visit him.

There were many attempts to bribe Nethtari, but none of them succeeded. He noted, grimly, that he very much doubted she’d be working the same job to this day if she’d just gone along with what the council had wanted.

Instead of being executed, he was imprisoned for a year. Even Nethtari seemed surprised by the result.

She kept up with him. Eventually, her feelings for him turned into more. They married.

Kilvius saw Persephone about a year after that, randomly, in the market. Though wearing a veil and fine silks, he would have recognized her gait anywhere.

And in her arms was a small, sleeping child.

66

ENCLAVE XXXVII

The room Ralakos selected for the interview reminded me a little too vividly of the cell I’d been confined in, all those months ago. The actual span of time was difficult to ascertain because of the resets, feeling much further back than it actually was.

In light of the recently revealed situation, I had asked Ralakos a number of questions and received a number of revealing answers, though what they all pointed to I could not yet be certain.

Folk with demon-blood were exceedingly rare and almost always barren. The infernals had spun off from demons so long ago that they were no longer biologically compatible, and even if they were, most infernals would not consider such a union due to the morality of such a thing. It was really only a half-step from bestiality in their eyes.

Persephone’s actual heritage was unknown, beyond the fact that she was half-Asmodial. Whoever had abandoned her originally had never bothered to claim her.

The last answer was by far the most puzzling. There was no record of Persephone ever having a child. The bureaucracy of the Enclave wasn’t overly strict in terms of census gathering—but violet children were the exception. Because of the higher level of power, higher potential, and likewise possible higher threat, violet infernal children were tested at birth, and their possible elemental affinities logged.

Ralakos had tripled down on the security. Though he still presented the same steady, controlled manner as usual, I could tell the fact that I was brutally attacked so close to the Enclave bothered him.

The vivid pain in my hand lessened to a dull throb. I had no doubt it would return the moment I took it out of the ice, but for now, it was a welcome respite. I needed to push the memory from my mind. Every time I thought about it, my anger surged, and the last thing I needed right now was to lose my temper. I needed to focus less on what had happened to me, and more on why it had happened at all.

But it was too personal.

What I needed was a change of perspective. So, much as I had before, I created a character for myself to inhabit. Only this time, it wasn’t an elven manservant. It was me. A crueler, more vicious version of me who didn’t care what Persephone had done, only that she had failed to do it, thus creating an opening.

I did my best to ignore the fact that the part I was playing was very close to the person father always wanted me to be.

With detached eyes, I watched through an illusory image Ralakos had summoned, as Ralakos’ men marched Persephone into the interview room. She’d agreed to accompany them without struggle. She carried herself with an easy confidence that approached smug. Like she already knew what the end result would be.

Erdos entered the room and began to question her. It was civilized compared to the sort of interviews my father conducted, and much more civilized than everything I’d recently endured.

"And what were you doing this morning?" Erdos asked. He sat upright, his posture stiff, his tone cold.

"Inventory. We had a shortage of northern reds. The local lushes have really been digging into our stockpile." Persephone smiled at Erdos coyly. He didn’t react, but there was the beginning of a flush around his neck.

"And there are people who—" Erdos paused. Persephone was tapping her fingers on the table in an indecipherable pattern, her nails clicking loudly. "There are people who can corroborate this?"

"Of course. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?" Persephone pressed. She was trying to take control of the discussion away from Erdos. The loud tapping, the needling, the answering of questions with questions, all basic countermeasures to throw the interrogator off his game.

Erdos scowled at her. "I’m surprised you don’t already know. You have a certain reputation for being informed."

"Please, Captain. Let's not play coy. You hardly need a network to catch wind of a diplomatic guest limping bloody through the streets. What I can’t possibly pin down, however, is how the events of this morning have anything to do with me?"

Paranoia whispered to me. Surely Erdos wasn’t this incompetent.

"What I’m saying is..." He paused again, glaring as Persephone scratched lightly at the wood of the table, leaving faint white marks.

I leaned towards Ralakos. "This is getting us nowhere."

"Erdos is a professional," Ralakos said, "But Persephone is experienced. It will not be a quick process."

I watched the proceedings quietly. Erdos deserved slightly more credit than I had given him. Even though Persephone appeared to be getting under his skin at points, he had this plodding manner of restating the same question, over and over.

But Persephone was carved from stone. During the negotiation at the mining site, she’d been almost manic, almost pushing Mifral into Ephira’s hands. I found myself pondering what would have happened if the demons hadn’t attacked at all. How would the rest of the negotiation play out? Who would have ended up with the scepter? Why was Persephone so much more panicked then, in the negotiation for a material object, compared to now, when she was implicated in the assassination attempt on a prince.

Unless she wasn’t actually panicked.

Why had Persephone tried to kill me?

A horrible theory began to form.

One by one, the pieces slid into place. It wasn’t all there yet, but it was only a matter of time.

I demanded that everyone leave us. Ralakos argued, at first, but I think he picked up from my body language that I would not be swayed. I didn’t even have to threaten him. His one condition was that Erdos was left behind to monitor the situation, which I agreed to, as long as he wasn’t listening in.

Ralakos took my arm. His eyes were sad. "Remember what we talked about."

I blinked, trying to parse the statement. At first, I thought he meant the conversation where he revealed what happened to his son, but of course, we hadn’t had that conversation in this life. I’d been unconscious for it.

"We must strive to be better than those that came before us." He said fervently. It was the sort of passé maxim Ralakos often repeated. Then he released my arm and walked away.

Ralakos’s meaning was clear. He thought I was going to hurt Persephone. I wasn’t. Honestly, after everything that had happened to me, I’m not convinced whether I had that in me.

But what I had planned was far worse.

Erdos glowered at me. He sat next to the silenced illusion, his leg crossed.

I entered the room. Persephone’s head snapped up, and for the first time, the steadiness of her expression wilted.

"You know, I’d been hoping to make your acquaintance. I’d heard so many good things about you," I flashed her a full-faced grin.

"They said you were pretty," Persephone cocked her head at me. She began to tap on the table again.

No need for that. Standing, with one hand, I pulled the table up longways and flipped it aside. It slammed on its face with a resounding thump. That was all. Just a simple change of scenery to show that the situation had changed.

"Is this the part where you rough me up? Throw your weight around. Bully a defenseless woman?" Persephone cocked an eyebrow, but I noticed the slightest shiver of fear. "How very human of you."

"Defenseless?" I asked. "Please. And no. It was getting in the way." I dragged my chair closer to her. "I’m here to break down barriers between our people."

"To return that which was stolen." Persephone’s lips turned upward slightly.

"Ah, excellent. So, you have heard. Thing is, Percy—Can I call you that? Percy?" I asked.

"Persephone is fine." Her mouth tightened.

"But you let Shear call you Percy."

The expression of surprise was a flicker.

"Ah," I continued. "See, he called you that when he was talking to me, blabbing away after we removed the geis. I thought it was just because the two of you were friendly, but now I’m getting the sense it was a different sort of name. The personal sort."

"If this is your attempt to get under my skin, Prince Cairn, you will need to try harder." She said; but she did not fidget, or tap her foot.

"Mmm. Let me show you what it takes to get under my skin." I held out my mangled hand in front of me, wiggling the swollen nubs.

Persephone cringed.

"Right, so, back to the topic at hand—oops. See what I did there?" I wiggled the fingers again, and she looked slightly nauseous. "I’m a little upset. Not because of the injuries, though they certainly don’t help. I’m upset because, despite having the best of intentions, everything seems to somehow work against me. Which wouldn’t be so infuriating, if I wasn’t a time traveler."

Her eyes glazed over, and I moved to the right side of her and snapped my fingers. She jumped, gaze focusing on me.

"Are you okay there?" I asked.

"What just—"

"Don’t worry about it. The time travel thing." I moved to her left side. Her eyes focused much faster this time. Only glazing over for a second. As I’d thought, the utility of the "curse," was somewhat limited. As soon as the person was alert, as Tusk had been during that ambush so long ago, the effect was much less potent. But someone clever and well-versed in magic would notice the discrepancies.

Persephone was panicking. Her calmness had disappeared. She knew something was happening, but she didn’t know what.

"Why did you try to have me killed?" I asked.

"I didn’t—"

"I’ve lived this life before." She blinked. I asked again. "Why did you try to have me killed"

"I... I didn’t" Persephone stammered. She was looking around at the walls, studying the wards that limited magic, trying to ascertain how what was happening to her was even possible.

"You tried to screw me in my last life as well. Why did you try to have me killed?"

Persephone fell silent. I hammered at her for twenty minutes, playing with her perception of time. Eventually, a simple fact became evident. She would not break, no matter how disoriented she was. Persephone was too smart for that.

It was time to get mean.

"How old is he, now?" I asked.

She squinted at me. "Who?"

"Your boy."

There was no visible reaction, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"He’s gotta be getting up there." I continued. "Almost too old for the Sanctum. And, just curious, are you sure he’s not Kilvius’s son? Or did you just say that because you wanted him out of the picture? Since you threw him away once he was no longer useful to you."

"You have no idea what you’re talking about," Persephone spat.

"Maybe not." I settled back into my chair. "But I have all the time in the world for trial and error, and you really, really, don’t."

Her mouth moved. There it was. The slightest twinkle of smugness. The slightest glimmer of self-satisfaction in how wrong I was. That I did not, in fact, have all the time in the world.

The self-satisfaction blossomed into a wide smile. "For the record, this is all clearly fantasy born from a desperate mind. But even if I wasn’t, you’d really do something like that? Threaten a child to get to me? Can’t imagine Ralakos would approve."

I hated myself for what I said next. But I was running out of time and options. So I fell into the cruel facsimile of myself. The one that didn’t agonize over ethics or morals, of right or wrong.

"I don’t have to threaten anyone," I said. "All I have to do is keep you here."

The blood drained from her face.

She knew.

"And meanwhile, I’ll have Guemon’s security look for your son. It’ll take some time, but he’s a High Councillor with a lot of reach. I’ll spin him some story about your son being abducted and that you're refusing to talk about our botched assassinations—yes, I’ll be blaming that on you too, really shouldn’t have used poison for both—until your son is here.

"Wait."

But I wasn’t done. "We won’t rest, until he’s safe and sound within the Enclave before the end of the month."

It wasn’t lost on me. The horror of what I’d done. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t putting a sword to an innocent’s neck directly. I knew where the knife would fall, and I was almost glibly threatening to move an innocent in its path.

What would my mother have thought?

Persephone trembled. She opened her mouth, and for a moment, I was terrified she might spill everything right there. Instead, she asked me.

"What do you want to know?"

I leaned in to whisper in her ear.

When I pulled back, her expression had changed completely. It was cold and stoic. She nodded once, confirming my suspicions.

Then, in great excruciating detail, Persephone began to weave the tale of how Ralakos had betrayed me.

67

ENCLAVE XXXVIII

I stopped at a bench near the chasm lift that led down to the Sanctum. In this world, this time, it had been a little more than two weeks. But it felt like eons. Far longer than the months I’d spent.

I had it all figured out.

Gods.

How long had it been since I could say that?

There were a few inconsistencies left, a few things that didn’t quite mesh, but I felt such palpable relief at the idea of the end of the road being in sight that I couldn’t bring myself to ponder them.

I held out a hand towards the chasm, fingers reaching out into the dark.

My friend. The first real friend I’d made in such a long time. She was down there. Time would finally begin to move forward again, and I would finally, finally be able to see her.

Maya.

I didn’t blame her for telling the wrong person. In many ways, that it was divulged at all might have saved my life in more ways than one. The fact that the enemy knew my ability likely caused them no end of logistical problems in getting rid of me, made the whole thing much more difficult and complex, and required them to remove themselves from the picture entirely.

My chest tightened, and I forced myself to breathe. It was almost over. I just had to stay strong for a little longer. A memory nipped at my consciousness and my back and my arms flared uncomfortably, hot and itchy.

I pulled the aquamarine memory orb from my chest pocket and focused mana into it, feeling a dull suck on my forehead as the memory was copied. I’d taken Erdos’ advice. Viewing the more traumatic memories without reliving them helped me fight down the episodes.

I saw Ozra, vigilant in the background as a shadowy demon held a scalding brand against my cheek. There was no sound, only images.

It wasn’t that bad, I told myself. Just a couple of burns. They’d done far, far worse before that nightmare was over. Then I found my mind drifting to those worse things, and closed my eyes, trying to prevent the downward spiral that would lead to.

You are lucky. I said it to myself, over and over. You are lucky.

I would not let the things that happened to me change who I was.

My fist holding the memory orb slammed against the metal of the bench with a loud clang. Passing faces turned to look my way, then hurried along on theirs.

I was close now. So close.

There was no point in lying to myself. Things were going to get worse before they got better. But if I did it all perfectly, timed it all perfectly, this would finally be over soon, if not this time, in one more reset.

Just one more.

Drying the sudden moisture that dampened my gaze, I stood. There would be time for rest soon.

I went home. Ralakos had posted additional guards, and I was surprised to see a small group of Guemon’s green. Ralakos must have talked to him. I hugged Kilvius and Nethtari. They were relieved, I think. The way I’d been acting lately, I probably seemed like an entirely different person.

For the first time in over two months, I volunteered to put Agarin to bed and told him a story. He giggled and cooed as the fairy cleverly outwitted Sir Gantry, and this time, he did not fall asleep until the end.

I sent a runner with an official invocation to Ephira the following morning, stating urgent matters. It was something I hadn’t done since we hammered out our first deal in the early days of removing the blockade.

Bemused, I compared that meeting—which had been all cookies and tea—with the rather unsettling meeting from the previous restart. The woman knew how to treat her friends and her enemies, and I had to be one of the few people unlucky enough to have seen both sides.

I wondered, almost blandly, which version of Ephira I would meet this time.

The summons went unrecognized for a few days. I spent them relaxing and studying magic. My left hand was mostly bandaged and immobile, so I hadn’t faced the reality of the loss yet. There was a tranquility to those days that was native to my earlier time in the Enclave, a time I’d nearly forgotten.

I studied the Asmodials in greater detail, learning as much about the hierarchy and culture as I could stomach.

The Arch-Fiends of a given legion were fiercely territorial amongst themselves. But rarely, a leader would emerge, one capable of aligning the infighting warlords towards a greater goal. This almost always preceded a major uprising, not unlike the one stirring within the Enclave.

It confirmed, in my mind, that this was a big deal. I wouldn’t be surprised if some version of this had happened in my first life. The violence itself had been long in the making. Someone was just using it for their own personal gain.

I took Jorra along with me to harvest the rest of the garrote caps and I gave him half the profits. His eyes bulged out of his head when Casikas gave us the final total, and he stuffed the purse deep in his rucksack then sprinted home.

It took a lot of experimenting and a lot of funds, but I eventually came up with what I wanted. A very specific, very weaponized version of the mage’s bane. With some effort and adjustment, I’d managed to reduce it to a concentrated powder form, making the taste of it far more subtle.

I couldn’t tip my hand too early. That was crucial.

I received my summons to meet Ephira at a little café she owned in midtown. It appeared I was getting the tea-party Ephira, rather than the mind-games Ephira. That was good. However decent sceo was, I had no intention of eating it again any time soon.

She had selected a private room within the cafe’s isolated upper level, one far from prying eyes. A single guard was posted outside the room and opened the door to let me in. I nodded to him in appreciation.

Ephira was dressed in light pastels. She stood and curtsied as I entered the room, and awkwardly, I bowed in return. The contrast was… stark.

"Cairn, I was delighted to hear from you. But less delighted to hear about your…" she glanced at my bandaged wound. "Misfortune."

I smiled weakly. "It’s alright, Councillor, I have eight more."

"Too true, too true. You know, the alabaster elves of the Nalore Tundras used to teach their children about frostbite by exposing them to it at an early age. It wasn’t uncommon for them to lose a finger in the process…" Ephira poured us tea and prattled on for a while in that over-animated manner socialites use to remind everyone else how worldly and interesting they are.

"Try the tea. It’s to die for."

She was completely open and unguarded.

Without knowing it, Erdos had played his part exceedingly well.

It felt like such a huge, terrifying step to take.

I opened my mouth and spoke the words.

"You know, the last time I lived through this, you weren’t nearly this friendly. I dare say you were borderline hostile.

Ephira froze in place, and her eyes glazed over.

"That really put me off target. Had me completely turned around." Slowly, I opened the parcel in my pocket and reached out for the air, summoning a pocket of breeze to carry the mage-bane to her tea in a rotating funnel. I wanted to move as little as possible to avoid snapping her out of the fugue, and the process was slow.

"For the longest time, I didn’t know what to think. Guemon was the obvious choice. He hated me. He advocated to have me killed. But the isolation, due to the poisoning, made me consider other possibilities. Then you put me onto Ralakos. The dead son gave him a solid motive, and the fact that almost everyone who holds one hand out to me tends to hold a dagger in the other didn’t exactly help matters." I stirred the tea thoroughly, added several scoops of sugar to mask the muted taste. "But at the end of the day, that didn’t make sense either. It would have been trivially easy for Ralakos to kill me—I was often alone with him—or if he wanted to distance himself, to have Erdos kill me any number of times, either via training accident or some other drummed up bullshit.

I thought it through.

"Then Persephone. Gods, if you want to know the real hero of this story, it isn’t me. It’s the little girl who pointed me towards Persephone. Who knows how long I’d have wandered around looking for the answer before I found Persephone on my own."

I squinted, trying to remember her face. She’d seemed so incredibly familiar, yet I still couldn’t place it. The few times I’d been near the Thulian District I’d kept an eye out for her, but never seen her again.

"Persephone points me to Mifral. Persephone seems smart. Rational. So, why is she sending someone she just met to rob a priceless artifact? To make you lose face, or at least, that was what I thought. Not to mention, the gate was cut through with demon-fire. So, Persephone has access to demon-flame, or at least a way to mimic it. That’s huge. World shattering. It changes everything the moment someone discovers it… only no one does. Weird, how nothing ever came up about that. Because someone covered it up.

But that’s easily explained away as you running interference for me. That was still possible. We had an agreement and you nabbed Shear.

But then, the mining facility happened. I was still too focused on Ralakos to notice at the time, but Persephone was off her game. Really off. I mean, I gave her an award-winning performance the first time I met her, and she nearly called me on it right then and there.

Someone that savvy, that clever—someone perceptive enough to pick up on the slightest shift of an accent suddenly loses her cool so easily when faced with outside interference during a negotiation?

I don’t buy it.

She practically chased Mifral into your arms. Only, Ralakos showed up and complicated things. Then the demons killed you, Persephone, and Mifral. And they captured Ralakos.

Gods, that was a close thing.

If Ralakos hadn’t recognized me, hadn’t tipped his hand, this whole thing might have gone very differently.

But he did.

That stumped me.

I ran through that scene a dozen times. Persephone, torn to pieces. Mifral, cut in half. Ralakos captured, and you… your throat cut. Compared to the way the Asmodials kill, something I’ve witnessed first-hand dozens of times at this point, your death was almost… civilized.

Your throat was cut. The blood should have been bright red, arterial. Not dark.

Nothing really came into focus beyond vague suspicions until I confirmed the missing piece with Nethtari: Maya. Maya went to you to beg for a method of saving my life—though I’m still foggy on the particulars of that conversation—and knowing that, it all clicked. She told you then, I think. She told you that I had visions, that I could see the future. That I was worth saving.

And that changed everything.

You had to be careful, Ephira. You had to make sure that my killing couldn’t be tied to you even from the grave. In fact, you had to go out of your way to mislead me, keep me tied up in circles chasing dead-ends until the time ran out. First Guemon, then Ralakos, then Persephone.

Gods, you really did plan for every contingency.

But you made a mistake. You couldn’t control Guemon, and he pushed far too hard at the trial. That tipped off Ralakos, who had men following me for my protection from that day onward. I suspect, without that misstep, it would have been much easier to kill me earlier on. I think that's why you had Erdos poison him. I've done some research in the interim. It's desperately tricky to poison someone with Garrote Cap. The slightest miscalculation in dose and you get an organ shredder instead. You didn't want Guemon dead. You wanted him angry and scared of me, cornered and conveniently out of the way.

You were prepared for everything but basic decency. Erdos was supposed to make sure I died during the ambush. But I saved his men trapped under the ice, after you sent them to die. With that, and the realization you’d set them all up, Erdos chose to save me.

And Persephone. I don’t know all the sordid history between the two of you, but I know enough from what I saw in the mining facility to know Persephone’s hate for you is not an act. I knew you had to have something on her to let her use her to get in touch with the asmodials and get Mifral to surrender the scepter in time to use it for the attack.

My guess? You threatened to expose her son.

I’m not sure why she wanted him hidden, but she did. And as soon as he was threatened she folded. A hardened duchess of the underworld, undone by the love of her child. Then she told the story I asked her to tell:

The story you tried so desperately to make me believe.

The story of how Ralakos had turned on me.

Erdos listened in, as I expected he would. Then Ralakos’ spies confirmed he took the story straight to you that very night.

And that brings us here. You, welcoming me into a neutral location, with open arms, alone, and practically unguarded. And I know almost everything. The only question left is why?"

I stopped, feeling spent, almost dizzy. Ephira’s eyes unclouded, and she stared at me in momentary confusion.

"I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought," Ephira said.

"You were telling me about the tea," I said.

"Ah, right." She held it to her lips and took a long pull.

I drank from mine. There were no delusions. This wasn’t over. It was probably too late to stop the attack. But I’d learned to revel in the little victories, the small things.

And as Ralakos’ men rushed in, pressed her down against the table and threw the manacles on; as she struggled, and shouted, and tried and failed to summon, I found myself smiling.

The tea was exemplary.

68

ENCLAVE XXXIX

My father’s voice was uncharacteristically calm. "This does not have to come to bloodshed, Thane Granmire. Your folk are up against heavy infantry and calvary."

The dwarf, clad in silver-black armor, swung his sword at my father’s head. It came nowhere close, missing by a good five feet. My horse huffed nervously beneath me and took a step backward. It had taken me by surprise the first time it happened, but this was the fourth. The dwarves seemed to have a tendency to speak with their weapons, using swings of blades to punctuate points or refute statements.

"Up yers, Gil. We’ve had enough of yer levies." Another skyward swing of the blade. It was almost like the dwarf was painting, his sword the brush. "The excavation sites have been sparse enough this year without yer nonsense. Demandin’ a flat amount instead of a percentage? What a load of tripe."

"We’ve been down this road before, Granmire." My father’s brow furrowed. "The moment the tax is a percentage, your yields always seem to shrink, as if the gems themselves are sprouting legs and running away from you."

"And now yer calling me a liar?" The dwarf glared. "What more should I expect from the Oath-Bane?"

I cringed. Actually, physically shrunk down, the weight of my armor clinking around me, awaiting the inevitable explosion of violence. No one called my father that to his face. No one wise called him that at all, for fear that, no matter how far he was, the wind itself might carry the words to him.

But my father did not reach for his sword. He didn’t even blink.

"Very well. If it is such a difficult thing for you to pay what you owe, perhaps we shall collect your obligation another way. Increased taxes on the merchants that frequent your cities… and perhaps sanctions on the water brought up from the coast." King Gil smiled, and a hint of the wicked tyrant showed through.

The dwarf sheathed his sword. There was an uncomfortable shuffling from his escort that seemed to indicate that negotiations were coming to a close.

"We have a fortified position," Granmire said. His voice was firm. "There’s only one way out of this canyon, Oath-Bane. You’re locked in. Either see reason, or suffer the consequences."

I should have felt panic, but I didn’t. I’d seen this sort of thing play out far too many times. No. There was only one way this ended.

But how?

"Please reconsider."

My helmet jostled against my breastplate as I wheeled around to look at him, flabbergasted.

When was the last time father had said "Please," to anyone?

"I don’t think so." Granmire shook his head. "Surrender."

"That’s not going to happen," Gil insisted.

"Then hells take you, and may the battlefield sing your requiem." Granmire turned and rode towards his war-camp, his mount— some garish combination of pony and a full-grown horse—moving remarkably slow for full-speed.

The beginning feeling of alarm began to crawl up the back of my neck. "Father?" I asked. He’d never brought me to fight in an actual battle before, only demanded I watch.

"Silence." He said. His once calm voice had been entirely supplanted with a seething, simmering rage.

I watched from a distance as our troops began to charge forward. There were less of us than there were of them. We had more men when we left Whitefall. Where were the rest?

Then I watched, conflicted, as a huge cross-section of canyon wall on both sides came loose, the mass of earth and stone crumbling into organic projectiles that rained down on the enemy’s camp from both sides. In their wake they left a ramp, and my father’s men charged down from both sides, perfectly in sync with the group charging from the front.

It was a devastating rout. Even as inexperienced as I was in war, it was painful to watch, but impossible to look away. The dwarves were scattered, sundered, and slain by the thousands.

I was reminded, once again, of Inharion. Of the senseless violence. And for once, my anger exceeded my fear.

"Why?" I asked him through gritted teeth."

"Why, what?" Gil rumbled. He picked something out of his teeth and spit on the ground.

"If you’d told them you had them surrounded, they would have surrendered. Given you what you wanted. But no. More pointless bloodshed." The vehemence in my voice surprised even me. I’d pay for it later.

My father looked me over, unimpressed. "Your mother must have fucked the stablehand. You can’t possibly be mine."

I pulled down my visor and stewed.

"Gods. It never stops."

In the distance, I saw Granmire break through the line of men. He charged towards us, sword held high.

"Take the horse." My father commanded. An archer from his personal retinue fired an arrow. It skewered the small horse through the chest and it crumpled to the ground. Granmire was thrown and tumbled legs over head, like a discarded toy.

The archer pulled back another arrow, but my father held up a fist to stop him.

"Have you learned nothing?" He asked me.

Granmire was struggling to his feet, almost a hundred feet away. He held his sword aloft again and charged.

"There is value in negotiating with your enemy from a place of weakness." My father’s voice was cold. The dwarf had closed enough distance that I could hear his hoarse battle cry behind my father’s words. "There is much insight to be gleaned. As long as that weakness is false. It gives them hope. And in that hope, they’ll show you how willing they are to bite the hand of mercy."

The dwarf was within fifty feet of us now. My father dismounted, and strode away from me and turned, his back to the dwarf.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He continued on as if he hadn’t heard me. "There is nothing pointless about this. Any of it. If I told them, this would only happen again. Only next time, they’d look for the mages.”

The dwarf crouched down and leapt towards my father, swinging his sword, this time intending to kill. My father raised two fingers. The archer loosed a heavy arrow that punched through the dwarf’s chest plate. He fell face-first onto the ground, lifeless.

My father’s eyes bored into me. "A king has only one use for mercy, boy. To flush out the snakes at his heel."

My adulation at the victory slowly flickered out as it became apparent how temporary it truly was. Ephira would not talk. No matter how she was questioned, and by whom, her silence remained the same. Not even an explanation of why she did what she did, why she chose to oppose the council and betray her people. There was no confession. No flicker of recognition in her eyes when I mentioned Thoth.

I knew her. I understood her. This was no piecemeal defiance or trite act of rebellion. Ephira was holding to the same operational rules she’d held to before. No additional information—because if she told me anything useful, the information could be disseminated to me through a vision.

It was as infuriating and frustrating as it was brilliant, and more effective than she could possibly know. When the interrogations expert under Guemon’s employ attempted to use illusory magic to compel her as a last-ditch effort, she slumped, trails of smoke emitting from her ears, nose, and eyes.

I sent Nethtari and her family away, knowing all the while the futility of what was to come.

We prepared for the fight as best we could. Ralakos could use his influence to pull additional infernals from neighboring cloisters, even summon a few masters willing to leave the Sanctum.

In the end, it made no difference. Whatever deal Ephira made with them was still valid, the deal itself thereby either took place either close to the beginning of the month, or worse, earlier than that. The demons attacked at the end of the month, just as they had before.

The only change that occurred from bolstering the Enclave’s strength was that Ozra appeared earlier. Now that I was able to watch him fight, it was clear his element—or at least the one he used most often—was related to metal. He tore through entire regiments of men in seconds, their breastplates caving in on themselves, stabbed and torn asunder by their own armor.

The demons still slaughtered the innocents who stayed. Only instead of murdering them in their homes, they broke into the shelters and shredded them like meat through a grinder.

Meat. We were all meat.

And what did I do?

I watched from a rooftop. Like a coward. It had been Ralakos’ idea, after seeing how stringently Ephira had stuck to her philosophy. I watched as the people I promised myself I would protect died in an ocean of pointless violence, far above the crimson waves.

I watched.

I watched as Ralakos fought Ozra. The fight lasted minutes and leveled a church, before Ozra held Ralakos’ severed head up from the rubble and smiled. It was a strangely civilized smile. The sort of better-luck-next-time expression one might give a companion after a friendly competition.

Finally, a demon caught sight of me. It looked like the same one that had bisected me the first time. It scampered up the building.

I pushed mana through the inscription on my chest, and everything went mercifully black.

I told myself that the difference in time was significant.

Thirty days, versus ten. With the knowledge from the prior resets, I managed to prevent Guemon from being poisoned and arrange Ephira’s capture early on.

I was more adamant, this time, about the civilians being evacuated. All of them. Most were. But Ralakos refused to abandon the Enclave, as did Guemon. It was their city, and they would die with it. I told them that yes, they would die. Ralakos just smiled at me and reminded me that if they were no longer here, no one would be left to protect the entrance to the Sanctum, and that would likely be the Asmodial’s next target after the enclave was sacked.

I pushed harder and harder to get stronger. My wind magic had come along significantly: I could now make projectiles half as strong as the demon-fire, and lift animals as large as a cat.

I worked the magic as hard as I could, studying the demonic language and the demons themselves. I stopped sleeping. By the end of the month, my mild hallucinations had turned into full-blown fantasies. I’d seen the Asmodials attack three times before they actually did.

The fight with Ozra lasted longer than the first time, extending from two minutes to five. Guemon was a talented earth mage and was able to run interference for Ralakos, tearing up paved roads with massive chunks of earth lifted from below.

But Guemon was slow, and the massive bear demon he summoned as Ozra flew towards him immediately cowered, leaving the violet infernal splattered across the ground from the impact alone. Not long after that, Ralakos fell in a dazzling light show.

And I watched as my efforts to force them to evacuate fell short.

Again

And I watched as every desperately conceived strategy and obsessively adjusted tactic was blown to ruin in the face of unrelenting strength.

Again

And I watched.

Again

It started to feel different. Harder to come back. Like the great black beast had clung to me. I shouted at it, begged it for advice, for relief, for some small clue on how in the name of the gods and hells alike I was supposed to do something against that, that massive, black angel of a demon that felled men with a snap of his fingers.

Again.

I lost myself. It had been months since I slept. I no longer knew what day it was, other than the fact that it was the first day and that time had no meaning, I had no meaning, everything was a cycle of light and dark and again and blood spattering the pavement again and again and it was too much the gods were dead and the devils roamed free and elphion all I wanted was to drink and whore and go back to a time when none of this mattered and guilt was a thing that happened to other people but time didn’t matter because change was an illusion and one person could never hope to change a single fucking thing because that was the world I lived in and please make it stop—

Again.

I slept. My mind just shut down.

When I woke, I was in the surface caves.

It came to me, as clearly and strongly as the morning bell. I held my hands to my head and laughed. I laughed until the laughter turned into sobs and back to laughter again. The answer was right in front of me the whole time.

It would cost me nothing. It would cost me everything.

69

ENCLAVE XL

It was such a simple solution. Basic. The sort of simplicity my mother would appreciate and my father would grudgingly praise. It was elegant. Creative. The sort of idea that ripples into eternity.

I grabbed wads of my clothes and stuffed them into my rucksack, as well as the small box of gold I had left over

Just leave.

I could just go. That was who I was. Cairn the coward. Ran away from his own coronation and abandoned his sisters. Or at least would have, if the evil sadist from hell hadn’t gotten in the way.

None of this was my fucking problem, I hadn’t asked for any of it, I hadn’t signed up for any of this. I’d tried to do a good thing, and then I got my nose cut off, and my teeth broken, and my eye gouged out. But I kept going, and watched people that I had put over a year of my life into saving circle the drain, over and over. They were on their way out, anyway. Me being here made no difference.

The world had reminded me what I was made of, and now it was time to throw up the white flag.

And then I was out the door, sprinting down the main road towards the entrance portal, head down, mouth open, gasping for every breath.

Any moment, someone would stop me. Cut me down where I stood. A demon leaping from a rooftop. Kastramoth, biting down on my arm from behind a tree. Barion, thrusting a rapier through my chest. Surely they wouldn’t just let me leave. That thought hounded me as the voices behind me grew more distant and fading until finally I pushed through the portal, the membrane pulling tight over my face, one last barrier.

And then I was through. The air felt fresher, lighter.

The sun had just fallen to its nadir, speckling orange rays of light through the dusk as twilight was born through the blades of browning grass.

I walked through the field of endless grass, approaching the rippling mirage of the sun. The grass swirled and rounded me like a golden ocean.

It was beautiful.

I knew exactly where I was.

But even in the darkest night in the Everwood, I had never felt so lost.

I wandered for a mile or two. My vision clouded. The flickering orange lights coalesced in a sparkling Gaussian blur.

I wiped my eyes.

When I put my hand down, something was blocking out a portion of the sun, casting a silhouette the size of a small person. A child. It was the little girl from the alley—only she looked different now. Human instead of elven. Her once shaved head was laden with dirty blonde curls. Only her familiar eyes were the same.

The hallucinations hadn’t finished with me yet.

She stood there and watched me. She had the face of someone who wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

The words poured out before I even realized I was talking. "I remember thinking, a long time ago, that the gods picked the wrong person. But I had no idea how right I was. No idea at all."

The little girl cocked her head. "Why?"

"Because I’m a coward. I’m not particularly strong. Nothing comes easy for me… and at the end of the day, I’ll always choose myself over anyone else."

She tapped my forehead.

Maya’s face flashed into my head briefly. The image of me standing in front of her in the Everwood, flaming sword held in my hand.

I looked…

Had I really looked like that?

Another image. This time from when I fought Tusk at the crossroads, drove my sword breaker into his gut, knowing it would likely get me killed, some part of me hoping it would.

I looked so determined. So strong.

Where was that strength, now?

Another image, this time unprompted. I stood before a throng of people and cast my crown into the raging green fire.

I wish to live, freely and forever!

The sound of my own voice echoed in my head. I closed my eyes and confessed the truth.

"I wanted it to be true."

"Wanted what to be true?" The girl asked. Her voice had a strange, musical quality, like fingers walking up a harp.

"I didn’t care about the wish." I admitted. That night was so vivid in my mind even still, burning brightly with the rancid emotion that filled me like bile. "I just wanted it to be true… so I could claim it. Deprive them of it. I wanted them to feel loss, real loss. To—"

Suffer. As I have suffered.

There was a meaty thump as someone flicked my forehead. I fell back into the grass. For a hallucination, it felt strangely real.

"Wishes aren’t real." She pointed at me sternly. "You should know this by now." She turned and faced the horizon. The sun had disappeared beneath a distant hilltop, and the first few stars shimmered dimly in the sky. She held one arm behind the other. "I make wishes all the time. I wish that the sun would never rise. That the night would last forever, the stars shining ever so brightly."

"Why?" I asked.

She looked over her shoulder at me. "Because of all the nights in the universe, and all the you’s, this is the you that I like the most. You talk to me. Sometimes you even listen."

"But why does the night have to last forever?" I asked.

"Because you won’t be the same tomorrow."

"Sure I will."

"No. You won’t." She said it with sadness that held a great, unknowable weight. "No matter what you decide. Everything will change."

My mind tracked back to the idea that came to me when I woke in the surface caves. The idea that had prompted me to flee, turned my entire state of being into a question of fight or flight.

The girl shook her head. "I can’t tell you the right answer. But I can leave you with a warning for later—" She bent down and looked at me seriously. "When the moon alights with silver flame, don’t cross the threshold. It will only lead to heartache."

"What does that… mean." I trailed off, alone in the field once more. The girl was gone.

I thought, long and hard, about who I was. Who I wanted to be. Then, slowly, I walked back towards the portal and descended into the dark.

The next morning, I began the long process of making my peace. The timing of this would not allow for a second try. There were a number of things I wanted to do.

I stopped by Ralakos’ first, and asked for the use of one of his halls for the evening. He obliged, asking what the occasion was.

There was no reason to lie. I told him the truth. I wanted to celebrate.

I took a slow walk around the Enclave. First, I came to Casikas’s shop. I watched the man work through the window, before entering. His glasses slipped down over his nose and he squinted, pushing them up again. The bell chimed as I entered, just as it had so many times before.

Casikas waved to me and asked if I was working today. I shook my head no, and traded him the Garrote Caps at a hefty discount. He was thrilled, but didn’t have enough gold on hand and gave me a note for the bank.

I followed the path through the market, through midtown. I peered in a raucous tavern and caught sight of a few soldiers I knew. Urish, the female water-magician, was passed out at a nearby table. Theros and Relyre were well and drunk, despite it being early afternoon. The big infernal had his arm over the smaller one and was singing a bawdy tune about a blushing crab.

They hadn’t met me, but that didn’t matter. I approached the barkeep and slid him a silver bar. The barkeep’s eyebrow shot up. But I was already leaving.

"Keep my friends over there thoroughly drunk, would you?"

His gaze traveled to the soldiers and he sighed sufferingly. "As you please."

I threaded my way through the busy streets until I came to the temple district. There I found Bellarex, and suffered dozens of questions on the topic of demon-fire and being human, and befriended her just as easily as I always had.

"You know," I told her, "My friend Jorra and I have been looking for a third for the Sanctum. We spar in the practice caves on the outskirts pretty regularly. You should swing by sometime."

Bellarex kept her face neutral, but I watched in amusement as her tail began to swing from side to side excitedly. "I’ll uh. Maybe. Uh. I’ll think about it."

I hoped she did, even if I wasn’t there to see it. It would give Jorra someone to bond with. To mitigate the loss.

Enough of that.

Bell called out awkwardly as I turned to leave, "Thanks for coming by!"

"Goodbye, Bell." I waved.

The streets became narrower as I entered the wealthier residential district. Guemon opened the door. His momentary surprise lapsed into a scowl.

"The hells do you want?"

I held my hands up peacefully, then handed him a basket of assorted confections I picked up from the local bakery. The man was as sour as a winter lemon but he’d grown on me. He wasn’t the strongest magician, but never once had he shied from death, protecting Ralakos until the end every time.

He looked at the basket suspiciously. "I feel like this is a very diplomatic way of calling me fat."

"Can I come in?" I asked.

"Fine."

I walked him through a vague outline of the particulars. I intended to do something dangerous, something I might not come back from. As I spoke, his expression grew more and more befuddled. What I’d given him were a series of letters, dated and stamped to be sent from various locations pathing away from the Enclave. I couldn’t be sure my father would buy it, but it was the best I could do.

"And you’re giving these to me." Guemon stared at me as if I was daft.

"Yes." I said.

"After everything I said at the trial."

"That’s right."

He looked between the letters and me half a dozen times. "Okay, no. I have to ask. Why the fuck would you give me these? Is this bait? Some kind of mind game?"

I smiled. "No. You’re the security expert. I trust you to do what’s best for the Enclave."

Guemon leafed through the letters, muttering the names of towns along the routes I had chosen. He eventually came to the last three, sent at the end of the line. "What are these?"

I scratched my neck awkwardly. "Letters. To my mother and sisters. I’ve… been afraid to write to them. I don’t know why."

The truth was, I was afraid. As soon as I wrote to them, it meant I had accepted the reality that they were no longer dead. That they were alive and waiting for me in Whitefall. That they might write back. And that when they did, my resolve would weaken, and I would give up and go home, all for the chance of seeing them again.

Guemon’s face softened, though only slightly. He rubbed his forehead. "I feel like I missed something."

"Nothing important. Enjoy the basket."

"I will." He said absentmindedly, then sharply looked up. "Wait, no, I won’t—"

The door shut behind me—though not fast enough to muffle Guemon’s shouted obscenities.

If I failed, disappeared into the long dark and the infernals somehow survived the attack, the last thing I wanted was my father swinging through to sunder the pieces. Guemon would see to that, at least.

I walked through the Thulian District. It was much less inviting during the day, the buildings washed out and awkward in the auric sun, as if the establishments were as hung-over as the people who drunkenly shuffled out of them.

Feet sore from walking, I arrived at my final destination, the Glistening Gate, and asked for Persephone.

70

ENCLAVE XLI

It was a simple party. A small get-together in Ralakos’s almost comically oversized hall. But there was wine, and music, and friends, and that was all I needed. Ralakos had scrounged up a local bard, who sang upbeat ballads and strummed along easily, the long dulled nails of his right hand serving as precise picks.

Kilvius and Nethtari arrived first, Kilvius in a ceremonial robe—the most dressed up I’d ever seen him, and Nethtari in a modest white dress. She leaned against him and laughed as Casikas regaled them with exaggerated stories of failed experiments.

Ralakos, ever the gracious host, circled the room, ensuring everyone had enough to drink. From the corner of my eye, I saw Erdos watching us, a puzzled look on his face.

One of Ralakos’ butlers was managing Agarin, slightly flustered with the hyperactive child.

Jorra chased one of Ralakos’ nephews around the furniture, nearly tripping over the unfamiliar fancy robe.

Nethtari snorted at something Kilvius whispered in her ear, then held a hand to her face in embarrassment.

I drank, perhaps more than was wise, but less than was needed.

I smacked Jorra on the back of the head as he passed, and sidled up next to Nethtari and Kilvius.

"Having a good time?"

"Yes, thank you. It’s been too long since we all got out of the house." Nethtari’s monotone voice had a slightly drunken lilt.

Kilvius rubbed his wife’s shoulder affectionately. "This one’s been working too hard."

"I always work this hard."

"My point stands."

As always when it came to food—Ralakos had gone above and beyond. There was raw fish served on eel-paper, various spicy delicacies, and a desert carousel. Jorra picked at the food constantly until Nethtari pushed him away.

Once everyone had eaten, I stood and clapped my hands.

"Bard!" I clapped my hands. The infernal scampered down from the podium to my side.

"Yes, my lord?"

I smiled at him and held my glass high. "I require accompaniment."

"Are there chords you prefer?" He asked.

"Something upbeat."

The bard began to play. I stood on my chair to give myself more height, and surveyed the room.

"You know, your daughter said something to me." I inclined my glass to Kilvius and Nethtari. "A warning, really. She told me I would have no friends in the Enclave. And I’m happy to report that though she is almost always right, in this small thing, she was wrong. There aren’t many, but they are as precious as they are few. And I am pleased to have each and every one of them in this room with me tonight."

The bard picked up on the tone of my voice immediately, and switched to something dulcet and smooth.

"Casikas!" I raised my glass to him. "Now, I know that recent transaction has colored your bias—" I paused as the man laughed, "—but I have to be the worst employee to ever grace your shop. Thank you for your never-ending patience, and my never-ending tab."

There was a smattering of applause and laughter.

"Jorra." I turned to him and he grinned. "We’ve gotten up to more shit than I can list on one hand. As my training partner, and partner in crime, I look forward to seeing what fresh hell we can raise. The Sanctum is right around the corner."

Jorra thumped one hand against the table. I hoped he wouldn’t hold it against me if I broke that promise.

"Ralakos. You’ve had my back since day one. Even when I didn’t have yours. Thank you for feeding me—" I waved an arm at the spread, "—teaching me, and always looking out for me."

Finally I turned to Nethtari and Kilvius. Kilvius was smiling, but Nethtari’s expression had slipped. She studied me quietly.

"Kilvius, Nethtari. You took me into your home. Before you’d even spoken to me, despite the litany of responsibilities, you defended and fought for me. You took your daughter at her word, certainly, but I will never forget that debt. Thank you for accepting me into your family."

"To all of you. May the frost always wane in your waking." I held my glass out in front of me and drained it.

I’d stepped outside to clear my head. The scrape of gravel gave away quiet footsteps. I jumped and turned around to see Nethtari coming my way. She’d continued to drink throughout the night and was slightly buzzed

"Hi," I said.

"Hello, Cairn," She sank down on the step next to me. "So, what happened?" Her voice was as monotone as always. "Decide to say goodbye before you left?"

I flinched. There was an accusation in the statement, though not a mean-spirited one. "I don’t know what you mean."

Nethtari rolled her eyes. "I was walking home yesterday when, lo and behold, I see my pasty pink child running like a bat out of hell towards the front gate."

I frowned. "Alright, pasty is a little mean."

"I’m sorry. This is why I don’t drink." Nethtari drew circles on her knee. "But you were saying goodbye. I heard you, even if no one else did."

"I was." There was no point in denying it. Nethtari had proven time and time again she could read me like a book.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

"Hopefully, nowhere. It wasn’t a ‘goodbye,’ goodbye. I thought I was being subtle," I groused.

"Where are you going?" Nethtari repeated. She was pushy when she was drunk.

"I was going to talk to you about this in the morning."

"Well, we’re here. Talk to me about it now."

"Alright! Elphion." I rubbed my head. "I need your help."

Nethtari absorbed that and seemed to sober up.

"Tell me."

The boat navigated through the tunnel, water sloshing against the sides. Compared to the group I’d gone in with the first time, this selection was tiny. There were four of us. Theros provided the light, while Urish propelled the boat through increasingly tight passages.

Nethtari sat glued to me. She was furious. Her whole body trembled, shivering in the cold even as the anger radiated off her in hot waves. I’d tried to explain it, tried to make her see, but in the end she’d called me a fool.

Still, she insisted on going with me, if only to keep things from being worse than they already were.

Sweat formed a ring around my neck, soaking my clothes. Every muscle in my body ached, every cell of my skin quivered in fear.

After a certain amount of time, Theros’s illumination spell would go out.

And in the momentary darkness, I’d see an image.

Embers in the dark.

A knife along my face.

A claw sliding beneath my knee-cap.

The whimper escaped my lips and I pressed a hand to my mouth. I chose this. I’d known it had to be now.

I’d known there wasn’t time for the inscription to set.

I chose this.

So why was it so hard?

Something grabbed my hand and I started. Nethtari refused to look at me, but her hand was wrapped around mine. Her lips were pressed together, tight and invisible.

I walked through the Twilight Chambers alone, a crackling torch lighting the gloom-filled caves. Up ahead, I saw light. Only the torches were red instead of orange.

This was it.

A shadow prowled to my left, the blurry outlined form of a minor demon. It nipped at my heels, and I swatted it away. Another joined it, and another. My heart twisted in my chest. They surrounded me, boxing me in.

The red glow grew brighter. Something swiped my torch out of my hand. I saw a dozen of Ephira’s men, in their frilly green armor, posted outside the tunnel entrance. They reached for their weapons and it looked for a moment as if they might stop me, but thought better of it once my demonic escort came into view.

It was unbearably hot. The entire front of my robe was soaked.

I cleared the antechamber and saw them. Red torches decorated the walls. A host of demons, swirling and black. Ozra was sitting in what I can only describe as a stone throne, his massive gauntlets resting on the arms. His gaze flicked to me, and an immense pressure settled down over my head, my shoulders. The black aura around him intensified.

"Who trespasses in this place?" Ozra’s voice was a cold rumble. The skin around his chest seemed to glisten red in the light.

Ephira spun. She stared at me in visible disbelief. Then her face grew hard. "Well then. He’s the one. And he’s just saved you some time. Take him."

Two greater demons grabbed me by the arms and began to drag me away.

"Wait!" I shouted.

Ozra held up a clawed hand, and the demons paused.

"Ephira, please!"

"What?" Ephira snapped at me, irritated at the timing. "So you can pump me for information? It’s too late. Your visions are worthless now."

I balled up my hands into fists, then released them. "It’s not about the visions. It’s about all of us."

Her robe swirled behind her in an angry torrent as she descended from the stage. An arc of lightning passed through my upheld hands into my chest.

I yelped and fell to the ground.

She lorded over me, staring down.

"Why?" I croaked.

No answer

"Fucking tell me why!" I screamed at her.

Slowly, she bent down. "How could you possibly understand? There is no negotiation to be had. There is no common ground. No compromise that could possibly bring us to equity."

"Please," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "It doesn’t cost you anything. It doesn’t matter what I know. Because of him." I pointed to Ozra, who sat, perfectly still. "It doesn’t matter who I tell or how hard I try. It doesn’t matter. You always win."

"So what does it matter?"

"I came to you in good faith!" I roared. "I came to you to build a foundation for the future. If you are to send me to the great beyond, at least have the decency to tell. me. why!"

Ephira backhanded me across the face and I fell to the ground. I tasted iron. The demons around me cackled.

"The foundation was already here." Ephira said. Her voice was quiet now, resentful. "It was here long before your kind arrived with their ships, and their collars, and their tyranny. And it will be here long after you have passed away to nothing."

"So that’s it then?" I struggled to my feet. "We’re doomed to repeat history, and never amend it? To repay violence with violence until there’s no one left to fight?" My voice broke.

"Do not speak to me of violence."

"I want it to end!"

"Yes, just like your father." Ephira rolled her eyes. "The violence ends when you pay what you are due. Such charity."

"And you judge from your dragon’s hoard of riches." I snapped bitterly. This time I saw the blow coming and turned my head with it.

Ephira trembled with rage. "I have given more to the Enclave than you can ever imagine. How dare you judge me. From the first moment you saw me, you thought you could manipulate me with promises of wealth. That is what your kind does. They probe for a weakness, and manipulate, and drain, until there is nothing left."

"Why slaughter your own people?" The confusion in my voice was as real as it got.

"Because that is the cost of deliverance," Ephira snarled. "I have tried to do things the proper way for years. I have tried to show them that the humans will not release us until they have sucked away every last thing that makes us unique, but they are happy to pay their taxes, even as the boot clamps down on their throats."

"So you trigger a war," I said slowly. "You slaughter your own folk. And then you open the dimensional gate and point the finger at my father, who promptly scatters you to dust."

Her surprise faded into grim resolve. "I was right to take so many precautions."

"Surely you can see how foolish that is. How wasteful. They’re your people, Ephira!"

"I will spend the rest of my life making amends, and beyond." She said quietly. "I will never leave hades. I will never live another life. But if I must dirty myself, to emancipate my people from human greed, I am happy to make that sacrifice."

"You’re—" Insane. I stopped myself before the word could slip out. It was a word I often used to describe someone else. Only, I’d come to realize he wasn’t insane. Just brutal and calculating.

I started again. "The way you’re talking. The insistence that violence is the only answer. That’s the exact same rationale my father uses to justify every atrocity."

Ephira stiffened.

"We can fix this together." I insisted. "Let me open the dimensional gate. After I am crowned, I will give the Enclave its freedom. We can coexist. We can thrive."

Ephira’s expression finally thawed, and she no longer looked like a raving mad woman. Instead she looked tired. Exhausted.

"Perhaps you can stave off your baser nature. But it’s not you I worry about, Cairn. It’s the one that comes after you. And the one that comes after him. And the one after him. Kings wield too much power. Power is inevitably abused."

I said three words I never thought I’d say. "I’ll absolve it."

"What?" Ephira’s head snapped up.

"I’ll absolve the monarchy." I repeated, the idea taking root in my mind.

"I don’t believe you," she said.

I took a step forward. "I actually agree with you. On many things." I held out my hand. "I never wanted to be king. I swear it to the elder gods. If you join me now, when the crown passes to me and the threat is resolved, I’ll absolve the monarchy."

She thought about it. I saw her consider it. Weigh the possibilities in her head.

Ephira smiled. "If only power were so easy to cede."

I prayed to all the gods.

"Please."

"Perhaps I have misjudged you," Ephira said. Her voice was sad. "But there is too much blood. Even if I wasn’t already committed, I could never trust you, just as you could never trust me."

I gnashed my teeth together and stared down at the ground. A single, bitter tear rolled down my cheek.

I’d failed.

"Take him. Don’t torture him. Just kill him quickly." Ephira commanded.

The greater demon didn’t move to take my arms. A demon with long claws stroked the tear from my cheek. When she spoke, it was like her voice was being inhaled, rather than exhaled, words thick and raspy.

"What an exquisite lie."

The demons began to laugh, and titter, and cackle.

"What does that mean? What does she mean?" Ephira turned towards Ozra, whose face was stoic. "Kill him."

The demon stroked my head and stared deep into my eyes in wonder.

I cringed away.

"He does not weep for himself, infernal. He weeps for you."

Ephira turned from side to side, panicking. Her guards were grabbed and forced to their knees.

Ozra rose from his throne and descended.

They pushed me forward towards him in a writhing black mass, claws rustling my hair, my clothes. Ozra led me up to the throne and held out an arm, inviting me to sit.

"I told you it was pointless." He said.

Ephira’s mouth was agape in horror. "What did you promise them? What the fuck did you promise them?"

A greater demon placed a twisted black vine around my head in a mockery of a crown. I stared down at her, my chest clenching, overcome with grief.

"The same thing you did."

71

ENCLAVE XLII

I sat back on the throne and watched the proceedings. The begging and crying gave me no satisfaction. Not even the secret, twisted kind that the heroes of stories feel when they watch ruin settle upon their enemies.

Of course, now negotiations were on the table. The amount of bribery and amends she was willing to make was almost staggering. Unfortunately, I couldn’t trust any of it. My father—damn him—had been right on one account. There was something to be said for negotiating from a position of weakness. My hope had been, however childish, that Ephira would join with me. That despite holding me at her mercy, my humble plea would reach her. But the covers of intrigue and mystery had been tossed aside, and I witnessed her response firsthand.

There was no going back for us.

"What do you wish to do, my lord?" I could feel his cold blue eyes staring down at me, evaluating, waiting for the second I went back on my word.

My core tightened, forehead straining as I watched Ephira squirm against her captors, her queenly grace all but forgotten. My mind drifted back to the hours earlier, searching desperately for a way out.

"This is folly!" Nethtari hissed. Her voice crested the perpetual monotone and accelerated in a panic I’d only heard when she was dying. She flung her wineglass into the fireplace, shattering it, stirring the flames. "It’s poorly thought out, and dangerous, and impulsive, child, even for you."

"Tell me why." Leaning against the wall, I stared into the fireplace.

"Because the things you are playing with, the forces you intend to parlay—these are not simple contracts that can be bought out later. These are eternal—"

"Which is why I need a competent solicitor by my side to ensure that nothing untoward is snuck in."

She jabbed a finger at me. "Even if I could find a flaw in Ephira’s contract, which is likely so iron-clad and well-thought-out that an entire team of solicitors would come up short, it does not change what it will cost."

I held out my arms wide, frustration finally bubbling to the surface. "I have it on good authority that she went out of her way to deceive them. And If you have an alternative course, by all means, voice it, Nethtari."

"Backup from neighboring cloisters-" She started.

I slapped it down immediately. "Already tried. Doesn’t matter. This Arch-Demon, this Ozra, is the sort who comes around once an eon. Any force we can muster in a month’s time will be crushed easily. From what I’ve seen, the battle lasts less than a day."

Nethtari put her hands flat against the table, bent over, deep in thought. "What about the other legions? They’re wild and brutal, but they do self-govern. Surely, if they knew such an attack on the status quo was imminent they would intervene."

The thought had occurred to me as well. The problem was that most egions outside the Asmodials were fractured and decentralized. I’d considered financing an expedition to find the bastards and attempted to do so several times, but the level of preparation required meant that the expedition would not be ready until the deadline was practically upon us.

There were further issues. My best bet for opposing the Asmodials were the Decarabia—the demons rumored to be fallen celestials. Most legions paled in comparison to the four primary legions, and within those legions laid a classic tactical dilemma. The Asmodials had tangential ties to the Malthus and Cemeries legions.

From everything I read regarding their historical conflicts, the one factor that kept the Decarabia from fully committing in a war against the Asmodials was the Malthus and Cemeries Legions working as arbiters to limit the scope. If the Decarabia ever fully committed against the asmodials, I had no doubt that the Malthus and Cemeries Legions would move in to finish them off.

If I had unlimited time, then perhaps I could simply force the issue. But with every additional reset my confidence in that notion had evaporated. I’d felt a slight tug between lives, towards the end of the altercation with Barion. This feeling had not been present when I died outside Kholis. But what had felt like a slight pull had crescendoed into a rending, searing tear. From this, I could only gather one conclusion. I had been given additional time. But it was not unlimited.

As I described my theories on the demons to Nethtari, the doubt that flickered in her eyes told me I was correct. I watched, not without sympathy, as she followed the same train of thought I had. "And if we evacuated the Enclave, we’d be abandoning our children. Leaving them to the demons." She looked up quickly. "What if Ralakos sent troops into the Sanctum? It wouldn’t have to be a large group. Just enough to seal off the exits and act as a warning until we returned."

My eyebrow rose. "And that would be acceptable to you? Asking men I’ve never met to make sacrifices I’m unwilling to make myself?"

"That is the nature of war." Nethtari’s lips curled in displeasure. I was reminded of Thaddeus and his damn sliding scale of morality. Even Nethtari was not immune.

"Perhaps," I said. "But it would be a desperate sacrifice to lock us into a losing battle. We don’t know what Ephira has planned, specifically, but we know her intentions. When she unlocks the dimensional gate, she will incite the infernal warriors within, and they will burn my cities to ruin. It would take an immense struggle to oppose them, and leave me unable to oppose Thoth in her efforts to gather an army elsewhere."

Nethtari’s eyes began to glisten. "But why does it have to be you?" The anguish in her voice wrenched at me. "This is not your fight."

"It is, though."

You don’t have to say it. I’ll look after your family, Maya.

Maya trusted me. The way Lillian had trusted me.

"The upside is, it will work to my advantage. It is the rational choice, and it will be a long stride towards evening the playing field for the inevitable conflict. And… I’ve broken too many promises, Nethtari." My hands began to shake. "This one I have to keep. Or I will be lost."

Nethtari squeezed my shoulders. "I know what you must think. That if the consequences fall on you and you alone, that makes them acceptable, no matter how horrible they are. But you are wrong, Cairn. Others will pay. They always do."

There was a warning in her words, amidst the grief. But I was too focused on the trial ahead to pay it any mind.

Nethtari supported my arm as we departed the boats and headed further into the Twilight Chambers. Theros led the way, his face drawn and wary. He would only accompany us to the point that Persephone had marked. With knowledge of her son, it had been easy enough to convince her to pool her funds with Ralakos and buy Mifral out, the additional capital used to ensure the woman’s silence.

The shadows grew longer and I began to see things in them, my previous flashes in the boats extending out into entire scenes, my mind repeating what had been done to me, over and over again.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of anything else.

Not long after Theros departed, the demons found us and escorted us into the antechamber. Nethtari announced herself as a solicitor and a neutral party—I had my doubts that the Asmodials would care, but her insistence to the contrary turned out to be correct. Even if negotiations fell through, she would swear a vow of silence and be allowed to leave.

The demons chittered and circled me, like sharks following blood. I reminded myself that they could sense my fear and tried to quash it. I actually managed it, to some extent, focusing on Nethtari. She was sitting across from what I assumed to be a greater demon. He had no lips, painfully white teeth and gray gums exposed, and he wore a cloth blindfold to cover his eyes. The rest of his body was entirely hidden in tight cloth, hands shod in gloves.

He was leaning over a piece of paper, whispering angrily. Despite his intimidating appearance, Nethtari did not falter, arguing whatever point she was making vehemently. Finally, the blindfolded demon stared at the piece of paper, scrawled in demonic, and took it through one of the back tunnels.

When Ozra entered, I felt myself grow weak. Unintentionally, I began the small pulse of mana that would activate my suicide inscription—only I didn’t have the inscription. As he approached the throne I attempted it twice more, purely on reflex.

Do not let your enemy see your fear. I heard my father’s voice, as clearly and loudly as if he was sitting next to me. His cruel hand gripped my wrist tightly. Speak to him as if you have already died, and the outcome of the conversation is trivial to you.

I stood and approached the throne.

"Arch-Fiend Ozra." I did not tend to the bead of sweat that dripped down my forehead.

Do not bow.

I remained upright, as stiff as a board.

"Prince Cairn." He studied me, as if I was a piece of mud on the bottom of his shoe. "My underling has brought it to my attention that we have been deceived."

"That is correct, your grace." I defaulted to a standard honorific of respect.

"Polite, for a human. Brusque. But polite nonetheless." Ozra’s long pointed fingers tapped against his throne. "You were even kind enough to bring along a solicitor to overlook the contract." He looked over towards Nethtari, who was openly glaring across the room. "You’re lucky. She’s excellent at what she does."

"Yes." I felt tentative relief beginning to grow. "Surely you can see how following through with Councillor Ephira’s plan would be folly."

"I disagree." Ozra said dismissively. I felt the hope that had begun to build disperse. "Ephira merely provided the excuse." He sounded almost playful. "It is in our nature to rise against the infernals. My followers have thirsted for vengeance on this scale for quite some time, and my control, while not insignificant, is tenuous. I could not stay their hand, even if I wished to. "

I could still feel my father’s grip on my arm. Slowly, I let the fear go and began to inhabit the cold, brutal mindset I’d used to interrogate Persephone. Only instead of wearing it, this time I let it invade me and take over entirely. My lip curled in disdain.

"Do not waste my time." I said. Ozra’s eyes slipped towards me slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

"Care to say that again?" Ozra asked.

"Revenge is such a tepid notion." I remembered, vividly, all the agony and torture they put me through. How little they cared for the answer to the questions they supposedly sought. How they reveled in my suffering. I sneered and lowered my voice until it rumbled. "Your motives are much more straightforward. Pure. You are artists, who paint the very canvas of history with blood."

"I have no time for games, human. Make your appeal or be silenced." There was a glint in his eye, cold and dangerous. Ozra would not be trifled with.

A small, goblin-esque demon broke from the line and jumped at me. I called the aegis a second too late and its teeth tore into my arm. Enraged, I wove the air into a glove which I used to smash it into the ground. The demon laid there, stunned. I stomped downward and its skull cracked under my heel.

Ozra did not comment, or even look down. Instead, he waved a hand and the minor demon’s body disintegrated. My mind returned to the task at hand.

I presented the diamond scepter. Its body was platinum, with rose-gold inlay. It looked more at home at a banquet hall than a dungeon, something we had in common. A massive diamond in an oval-cut sat within its circular base. The second and third items were from Ralakos’s personal collection. A sword and a ring. The sword’s capabilities were unknown to me, but they were said to be of great value. The ring was crystalline, and said to be an excellent catalyst for magic.

Ozra took interest in the ring immediately. He bent down to take it, placing it on his finger. It sent a clear message that this was not a negotiation. It was a tribute.

I reached back into my bag and hesitated. This was the gamble. The question I had no manner of answering. A simple desperate hope that my hypothesis was correct. I withdrew a small pouch from my rucksack, which I passed to Ozra. He opened it, revealing almost a dozen glowing spheres.

"Memory orbs?" Ozra asked. For the first time, he seemed confused.

"I was told that a strong enough magician could break through the seal of a memory orb." I said. There was little doubt Ozra could do so. From the raw displays of power he displayed during the attacks, it was hard to imagine a magician more powerful than him. The question was, whether he would be able to interpret the information.

He summoned a pure black aura and held it over the orbs. One by one, the light they held extinguished. With each orb, Ozra’s expression changed, slowly merging from indifference to wonder.

He saw them. I’d selected the fragments carefully. The scale and unity of the attack on Whitefall were shown. Thoth’s battle with my father. When she’d bragged about how every human city had been conquered and destroyed on the same night.

Ozra’s expression of wonder was tempered, slightly, as he viewed the last memory. He was trying to rein in his reaction, but his hands gripped the throne.

"These are visions?" He asked carefully.

"Yes."

"And what do you propose?"

"A contract, of course." I could feel my father’s hand on my back, pushing me onward. "You will get your violence, Arch-Fiend. On a scale much larger than a single city. Rather, an entire nation entrenched in the fires of war. Hundreds of thousands of souls, freed of their coils, yours to collect."

"But you intend to prevent this war." Ozra said. His seething eyes pierced straight through me.

"I intend to mitigate the cost. I intend to bring unity, and build a better world that can form from the ashes. But the war is inevitable." As I spoke the words, I found them true. The idea of stopping Thoth altogether? Preventing the war entirely by collecting allies?

Who was I kidding?

The Enclave was the first real test of my abilities, and it had almost been the death of me. I was a mess. My mind was on the verge of snapping. I’d ridden into the Enclave with utter confidence that fate was on my side. I’d been given the magical key for the magical lock that would give me allies.

That seemed like a joke now.

"If I manage to steal half of Thoth’s allies away from her, that would be a rousing success. And there is still no guarantee that I would win. The only guarantee is that the blood will flow."

"This… Thoth. I want her." Ozra said.

My stomach twisted. I’d read about this. The demons’ fascination with souls was due to what supposedly happened in Hades itself. Magical ability was magnified exponentially on the other side. If a demon owned a person’s soul, thus preventing them from reincarnating, they effectively had a powerful weapon to utilize in the endless war for territory that raged within Hades itself. What separated it from Valhalla was that there was no banquet afterwards, no mending in the Elysian Halls, no cavorting with sprites. But the comment meant he was considering the idea.

Hades was just battle, after battle, after battle, an eternity of endless violence. Thoth, being one of the most powerful beings in Uskar, would be almost a deity in hades.

The fate was horrible. But I owed her nothing. "Fine. I will do everything in my power to see that she is remanded to you, before she meets her end." I held out my hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Ozra smiled. "Not quite. There are problems." He pointed towards his throng of monsters. They looked irritable, angry even. "The promise of a nationwide war is enough to stay my hand, but not necessarily theirs. They are far too aggravated. We will need some form of entertainment, or who knows what they’ll do." He held up a second clawed finger. "And then the real problem. I had one soul in hand for my term in hades. Now, with the contract voided, I have none."

My heart dropped.

"Thoth…"

"Is a whisper and a promise." Ozra shrugged. "Nothing more."

I knew this was coming. I had planned for it. Prepared for it. It didn’t make it any easier.

"A soul for a soul, then." I said, my eyes shut tightly.

He stared at me. For the first time he seemed off-balance, the veil of cold calculation pierced.

"No." The answer came. But he hesitated. I had him. All it would take was one final push.

"Why?"

"Because I do not share my kind’s obsession with royal blood." Ozra mused. "Your soul is not equivalent to hers."

"Not yet." We were negotiating now. It was familiar territory. I could do this. "Ephira has reached her pinnacle. But I have a long way to grow. I am thirteen years old and I have already reached my second awakening."

His eyes were cold. "And the moment I take your soul, your growth will atrophy. The darkness of your future will weigh you down, mire you in existential dread. I’ve seen it a thousand times, child. The humans have a phrase that fits here. ‘A bird in the hand.’"

His argument, everything he was saying, it made sense. I could see it. Perhaps, if I was the same person I had been before, he might have even been right. But that was before all the death. The slaughter. Watching friends and allies die over and over again. That had brought the truth of things into focus. Nethtari and Kilvius. My sisters. My mother. What was one life in the face of that? Of them?

"I don’t give a shit."

"I’m sorry?"

I approached, until I was only inches away. The faint smell of ozone and sulfur hung heavy. I let out all the rage, all the frustration, all the pent up anger and bitterness that had resulted from being unable to do nothing.

"You seem to be under the impression that I care what happens to me." I paced back and forth. "And you’d be right. I did. There was once a time when I felt I was the only thing in the world that mattered. So small-minded. So selfish." The hatred turned inwards. "But oh, how things have changed. You think after trading my soul away I’ll live in fear? No. Nothing will change. Because I live in fear every single day." I let the words hang. From behind, I could hear shuffling as the demons crept closer to the throne, listening. "Fear propels me forward, sustains me, armors me. There is no trial, no suffering you can put me through that compares to watching the people I love suffer and die. So drag me to the hells and do your worst."

I held my arms wide, then dropped them to my sides. "I have been stabbed, sliced open, crushed, set on fire, flayed to my soul, and I am still standing. Because I am not a child. I am a revenant."

"... You are not lying." Ozra said. He seemed to come to a decision and his voice changed, becoming smooth and reassuring. "Perhaps we can come to terms. Fortified by the Malthus and Cemeries Legions, the Asmodials will back you. All I ask is that you join me in the eternal fire. And we will rule the underworld forever."

I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But in the end, the choice was perhaps less difficult than you’d imagine. In many ways I had already made it. Nethtari read over the third version of the document, looking visibly ill. I’d been as clear with her as I possibly could without triggering the wipe that would remove the information from her mind. I didn’t want her to try and trick the Asmodials, or leave loopholes. Even if they weren’t clever, Ephira had made fools of them, and they would likely be looking closely for anything resembling an escape clause.

The crucial point was for her to ensure that my soul would be bound to Hades as its final resting place. Emphasis on "final." The contract would be written in such a way that the demons could not accelerate my death, or prevent my soul from returning to my body in the case of divine restoration. I was worried that this might be a point of contention, but Nethtari was not. Resurrection magic was rare to the point of being legendary—usually only talked about in elven legends—but folk often left room in contracts such as these for the fantastical. It was more often than not an act of final desperation.

Nethtari placed the contract in front of me. I looked through the demonic scrawl. I could read over half of it, though there were likely implications and double-meanings I could only guess at. She looked like she wanted to say something, but the time for argument was over.

Ozra cut his palm, squeezing his fist and allowing a trickle of blood to flow into the waiting inkwell. He handed me the knife and I did the same.

I dipped the feather pen and froze.

My hand would not descend.

Still staring at the contract, I felt cold and empty. My voice caught in my throat. From off to the side, I heard Nethtari stifle a sob.

Ozra bent down to meet my gaze, recognition flickering in his eyes. "You have heard the stories, then."

"Yes."

"For a moment, I thought you a fool. I am glad to be proven wrong." He paused, choosing his wording with care. "There is a period of correction. Certain things must be set right. Weaknesses eliminated."

The pen quivered in my hand.

"After that, unless you rebel, or are captured by another legion, then no. We do not abuse our residents, especially those who are powerful and have given their souls willingly." He smiled at me. It was a terrible smile, full of sharp teeth and fangs. "And you will be powerful."

I was reminded of the coronation. Of how I had put my selfishness above the needs of so many. This was my chance to do the opposite. To right the scale. In this life, it would cost me nothing.

I would never join my family in Valhalla.

But that was alright, wasn’t it?

Passing this hurdle would be the first step to ensuring they lived better lives. That the world that came to be after the war would be a better one. And it wasn’t just my family. I would save Maya’s family—no, her entire people. The price was paltry.

One coward’s soul for the lives of millions.

There was never any choice.

I pressed the pen to paper and signed my name in red.

Everything that followed had been Ozra’s idea. He wanted Ephira dead for what she had done, her men as well. I’d asked him to stay his hand. I hated Ephira for what she’d done, but Ralakos wanted her tried in front of the Council and after what this had cost, I wanted to ensure my relationship with the infernals was forged in steel.

And Ephira was clever. If I could get her to see past her hatred, to spare me out of simple mercy, perhaps she could be useful to the future of Uskar. But more than that, after all the bloodshed, I wanted to resolve this peacefully.

Ozra had made me a wager. If I could bring Ephira to my side, he would spare her. If I couldn’t, then the Asmodials would kill her, and every man that accompanied her. But she’d had her chance.

"What do you wish to do, my lord?" Ozra asked.

The demons cackled. One swiped at Ephira’s leg, drawing blood. She yelped. One of her guards broke free and ran to her, only to be cut down.

"Prince!" Ephira called up at me, cradling her wound, her eyes wild. "I made a mistake. I was not thinking clearly. Please. Show mercy."

Ozra’s face grew crafty. He whispered in my ear. "You know, I could still spare her. There would be favors owed. But I can be quite amenable when the mood strikes me."

I rested my forehead in my palm, Ephira’s begging drowned out by the torrent of voices and thoughts in my head.

It is one thing to slay an opponent in battle. Another entirely to murder him in cold blood.

He was too weak to do what was necessary.

You will be a good king. A kinder king.

A king has only one use for mercy, boy. To flush out the snakes at his heel.

I saw Agarin, in the dark of his room, details marred by the shadows of the red auric sun. His white eyes stared up at the ceiling lifelessly. There wasn’t much blood. It was the casualness of it that stuck so firmly in my mind. My double had reached down into the crib, placed a hand on his chest, and pushed.

My breath was as frigid as the cavern air. I opened my eyes and signaled Ozra.

"Do as you please."

72

ENCLAVE XLIII

The slaughter was quick and efficient. The cavern was overcome with a thick red mist that shrouded the screams and shrieks of the dying. I cringed, every time a guard was struck down. They were the most loyal sort, to stay with their master despite her obvious shift towards sedition.

This was what misplaced loyalty wrought.

I watched silently, forcing myself to take it in, committing it to memory. This was what would happen to my friends, my allies, if I was too weak to face Thoth when the time came. They would be on the wrong side of history, and she would make them suffer for it.

Nethtari was tucked away near the back of the room, watching from behind a pillar. I felt her eyes on me.

What must she think of me now?

I told myself it didn’t matter. Ephira had rushed towards the stone staircase only to be struck down. Her throat was cut. This time, the blood that seeped from between her fingers was bright red. She choked and gurgled. The front of her face was nestled in the stairway, features hidden in shadow except for one milky-white eye tinged pink that pierced straight through me.

The betrayal itself hadn’t hurt me. I barely knew Ephira. What haunted me was the idea that someone seemingly intelligent and rational was willing to sell her soul to oppose me. Was the idea of a united Uskar really so foreign, so unlikely?

There was a final moan from somewhere in the corner of the room which was quickly stamped out.

You gave up.

The idea nagged at me. Had there been a better solution? Was there still? I didn’t think so. At least not one available to me as I was. If I was stronger, then maybe, none of this would have happened.

No.

I shook my head to clear it, vehemently. Even within the loop there would always be people stronger than me. Ozra spoke to that. Hell, even Ralakos spoke to that. If the enclave had taught me anything, it was that brute strength and dedication could only get me so far. No matter how hard I pushed myself there were beings that had been at this for hundreds, even thousands of years longer than I had.

I needed to be smarter.

The demons cleared out the bodies. I found myself wondering what, exactly, they intended to do with them, then decided I was better off not knowing. Nethtari stood beside me, though I noted her distance was slightly greater than before.

Before we left the cavern, Ozra brought up the topic of a demon to bind. They were strangely reverent towards me, Ozra included. I wondered how common it was for someone in my position to do what I had done—judging from the reaction, it seemed as if it was particularly rare.

He offered several beasts. One had legs as thick around as oak trees, and massive claws that could easily cut a person in half. I considered it. I was lacking in brute strength.

I moved on to the next. It was a shadowy greater demon with black claws and a feminine form. I recognized her as the same variety that had struck down that girl in the alley. A hit-and-run fighter not unlike myself. But she wasn’t what I was looking for.

The final greater demon Ozra had arranged was a simple floating wisp, with a globule of black oil in the center that could have served for an eye. It was an exceptional caster. Ozra stated with the flare of a horse salesman that it had access to water, fire, and electric elements, all nearing the third stage.

"That seems incredibly valuable." I said, considering the choice.

"Indeed. The sort of demon an infernal at the menagerie would never be offered. Only the best for you, your grace." When Ozra said "your grace," the inflection made it sound like he was telling a little joke.

Something about it still didn’t feel quite right. Considering the cost, a bit of pickiness was to be expected. I surveyed the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blindfolded, lipless demon who had been negotiating with Nethtari earlier skulking in the back, as if he was hiding.

Ozra followed my gaze, and his brow lowered in displeasure. "Ah. Vogrin. Come forth." The demon skulked forwards. The tightly fitted coat and dark formal wear looked like they would have been more at home in a Panthanian court.

"Yes, master." Vogrin’s voice was ear-thrummingly deep with a slight nasal tinge.

Ozra stared at his servant, clearly displeased. "Vogrin is my Shlackfei."

I tried to parse the word. "Uh. Academic?"

"We will need to work on your demonic. Close, but no. The suffix means master, the prefix could be interpreted as ‘knowledge.’" A sense of looming danger emitted from Ozra. "Though he has hardly lived up to that title as of late."

"My apologies. Though it was clearly stated that contracts were not my specialty, Arch-Fiend." There was just enough vestigial attitude in the statement for me to smile.

"If your failures were limited to the contract, I would only curse your line and be done with it." Ozra rubbed his face.

"The Enclave is specifically warded against greater demons, Arch-Fiend. Were it any other city-"

"Yes, we’ve had this conversation before. It does not change the fact that you failed me."

Ozra held out a hand and I watched with muted interest as Vogrin fell to his knees and began to squirm, clearly in pain, but completely silent.

"What exactly did he do for you?" I asked.

"Gathered intelligence. He’s served well over the last five-hundred years or so, but I believe his time is over. I can only hope his successor learns from his mistakes." Ozra’s hand closed and Vogrin began to foam at the mouth.

"And if I chose him? To bind?"

Ozra looked at me incredulously. But the more I thought about it, it made sense. If my father was the hammer, Thaddeus was the chisel. My father never had to stop to ponder an enemy’s weakness because Thaddeus was there to aim the blow.

There was a long sigh. Ozra released Vogrin from his grasp, and bent down in front of the greater demon. "Your decision, Vogrin. Contract with the boy, or go back to Hades?"

"Back… to Hades…" Vogrin said.

"Excellent. You’ll be contracting with the boy then." Ozra said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Vogrin groaned. Ozra glanced at me. "That is, if you’re sure. There are benefits to you, especially long term, but the short-term gain will be small. Vogrin is older than any of the greater demons I presented to you."

When it was clear I didn’t understand what that meant, Ozra rolled his eyes and continued.

"Meaning, he’s been pulling mana directly from me for centuries. My stores are massive. Yours are not. Your usage of him will be limited."

That was becoming a trend. My mana stores were becoming a more glaring issue, as my technical ability with the magic rose.

"Can you help me rectify that problem?" I bent down and spoke to Vogrin directly. Even blindfolded and twisted as his face was, he looked miserable.

"The Sanctum holds many opportunities for growth," Vogrin said, "It is possible, though it will take time.

"Will you join me?" I asked. Despite the fact that Vogrin was a demon, and Ozra’s encouragement to the contrary, I simply wasn’t comfortable forcing any being into servitude.

Vogrin looked uncertain.

"It can’t be worse than dying. Going to Hades." I chucked a thumb towards Ozra. "Even if it is, I’m pretty certain this guy intends to make your life miserable. I have nothing against you."

"The deprivation of mana would be… unpleasant." Vogrin hissed the last word. "But I fear you are correct."

Ozra tossed me a small medallion. It looked like platinum had melted over the outside of an emerald, then been flash-frozen in place. It was too crude to be beautiful. Still, I knew its purpose from experience.

I held it in the air. "Bind yourself to me."

An hour later, Nethtari and I rode the boat out of the twilight chamber. Theros had already returned, so I lit a torch instead and rowed the boat physically. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but all of a sudden, the gray in Nethtari’s hair looked much more pronounced, the wrinkles around her eyes more defined. The silence between us weighed heavy.

"I’ve disappointed you," I said. Speaking the words hurt.

The water sloshed with each stroke of the oars.

"It’s only natural. You’re a solicitor. The law is important to you."

Nethtari reached over the side towards and trailed an idle finger in its depths. "It’s not you I’m disappointed in."

I cocked my head. "What do you mean?"

"I should have done more for you. I saw you struggling with the decision. Watched how it wounded you." Nethtari clutched her chest. "But there were so many of them… and I was afraid. Afraid the Asmodials would break one more tradition, and I would never see my sons and daughter again."

"Even if you had, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything." I said. I didn’t enjoy killing Ephira, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was the correct course of action. She was too smart, too well-connected. If I entered the Sanctum while she still resided within the Enclave, I had no doubts it would have led to my ruin.

And yet.

"‘Probably.’" Nethtari repeated back sadly. "Is the gray plane between what is probable and what is possible that we live, Cairn. Every uncertainty is filled with endless possibilities. I should have said something."

I changed the subject. "Thank you, for accompanying me Nethtari. I know it wasn’t easy."

"It was the least I could do."

"It really wasn’t."

The silence expanded outwards into the surrounding cave. I looked up at the elven ruins that first foray into the Twilight Chambers had been ambushed from, so very long ago.

It was finally over.

The Enclave came back into focus. It was like the filter of doom and suffering had lifted, and I could once again see how beautiful it was. A gaggle of children raced through the crowded streets, dodging under carts and around perturbed folk who scoffed at them and went on their way. A merchant called out, advertising a recent shipment of fine silks. And the flow of people curved around a particularly strange mixing of people that waited at the docks. Some nodded and bowed to Councilor Ralakos, who smiled magnanimously and waved them on their way. Several called out to Kilvius, who held a babbling toddler in his arms. No one, however, seemed to recognize the woman dressed in a cloak for the lynchpin of the underworld that she was.

Nethtari departed the boat first, and ran to Kilvius, pulling him into a hug, Agarin between them. The grime and despondency of everything that had happened within the Twilight Chambers, the stain upon my soul, seemed to evaporate.

"I take it that things did not end amicably." Ralakos asked.

"Unfortunately," I winced. "Erdos?"

"He tried to escape, and when he could not, he fought to his last breath."

I immediately thought of Bell. "His daughter?"

"I’ll see to her. It is the least I can do." Ralakos held out an arm. When I took it, he pulled me into an embrace. "Dimension gate or not, I will remember this, Prince Cairn."

Persephone chuckled. "For someone I just met, you certainly know how to make an impression. Gods it’s good to be free of her."

I didn’t have to ask who Persephone meant. "You and Ralakos didn’t have any problems manipulating the double once the scepter was out of range?" I asked. We’d tested it, but it was still a worry in my mind.

"It went smoothly enough," Persephone said. "‘Ephira announced that she would be stepping down from the Council to focus on her duties." Her eyes slid over to Ralakos slyly. I knew why, though I declined to comment. There would be a hell of a vacuum in the Enclave markets with Ephira gone—and I had no doubt Persephone would be there to capitalize on the opening.

"I need to get going," Ralakos said, and pointed at me. "You will be joining me for dinner later? Tomorrow? We’ll drink wine. I’ll have the chefs prepare sceo—"

"I’ll join you, but please, no more slugs." I winced.

Persephone extended her hand to me. The sultry air she’d played up all those months ago was still there, but significantly dialed down. "Come to me before you enter the Sanctum. I don’t like owing people, and I have access to wares that will help, which you won’t be getting in the Enclave." She leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Thank you, for the other thing."

She took her leave.

Jorra flicked a small projectile of water at me to get my attention. I instinctively summoned an aegis and blocked it, though it was smaller than an egg.

"Tell me what the hells going on later?" Jorra asked in a low tone, looking up at both his parents in irritation.

"Sure," I lied.

Kilvius ruffled my hair, glancing curiously between me and Persephone. "Clearly, I’ve missed a few things. For now, I’m glad you're safe, Cairn."

The weight in my chest lifted, if only for a moment.

"Ready to go home?"

I’d decided some time ago that when this was over, I was going to take Ralakos up on his offer of a spare room, at least for a while. Nethtari would need some space, after what she’d seen, and I had no doubt that when she shared what had happened with Kilvius, it would affect his perception of me. Still. I could worry about that tomorrow.

I closed the door of Maya’s room behind me. The very muscles in my back seemed tense, begging me to lay down and relax. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I sat back up and summoned Vogrin. He appeared before me on one knee.

"What is your command, master?"

There was one last thing I needed to do.

73

ENCLAVE XLIV

I stalked through the halls of the castle towards my destination. Hands balled into fists. The images of the slaughter of Inharion village still hung crisp and vivid in my mind, and once the shock had worn off, there was only anger, only a rage as deep-seated and unfathomable as the question that vibrated within me. A question I knew could not be answered.

I threw open the doors to my father’s study and gave it voice, loud and unmoderated.

"Why?!"

The sound of my own voice startled me. I’d never dared to yell at him before. It was simply something that was not done, not dared. But he was not at his desk. The candle was lit, casting dim light on a stack of unsigned documents, yet his chair was empty.

I found him at the cushioned bench that sat before a wide-open window. He was positioned sideways, one knee propped up on the bench itself, the foot planted on the floor. The white light of the moon colored his face pale as he stared up at it. For a moment, he almost looked…

Haunted.

He seemed to realize my presence, and the expression disappeared, leaving only the cold, stoic apathy I’d come to know him for.

"Did you say something?" He questioned. His words slurred together, as if he had just roused from a dream.

"Why did you have to kill them all?" I asked.

"What, the elves?"

"Yes."

King Gil scoffed. "Do I have to define the concept of treason?"

"No," I said. "I understand why the adults were put to the sword. They were killing surveyors and plotting against the crown. Their punishment, while severe... I could understand it." I licked my lips. "But the children?"

"You are such a fool," Father said.

I could feel the fiery determination and resolve that brought me here slowly trickling away.

"Then explain it to me. Please. If I am such a fool, then illuminate why such a thing was necessary."

Father rumbled something under his breath, then turned back to look out the window. "Tell me what happens, boy. Tell me what happens in the tales when a village is razed but a child is spared."

I knew the answer immediately. "A hero is born."

"And there is another word for such a person for those on the other side," Father said. "If I were to do what you suggest. To spare the children, to leave a trail of broken and traumatized wretches who will stew, and plot, and plan. What then, do you suppose will happen when they all grow up? When they become leaders of their communities?"

"Could they not be integrated into our society? Isn’t that our responsibility after such violence?" I asked.

My father raised an eyebrow. "You’d have me assimilate them? Annihilate their culture? I’m surprised your mother hasn’t blathered on about that particular moral quandary yet."

I had no misgivings that my father actually cared about anyone’s culture, outside ours. But something in his words rang true.

Who gave them the steel?

Father sighed. It was the sigh of a man who had not rested in quite some time, and would not rest for longer still. "This can all be boiled down to a single tenet, boy. A tenet all kings know, and all kings practice, no matter how kind or cruel. The individual will never take precedence over the whole." His head tilted towards me, and the darkness in his eyes chilled me to the bone. "It matters not who they are. There will be those whose mere existence contradicts the vision of the world you hope to build—current or eventual, child or adult. There is only one way to deal with such a threat. Anything else is folly.

The city of Roseborough took its name literally, judging from the beautiful, well-tended greenery that lined the main gate and starred in the many gardens within the city walls. Roses of nearly every color graced the bushes and beautiful blossoms unfolded within the trees themselves.

The primarily nonhuman population looked on with some curiosity as I navigated the streets alone on my mare, mask covering my face, looking for one establishment in particular. There were few humans here, but for the most part, the demographics mirrored that of the enclave itself, though slightly more diverse—mostly infernals, then dwarves and elves respectively.

A woman exited a corner-store carrying a stack of books tucked under her chin beneath a weathered wooden sign that swung lightly in the breeze: Zorson’s boutique.

Found it.

The front door opened with a slow creak. The Infernal at the front counter, wrinkly and gray of hair, seemed to be lightly dozing, his chin propped up on gnarled fingers. I cleared my throat. Nothing. I tried again.

The man I assumed to be Zorson shook awake, slamming both hands onto the counter and startling us both. He glared up at me, as if I’d trespassed into his home rather than entered a public place.

"What?" He snapped.

"Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for several tomes on the topic of magic," I said.

"There’s an arcane emporium down the road that-a-way, back towards the gate."

"Sorry. Historical tomes," I corrected. "Not spellbooks."

"Aye, we’ve got some of those." He waved me towards the back-left corner.

"Is there anyone that could help me find what I’m looking for? Specifically? My mastery of your language is… tenuous." I played up the elven accent.

"Bacchus!" Zorson shouted suddenly. "The hells am I paying you for?"

"Just a minute!" A voice called down from the second level, bright and clear.

"Head on back. He’ll be with you shortly." Zorson waved me back towards the corner again. I crossed the store. The scent of parchment called to me. Lillian had an entire philosophy around the nature of booksellers. Though there were far nicer—albeit more expensive—establishments in Whitefall proper, she preferred the older, more lived-in feeling of the topside resellers. There were all sorts of treasures to be found in those places according to her: older editions that barely differed from the newer and more expensive versions, banned texts, and the occasional undiscovered masterpiece.

I walked through the rows of shelves, lightly tracing the spines of various tomes. The infernal cataloguing of magic tradition was genuinely impressive. They had in-depth, multi-volume histories for every element I knew of, and more than a few I didn’t. The Short and Sordid History of Marrow Magicians caught my eye. I was partly curious, but also not entirely sure if I wanted to know how that worked.

My finger stopped on a book that seemed more than a little out of place. The Ghoul Slayer. What was a human fairy tale doing in a place like this? Come to think of it, there had been a small section for elven and dwarven texts. I picked it up and leafed through it fondly.

"I like that one."

I looked over the top of my book to find a violet infernal standing before me. He was older than me, just cresting the gap between adolescent and adult, though the circular spectacles and scholarly hunch to his shoulders likely aged him somewhat.

"An infernal who reads human fiction. Really?" I asked. For some reason, the accent left me.

"I read a bit of everything, really. Elven epics, Dwarven poetry. But human novels have always scratched a particular itch of mine." He said.

"You’re quadrilingual?" I asked, impressed.

Bacchus shifted uncomfortably. "As well as a few others. It’s less impressive than it sounds. I can really only read them, and two of them are dead languages. My accents are terrible."

"What are you doing working in a library?" I asked. The amount of gold he could make as a translator alone—even just a translator of text—would dwarf whatever meagre salary he made in a place like this.

"It was a… uh… good fit." He looked over at Zorson, then back to me. "Oh, I’m so sorry, I tend to ramble. You were searching for something?"

"Ah yes, I was looking for a magical history tome. I intend to get a better understanding of fire magic." I said.

"Well, we certainly have more than a few volumes on the topic. Fire magic tends to attract many folk. There’s a primal draw to it, I think…" Before I could interrupt, Bacchus turned away from me to grab a wooden stool. It creaked as he balanced on it, the stool shifting slightly, one leg clearly shorter than the other.

"To clarify, I’m looking for information regarding demon-flame," I said.

The change of atmosphere was immediate. The faraway, dreamlike quality of Bacchus’s expression immediately disappeared. He didn’t look at me. "Unfortunately, there’s not many accurate texts on the history of dantalion flame. They were purged quite thoroughly over a decade ago." Sweat began to bead on his forehead.

"The history of it doesn’t interest me so much," I said, watching him intently. "More, listings of past practitioners, genealogies, that sort of thing. I’ve been trying to track down information on the topic for quite some time." I said.

"I’m afraid you won’t find what you’re looking for within these walls." He stepped down from the stool quickly and began to retreat.

"I think I already have."

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned to look at me slowly, his face conflicted, clearly struggling with something unspoken. Finally, he leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Not here. Please."

"Then where?" I asked.

"There’s a patch of lilies a half-mile north of town next to an abandoned outpost. I’ll meet you out there after work."

"As you wish." I shrugged.

The old man grumbled something vaguely derogatory about window-shoppers as I left. I felt Bacchus’ gaze, and saw him trembling uncontrollably within the reflection of the window.

As honest as Bacchus seemed, I had no intention of taking him at his word. I followed him from a distance. I’d expected him to run. That would have made sense. He certainly seemed to be preparing for something, traveling to various stores and picking up supplies.

At dusk, he entered a townhome, and the upper-room Vogrin had marked as Bacchus’ residence lit up. I watched through the window as Bacchus appeared, bending down to pick something up. He rose, and I spied a small, lithe-looking cat wriggling in his arms.

He exited the property and knocked on a neighbor’s door. A middle-aged dwarf opened the door and greeted him, his smile fading as Bacchus held the animal out towards him.

It was clear to me what he was doing now. Something I had done not so long ago at all.

Bacchus was settling accounts.

The sun beat down on us. He stood across from me in the clearing, an iron knife in his hand. It was the sort one would use for cutlery, not combat.

Bacchus shook violently. "What do you want?" He demanded. But his voice cracked.

I took off my mask, tossing it aside.

"A human?" Bacchus looked confused. "Why are you looking for me?"

"I have some questions."

"I am tired of running." His voice rose. "I am tired of constantly being relocated, and running, and hiding. Tell me who you are and why you’re looking for me." It was a command, not a question.

"We are kin," I said. I held my hand out and called the flame. It was nearly the size of a torch now, purple and bright, even in the sun.

Bacchus’s jaw dropped. "You… how is this possible?"

"That’s what I’m here to find out, Bacchus. I need to know what triggered your awakening, and why."

There was a moment where I thought his fear and suspicion might prevent the conversation from going any further, but eventually, his curiosity won out.

We spoke at length about the demon-flame. He watched, delighted as I demonstrated the control aspect of the flame, an ability he had heard of but had not yet been able to reach. I was given a much more detailed account of how Ephira had used him over the years to keep Persephone under her thumb. He was relieved to know Ephira had passed and that his mother was safe.

Bacchus told me of his awakening. It was nearly five years ago now. Despite his heritage as a violet, he had not shown any appreciable talent. He’d practically given up on magic completely, focusing entirely on his studies, when that night came. The candle had almost burned down completely, and he was about to turn in for the night when the window of his room began to open.

He sat, paralyzed, as a girl dressed in black slid through his window. Her visage had stuck in his mind forever, but two features stuck out more than most, her twisted smile, and a bright yellow eye. A snake’s eye.

Bacchus screamed, but found that no noise came forth. The woman smiled her horrible smile and touched him on the forehead. His vision darkened. Just before everything went black, she leaned in a whispered in his ear:

"You have been chosen."

The next day, he summoned the flame.

The story troubled me on multiple levels. The idea that she could gift magic was terrifying on its own—and changed things to an extent that I could hardly list the number of implications, but the idea that she’d already been operating for years before my first reset was disquieting as well.

The question was, why was Thoth playing with me? If she’d truly been planning so many years in advance, why not just kill me? I wasn’t sure I bought the whole sadist, psychopath act. I had to be missing something.

Bacchus’s jaw clenched, as he finished telling the tale. He stared down at the spark in his hand. "It’s caused me nothing but grief."

"How old are you?" I asked. He looked thrown by the sudden change of topic.

"Uh, eighteen," He said.

"So you’ve never been to the Sanctum, then?"

"No." Bacchus looked down.

I made a decision. Slowly, I rose to my feet and stood before him.

"Look, I know a thing or two about having parents who try to decide everything for you. Information was only part of why I came to you. The other part is I wanted to extend an invitation for you to return. Ralakos offered to put you under his protection. You still have time to enter the Sanctum. You can still learn."

He looked like I’d just offered him the world.

"I want that more than anything," Bacchus said.

I tossed him a small purse of silver. He tried to catch it, but missed, and it bounced off his knee and into the grass.

"Sorry. That’s for your transportation, whenever you’re ready." I said.

"I… thank you." He said, finally. He shook my hand. "Oh, gods, I have to go get my cat, but-"

"No, we’re done here. Go get your cat. Hopefully, I’ll see you around the Enclave soon." I smiled.

"Thank you," Bacchus said again.

He disappeared down the hill, taking big bounding steps. As soon as he’d vanished from view, my smile slipped. The emerald at my neck glowed hotly. I didn’t want to talk to Vogrin right now, but he clearly wanted to speak to me.

"Bah, fine." I summoned him.

Vogrin manifested in the summoning circle, drawing himself up to full height and appearing especially unhappy. He looked off in the direction that Bacchus had disappeared. "What exactly was the point of all that, master?"

"Gathering information, Vogrin. Something you know a thing or two about."

He studied me coyly. "And when you poisoned that dagger at your back on the way here, was that for the sake of gathering information as well?"

I looked at him hard. It had been less than a week and the demon was already second-guessing me constantly.

"I cannot fathom your reasoning." Vogrin groused. He looked towards Roseborough. "His very existence reduces your value to the infernals. He poses a clear threat to you. I have to assume you know this, as you worked me tirelessly to track him down—which was no simple feat. Yet, when the moment comes, you do nothing."

"Yes."

"From what I saw in the Twilight Chambers, I thought you were above such petty morality." Vogrin sounded disappointed.

My teeth ground. "Ephira had to die."

"Perhaps. The High Councillor would’ve posed many problems in the future. But her guards did not," Vogrin said, "Nor did Erdos."

"They were complicit."

"If your failure to act here today leads to the loss of infernals as allies, and the loss of the war you are so certain will come, are you not also complicit?" Vogrin pressed.

I sighed. "I saw it in the Twilight Chamber."

"It?"

"The path to becoming my father." I rubbed my forehead. "I spent so much of my life thinking he was mad, irrational. He’s irrational in other ways—but his strategies, his tactics, there’s a logic to them. They make sense."

"And yet, you do this… why?" Vogrin asked.

There was a chill in the air.

"Because my father failed. In my vision. He didn’t fail because of what he did. He failed because he didn’t take things far enough. Eventually, he grew tired of the constant violence. His stranglehold slackened. And they killed him for it."

"And?" a

"To succeed him, to follow that path, I would have to do the things that even he was unwilling to do. And I could never stop." I shook my head slowly.

"That is the nature of power. Feared leaders reign long and die violently. But kind leaders are short-lived as they are beloved," Vogrin said.

"Perhaps."

My mother’s kindness. My father’s cruelty. They were both right. Just as they were both wrong. What that meant for me and the person I would become, I had no way of knowing.

"I don’t understand you," Vogrin grumbled.

There was a burst of light as he disappeared into the amulet, leaving me alone in the clearing with only my thoughts.

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