Copyright © 2022 by D. R. R. Hatch

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Contents

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Prologue – Overlord

1. Swamp Ahead

2. Secrets

3. Where is Everyone?

4. Warts

5. Burdens

6. Jests

7. Victoria

8. The Saint of the Desert

9. Interrogation?

10. Guerillas

11. Hiding, Trying not to Feel Useless

12. No Eating Me

13. The Clan of the Lost Saint

14. Life Aura

15. Torture

16. Sentenced to Suffer

17. The Clown in the Dungeon

18. Portals

19. Crimson Sand

20. Bogyn to Bogyn

21. Pathless

22. Knocked Down Seven, Stand Up Eight

23. Purging

24. Don’t Sleep

25. Godhood

26. Queen

27. Pockets

28. Execution

29. Preparing to Die

30. Royal Mana

31. The Gaze of Darkness

32. Inside Information

33. Amendments

34. Execution

35. Death’s Door

36. Soon to Collide

37. War is Upon Us

38. Cornered

39. The Blood of Saints

40. Finally, Reinforcements

41. The Time Has Come

42. Determination

Epilogue – A Son’s Revenge

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Prologue – Overlord

Dharamadeva stood atop his tower, gazing across the blighted landscape of Volmorra.

His prison.

He ground his teeth, gauntleted hands clenched. His son should have arrived days ago. It shocked him that Blaise had even found the boy! There were others, trusted mercenaries he’d hired to track Lael down. He had hundreds searching for the chosen one, not willing to leave something this important in the hands of an outcast.

Outcast or not, Blaise was strong. What happened, then? Blaise could hold his own, even in a fight against stronger Soul artists. Had Aziroth taken him out? Or, was Lael at a higher rank than everyone assumed?

Wind tousled his cape as he glared at the distant jagged spires surrounding Modrea’s prison. His eyes turned to the pit, and they widened. Modrea’s draconic head—bleeding impossibly thick, black fog—rose from the abyss. Its jaw was gaping wide, consuming a waterfall of flaming gold. A legion of trumpets echoed from Jeh’va’s heavenly portal and a surge of fire blasted down from the milelong spatial crack and smashed against Modrea’s open maw, pushing him down. A deep-throated shriek, as if coming from a host of tortured demons, ripped the air. The Light continued to keep Darkness at bay . . . for now.

Dharamadeva’s armor vibrated as the tower beneath his feet trembled. Had he been anything less than Seraphim, his eardrums would have popped.

As it passed, he was left with a pounding heart.

Hurried footfall sounded below, metal clanking against stone steps.

This was happening all over his tower as people hurried from room to room, helping others to their feet, patting their bleeding ears with rags and ointment. Saints were blessed with the curse of partial omniscience. It had taken Dharamadeva centuries to learn how to tune it all out, letting it drift to the back of his mind . . . unless he noticed something out of the ordinary.

A member of the Volmorrian court exited the trapdoor leading to where he stood. The man bowed behind him, breathing heavily, trying to hide it. Dharamadeva didn’t have to glance back to see what the man was wearing.

A helmet covered his head. Irises peeked from eye slits. Armor covered his shoulders, and a long cloak descended from the metal, curtaining his body. Everything, including his eyes, were blue.

“Why have you come?” Dharamadeva asked, his rich tone carrying through the air, echoing all around.

“The Advancement chamber is ready for you, Lord Dharamadeva.”

The overlord nodded, the knots within his chest loosening. There was something that disturbed him though . . .

“Why did you come, Kyiin?” Dharamadeva asked, turning to face him. “It’s unbecoming of a man of your station to be doing a courier’s job.”

“Forgive me. I got ahead of myself. A ship bearing Blaise contacted us, telling us that they’d dock in the next few—”

Dharamadeva held up a hand. He had to forcibly restrain it, to keep it from shaking. “Bearing Blaise? What about the chosen one?”

“They . . . said nothing about him.”

Were they trying to keep his presence a secret? “Lead me to the docking station.”

Kyiin nodded, rising to his feet whilst turning to face the trapdoor. As he descended the stairs, Dharamadeva followed.

Everyone, including those closest to him, believed he wanted Lael tortured to death. That was true, in part, but before he killed the boy, he needed him—and his coalition of Knights—to put an end to Modrea. Dharamdeva had gathered a council of warriors, but they were no match for Darkness. Cyra’s prophecy made it clear that Lael and his men would be the ones to take out Darkness, but it gave no specifics as to how strong each Knight needed to be . . . or did it? This was why he needed Aziroth here. He would force the man to recite the prophecy to him, word for word.

He needed to make sure he didn’t miss a thing.

They would put an end to Darkness, or weaken him at least. Which was why Dharamadeva needed to Advance. As a God, he’d be in a position to force a bond with Modrea. Darkness was at the peak of Godhood, but that shouldn’t matter. Those with bodies had an advantage over incorporeal fiends.

These thoughts plagued him as he descended a spiraling staircase, passing sconces flickering with black fire. In a manner of minutes, he’d be at the docking station, face to face with the chosen one. Yet, he doubted . . . Had Blaise captured him? A flicker of hope ran through him. Hope he gripped with an iron fist.

* * *

Blaise woke to a searing pain in his chest and stomach. He clenched his teeth, preparing to suffer, but the anguish evaporated. He blinked his fiery irises, glaring at a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. His mind was remarkably lucid, thanks to the regenerative abilities of his Topaz spirit. He touched his wounds . . . which weren’t there. Instead, he found mended flesh. As he sat up, rough hands seized his shoulders. Blaise punched blindly, fist socking what felt like wet meat. He tried pulling back, but the moist flesh clung to his fist.

Standing before him was a soldier made entirely of blood. Her armor was crimson, her skin pink, her strandy hair various shades of red. The only feature on her face was a mouth grinning with serrated teeth, and she had the same build as his sister Victoria—including the scorpion tail jutting from her back, arching over her head.

Blaise’s blood boiled. This creature was on the same level as Victoria, having been born of her soul. Which meant it was a Sapphire, a mere rank above his own. But it wasn’t like he’d never challenged someone like this before, much less a soul-born entity.

“Lie . . . down,” it said, voice sounding gritty and strained. “Rest . . .”

Blaise shoved the creature’s hands from his shoulder and sat up the rest of the way. His gut and chest stretched with pain. He stopped, gritting his teeth. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He stood up, ignoring a constant throb of anguish. He looked down at his sculpted abs and pecks. They looked fine. But it wasn’t the condition of his physical body that was the problem.

Blaise blinked, accessing his spiritual senses. He stared at his scarred soul. The entirety of his torso was a mess of tears and haphazard scars. Lael . . . the chosen one . . . had somehow torn through the spiritual defenses of his draca’s scales. How had he done it?

How?!

He was a Steel!

A Steel, he thought, that took out a Topaz.

Blaise quietly marveled. In all his years training as a Soul artist, never had he encountered a lesser artist with the skill of taking out someone three drahns above their station! It just couldn’t be done!

And yet, Lael had done it . . .

How?

The room shook. Blaise blinked his eyes, stomach sinking as he remembered where he was headed. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind as he considered jumping through the wall, fleeing as far and as fast as he could. But . . . no. He couldn’t. He shook his head. Fleeing was the act of a coward. He would face his father.

A fresh pulse of anger surged through his veins. Soulfire ran through his channels, popping, sizzling. It was his father’s fault he was here. His fault he’d been exiled. His fault he no longer had any standing in the empire. The man had taken everything from him, controlling his life as if he were a toy.

A soft knock came at the door.

“What!” Blaise yelled.

Someone yipped. “Oh! Uh, we’ve arrived. Y-Your father’s awaiting you.”

“Good!” Blaise growled. “I can’t wait to see him.”

* * *

Dharamadeva stood with his entire council and several guards in the docking station, a vast room with an opening looking out across Volmorra. A crimson wooden airship, smaller than the ordinary models, hovered through the opening. There wasn’t a flag proclaiming its fleet, but he knew this belonged to Victoria, his second oldest.

He narrowed his glowing eyes. What was Blaise doing on one of her ships? On the side of the ship, a hatch popped open. Imperial female soldiers, wearing dark armor, marched out escorting Blaise, who was shirtless and had on singed trousers.

Dharamadeva waited to see if anyone else was going to exit.

He stared at the open hatch, expecting Lael and Aziroth to shuffle through, arms chained together. When that didn’t happen, his heart started to hammer, and his blood simmered. He looked down at his son, locking eyes with the arrogant brat.

Blaise’s bulging muscles were tense, his expression fierce. Orange hair—poking from his scalp like ember shafts—burned brightly.

“Where is he?” Dharamadeva whispered. His spiritually enhanced vocals carried beyond the opening, seemingly to the blighted landscape below.

Blaise glared, his amber irises burning bright. Everyone was bowing . . . except for him. He straightened his spine, then winced. Dharamadeva narrowed his eyes, studying Blaise, and saw that his son was spiritually wounded.

Him?

Wounded?

Dharamadeva strolled toward Blaise, staring at the scars of his spiritual flesh. His metal boots clanked against the dark stone floor. The chosen one had done this. No one, not even Aziroth, could puncture Blaise like this. “. . . Where is he?” He looked Blaise in the eye, oppressing his spirit with the weight of his soul. Blaise grimaced, looking as if an invisible boulder dropped on his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, bowing.

“. . . Gone,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Gone?” Dharamadeva whispered, standing over his son. “How? You had him, Blaise. What happened?”

Blaise didn’t respond. Dharamadeva’s blood was boiling now. “Answer me!” The room shook as spiritual energy flowed from his soul, surrounding Blaise. He clutched him with the power of a Saint, squeezing his soul.

Blaise gasped. “ . . . Aziroth,” he managed. “He’s . . . Sapphire.”

Dharamadeva felt his son’s spirit shudder. It was subtle, almost indiscernible. “Lies,” he whispered. It wasn’t Aziroth, as good of an excuse as that might have been.

“Lael. . . . He did this to you?”

Blaise didn’t look up. He didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. He simply knelt there, head bowed. Muscles tense. And not just from fear. An aura of hatred and rage, radiated from his son. It was fierce, unlike anything he’d ever felt from the man.

It was also pitiful . . .

“Son . . .” Dharamadeva took a deep breath. “Answer me.”

Blaise didn’t respond.

“Answer me!”

Blaise slowly lifted his gaze. A wild expression had formed on his face. The irises in his eyes shone like blazing wildfires, his pupils narrow pinpoints. “I hate you.”

Dharamadeva flinched, heart pricking. He stared at his son, then shook his head in disgust. “Take him to the lowest dungeon of the tower. He is of no use to us.”

His soldiers saluted, then walked toward Blaise. Blaise exploded with orange flames. He grabbed the nearest soldiers and chucked them out the opening. He bellowed like a beast as he kicked off and flew toward Dharamadeva, summoning a ring of fireballs.

Dharamadeva slowed time as he enforced his fist with a glove of black, flaming mana; it hardened into a gauntlet a hundred times the strength of diamond. Spinning, he punched his son in the chest. A shockwave blasted from Blaise’s body, and the air exploded as he was launched through the empty opening in a blur, dropping to the wasteland hundreds of feet below. The stone ceiling, walls, and floor cracked—the airship shattered—the tower trembled—and everyone in the room had either hit the floor, or smashed against one of the damaged walls.

Dharamadeva spun on his heel, cape flapping as he marched through a doorway, entering a wide hall. He cursed, restraining a snarl. That waste of a son had wasted enough of his time! Not only that, but his eldest daughter was going places she had no right to be. Had she gone through the chain of command, he might have allowed it, but she hadn’t. What was wrong with his kids? At least his council members were sensible. “Uunoa!” he yelled; she and the other members of his council scuttled to their feet, and hurried after him.

“Yes?” she said, voice shaking.

“I want to know Victoria’s location. Search for her. Take your fastest couriers with you. Once you find her, contact me immediately.”

“Yes, my lord.” She parted from the group, entering an open doorway and walking away.

“Jiuul?”

“Yes?” the woman, in all white, responded with a resonant voice.

“Once we know Victoria’s location, dispatch our largest fleet. Have them surround her vessel and lock her up.” He turned, leading them through a corridor lined with torches flickering with dark fire; they marched over a white carpet embroidered with black dragons. “And,” he continued, “contact the factions hunting for Lael. Once we know the vicinity of my daughter, have them head in that direction, scour the land and find him.” They climbed a set of stairs which led to a large pair of studded double doors emblazoned with the crest of justice.

He stopped there and turned. His council members bowed, as did the soldiers behind them. Jiuul cleared her throat. “Is that all, my lord?”

“Yes. Go. And the rest of you, go about your normal duties. Do not disturb me.” He turned and threw open the massive double doors, entering a chamber rich with mana, and a harmonized mixture of foundational auras. A vast bonfire blossomed in one corner, surrounded by flaming bats. They flapped around the inferno like large, hairy moths. A sparkling waterfall gushed from the opposite corner, landing atop the great shell of a slumbering tortoise with iridescent scales. Essence of life was in a third corner; death in another; light in the fifth; darkness in the sixth, and so on . . .

It was here he would Advance. Reaching Godhood was not as simple as reaching most ranks. If it was as simple as loading up on mana and spiritual elixirs, Dharamadeva would have become a God years ago. But it took something more. An insight. One he was still trying to gain; he was getting close to that revelation . . .

And for the world’s sake, he hoped he would succeed. With the Light’s power waning, and with Modrea poised to force his will on the whole of Terra, he had reason to feel this urgency. If his servants failed to capture Lael, then he’d have to face Modrea head on. He wished he could say that sending his largest fleet—and every other faction they’d bribed—guaranteed their success, but he bit his tongue. Where the chosen one was concerned, nothing was guaranteed.

His failure of a son was proof enough of that.

Chapter 1

Swamp Ahead

If it wasn’t for the Bogyn screaming at the top of his lungs, Lael would have been asleep by now. He wasn’t sure why Gurgs was yelling, but . . . then again, he wasn’t sure why Gurgs did half the things he did.

Lael shifted his position, covering his face with a pillow, cushioning his ears from—

“Master!”

Lael groaned and opened his eyes. Gurgs’s blue face was inches away from his nose, his red eyes alight with excitement. “Gurgs . . . I’m trying to sleep.”

“But, Master! We sees it. We sees it!” The Bogyn’s nails scraped wooden floorboards as he began spinning in a circle, cackling as he slapped his webbed hands against weathered floorboards.

Guilt fluttered in Lael’s chest. The Bogyn wasn’t trying to be annoying, he was honestly excited. Truth be told, Gurgs had been Lael’s first real friend outside of his family. He deserved better.

Lael opened his mouth, about to apologize for his frustration when he realized the wagon wasn’t moving. “What are—”

“The swamp. My home! We camping for the night!” He grinned, revealing rows of fangs. A smile like that used to disturb Lael, but he’d grown used to the Bogyn and his . . . eccentric behavior. “Come outside and see swamp!” He hobbled over. “I help you stand.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. He threw the pillow aside and sat up. “We’re here?!” His bones shifted, stabbing his muscles with knives of pain. He gritted his teeth, cursing himself for moving too fast. Two weeks with a shattered skeleton and he was still forgetting to take it easy.

Gurgs was carefully tugging his left arm. The Bogyn wouldn’t even look at his right arm. Most were uncomfortable with his dragon-skull cannon prosthetic, including his own mother. Saints, he wasn’t used to having it around.

Gurgs eventually yanked him to his feet where he looked down at the crouched Bogyn’s white wispy hair “Come!” he said, heading toward a flap on one side of the wagon. He crawled through the exit, leaving Lael behind.

Lael took a deep breath, balancing himself. If he was careful with his movements, he could walk. Taking a baby step forward, his bones creaked, but he felt no pain. So he continued moving, heading toward the exit. If his mother were here, she’d have a fit. He wasn’t supposed to be walking, but he hated sitting around, doing nothing.

He moved the flap aside and peeked out. Gurgs was already crawling away, heading across grassy patches of sand. Both moons—Ralla and Allar—were hanging in the star-speckled expanse.

Lael carefully dropped from the opening and walked across the sandy grass. His bones no longer creaked. Most everyone thought he needed to lie there and rest to let his bones heal, but Lael felt they would only heal the right way if he kept them active.

Gurgs led him toward Aziroth, standing by a rock, staring off in the distance. His long platinum hair reached past his waist, complementing his violet robe. Golden, serpentine dragons were embroidered along the silken fabric.

“I brought Master,” Gurgs said, sitting behind Aziroth.

“Lael!” He glanced back, flashing a smile. “It’s good to see you up and walking, my friend. How are those bones of yours?” He waved him over. Lael shuffled forward until he stood at Aziroth’s side.

“They’re . . . fine.” Lael smirked. This was probably the twentieth time he’d asked that question this week.

“Good, good.” The man put an arm around his shoulder. “Now, tell me . . .” He gestured toward the moonlit horizon, as if presenting something grand. “What do you see?”

Massive trees with winding branches silhouetted the skyline. “The . . . swamp?”

“My home,” Gurgs whispered.

“Our next destination,” Aziroth said, hands behind his back. “And”—he looked at Lael with a sidelong glance—“your ticket to a new set of bones.”

Lael nodded. There was an apothecary, somewhere deep within the swamp, owned by a person known as Kin Kinboa. Aziroth had met the man years ago, while traveling across Wyvden. He had all manner of cures, including one that would mend bones in a manner of days. “Where do we find him?”

“Leave that to me,” Aziroth said. “And Gurgs.”

Gurgs grinned.

“What you need to focus on,” Aziroth continued, “is breaking through to Tungsten.”

The third drahn. Once he reached that rank, he could finally fulfill his promise to God. WHEN YOU ARE OF THE THIRD DRAHN . . . FIND ME . . .

The Light’s admonition was strange, hinting that He needed him. Lael and Elswyth had tried puzzling that one out, and they came up with a few theories, but when they’d asked Aziroth, the man gave a hearty laugh. “God is only a spirit now, but he wasn’t always so,” he’d said. “His power is draining away because you need a body to be a full-fledged God, and He no longer has one. A spirit can only bond with a person during the transition from Tungsten to Quartz. God chose you out of everyone in the world because he saw something in you; maybe your humility, your desire to follow after good—who knows! He watched you, and saw you as the best candidate. That is why He wants to bind with you.”

A startling revelation indeed. The thought of it made his hearts pound.

“How is the pill working for you?” Aziroth asked, startling him from his thoughts.

The pill.

Weeks ago, Aziroth had given it to him. It had been filled with what looked like liquid metal. “It’s . . . working, I think?” His spirit was now enveloped in a cold, malleable mass. But that was it. “What now?”

“Breaking through to Tungsten is much less dramatic than the last two Advancements. It’s simple, really, but no less excruciating.” He cleared his throat, facing Lael. A dry breeze ruffled his long hair. “That mass enveloping your spirit contains a ridiculous amount of spiritual nutrients. It also acts as a weight, one you won’t feel till you start cycling it through your soul. Think of it as . . . exercise, but for your spirit, because it will shred it to pieces.”

“What!” Lael said.

“It’s no different from your muscles. Why do you think farmers are some of the strongest people in the world?” Before Lael could answer, Aziroth continued. “Think of all the physical labor they perform. Doing so tears their muscles apart, but they rebuild, getting stronger. It’s the same with your spirit.”

Lael nodded, waiting for more, but Aziroth just stared at him, grinning. Lael rubbed his eyes, feeling a wave of exhaustion. As much as he wanted to stand here and chat with Aziroth all night, he needed some real sleep. It was hard, with his new prosthetic and broken bones, to find a comfortable position, but despite that, he had to try. Before Lael could get away, Aziroth rested a hand on his shoulder.

“One last thing, dear friend,” he said, voice calm. “I’ve been talking with Felsacor, and the two of us both agree on something. You’re a terrible fighter.”

That woke him up. “Gee . . . thanks.”

“Yes, of course.” He chuckled. “I mean, you’re good at throwing Soulfire, but an artist like yourself needs to learn much, much more than that. Thus, your draca and I have taken it upon ourselves to train you, to raise your skills in the art of hand-to-hand combat. I’ll focus on the combat, and he’ll focus on your Soulfire techniques, and how to incorporate them into your fighting.” He grinned, eyeing Lael’s cannon. “And, boy, that weapon of yours is invaluable. Not many Steels ever get the chance to fuse a Gem-leveled cannon to their arm.”

Lael nodded, much less offended, and very eager. He’d seen how Aziroth could hold his own in a fight. He’d need to get better, especially the further north he traveled. The closer he got to the capitol, the stronger the Soul artists would be. “I want you to train me.”

“I will.” He nodded toward his wagon. “Now, get to bed, little one. Dream of great things to come! And try not to worry about the not-too-distant future when you have to face off with a bloodthirsty tyrant. Focus on reaching the third drahn, and your eventual bonding with the Light.”

Lael gave him a nod goodnight, his chest knotting up at the mention of . . . all of that. As he walked away, he tried not to let Aziroth’s words disturb him. But, Saints, the closer he came to reaching Tungsten and finding the Light, the more he realized just how weak he was compared to Dharamadeva. The tyrant was the single most powerful Soul artist in all of Wyvden.

He can crush you with his thumb, someone whispered.

Lael stopped. It . . . sounded like it came from behind. He looked over his shoulder. Aziroth and Gurgs were quietly talking, the two of them looking toward the swampy horizon. Lael narrowed his eyes.

You need help. Outside help. Help from a God with rising power.

Lael touched his temple. The words were whispering in his mind, as if they were his own. But he knew they weren’t. He’d heard something like this before. The Light had spoken to him, though his words were far less clear. They were more like impressions than actual words.

Lael touched the center of his chest, feeling the warm sphere of golden light resting between his two beating hearts. He waited, to see what else the Light had to say. If it was the Light. Perhaps His voice was growing clearer, thanks to his Advancement.

When nothing else came, he continued toward the storage wagon. Or the “boys’ room,” as Jrenlla had called it. In front of the girl’s wagon was an elephantine scarab. It was sleeping now, with its several legs tucked close to its iridescent body.

Jynzo was sitting atop the insect, wearing his hood. Not an inch of his skin was showing, thanks to his wrappings. The man was staring toward the swamp, still as a statue. Was that how he slept? Or . . . did he need sleep? Was he even human? Whatever the case, Lael was happy for his vigil. He’d saved them countless times from surprise attacks. Wandering spirits and demons roamed the Voiceless Expanse, and they liked to prey on . . . well, anything. Which included their lone caravan.

Jynzo kept that from happening. Aziroth, too.

Thankfully, they were practically out of the desert. The sandy grass was a testament to that. He hadn’t seen or heard any fiends for the past several nights, and that was a good sign.

As he stepped up to the flap covering the front of the boys’ wagon, someone said, “Psst.”

Lael froze, then looked over his shoulder.

His hearts did a little leap.

Elswyth was peeking from the flap of the girls’ room, watching him with curious eyes. Her thick, chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders. She wore a simple tunic, and comfy trousers. They almost matched what Lael was wearing. “I . . . heard everything.” She nodded toward Aziroth.

Lael frowned. “How?”

Danbala peeked over her shoulder. The draca’s scales were the color of blood, her eyes white, with a slitted pupil. Elswyth pointed at her, giving him a crooked smile. She looked down at his body, and her face fell. “How are your bones?”

Lael rolled his shoulders. They creaked, but other than that—and a hint of pain—they were fine. “If I don’t move too quickly, I can get around just fine.”

“But what if we have to run?” She threw the flap aside and sat down on the lip of the wagon. “We’re entering new grounds tomorrow. I talked with Jrenlla, and she said that the swamp is worse than the desert. Out here, you can at least see your enemies coming. In there, things can creep up on you. I . . .” She bit her lip, frowning. “I hate that you’re not in top condition for this.”

“And the only way for me to get there is to find Kin Kinboa.”

“And Advance,” she said, face serious. “Not to bring the spotlight on me, but do you know if Aziroth has any more of those shiny pills? I don’t want you leaving me in the dust.”

“You’ll have to ask him. I’m not sure.”

It was silent, Elswyth nodding. She opened her mouth, then closed it, bowing her head. She twirled her thumbs, muttering something to herself. Lael stared at her. He was about to ask if everything was okay, but he grew light-headed.

“Ugh . . .” He grabbed his head, leaning against the boys’ wagon.

“You okay?”

“Yeah . . .” His fatigue—from all his restless nights—was finally catching up to him. He slumped, eyes feeling heavy. He could feel Felsacor stir inside of him, hear him snoring lightly. It was weird. Now that he was a Steel, the draca was more . . . real, less ghostly. He actually needed sleep now.

“Are you . . . sure?”

Lael nodded. “Yeah.” He straightened, taking a deep breath.

Elswyth nodded, biting her lip. “I don’t like this.”

Lael cocked a brow. “What?”

“Your bones. The swamp! There are too many of us, and we’re all so weak compared with what’s ahead. I mean, think of your mom! She—” Elswyth winced, looking away, as if regretting what she’d said.

Lael’s hearts were starting to beat fast. He tried not to think about Felicity’s . . . condition. “At least she can’t be killed anymore. Not even the Reapers can touch her.” His insides ached at the thought of her death. “As for the rest of us, we’ll be fine.” He took a deep breath. “We have Aziroth.”

“We can’t rely on him forever. Besides, there’re too many of us to protect.”

Lael thought of Fiora, the weakest of them all. If anything happened to her . . .

His chest tightened. He clutched it, looking away. This conversation was fanning a flame in his soul. He needed to Advance. Fast. The stronger he was, the better off everyone would be. He wanted them all safe, but Fiora was his top priority. If she died—and the Reapers got her—he’d die.

“Sorry . . .” Elswyth whispered.

“What?”

“I’m stressing you out.” She sighed. “I’m just . . . worried.”

That worry was seeping into him. It mixed with several fears and poked at a rising insecurity. Were he and Aziroth leading all of them to their doom? Was this quest destined to fail? Yes, Cyra’s vision claimed Lael would put an end to the overlord, and stop the Darkness from rising, but was he Terra’s only hope? Was there any other way? There were several paths one could travel. How did he know this was the one leading to the end of Dharamadeva?

Trust . . .

Lael’s spine tingled, and a warm wash of energy pulsed through him. The golden sphere in his chest radiated peace.

“Trust what?” he whispered.

Aziroth . . .

And what the Light had commissioned him to do.

He couldn’t see the beginning from the end, and that was frustrating him. Did Aziroth know how all of this was going to play out? Should he ask him? Would he even tell him? The man was nice, but he seemed to keep his distance. Did he see Lael as a project to be worked with, and not as a student, or a friend?

Saints, and what would happen after he bonded with the Light? What did the God have planned then? Lael wanted to know! But at the same time, he didn’t. Merely focusing on reaching Tungsten, then finding the Light, was enough of a challenge already. He didn’t want to burden his mind with too many details.

Elswyth was watching him with an intense gaze. Was she trying to read his mind? He locked eyes with her, and her expression seemed to soften. Her eyes held his. Moonlight glistened off her irises, and she offered him a smile. His hearts skipped, and he quickly looked away. He puckered his brow, placing a hand over his chest. Saints. He was about to look back at Elswyth, but he felt . . . strange. And his cheeks, they were growing warm. Lights above, this exhaustion was messing with his mind.

He really needed to get to bed. But something kept him rooted there.

He wasn’t sure what . . .

“So . . .” Lael cleared his throat. “How is your mom doing?”

Elswyth hesitated, rubbing a thin tartium band on her bicep. There were two others on her legs, now covered by her pants. They were keeping a spirit enveloping her soul at bay.

The spirit of her mother, fused with an erratic Scythe shadow.

“Good,” Elswyth finally said. “She’s doing good.”

Lael nodded. “Good.” His mind was far too depleted to have an engaging conversation. “I . . . need sleep. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Elswyth hesitated.

He turned, moving the flap to enter his wagon. A hand grasped his shoulder.

When he looked back at Elswyth, she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Lael watched her, but his awareness homed in on her hand. It was warm on his shoulder. Elswyth never touched him. She never touched anyone! “Goodnight,” she whispered. “And be safe. I’ll watch out for Fiora, and you too.”

He searched her eyes, his face growing red. “Thanks,” was all he could muster . . .

His soul yearned for rest, but that simple word seemed insufficient. He needed to say more. Give her more. “I’ll be safe. And I’m not going let you or anyone else out of my sight, either. If anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll kill them, or break my body trying . . .” He hesitated, then placed his left hand on her shoulder. She flinched, and for a moment, he worried she’d slap him. Elswyth wasn’t a fan of being touched. But as he watched her, he noticed her cheeks growing pink, then bright red. His own face was on fire.

He pulled back and turned to face the flap. “Good night,” he said, climbing onto the wooden lip, hurrying into the wagon.

“Good night,” she whispered.

* * *

He sat on his blanket, mind alert. . . . Mind alert? But he’d been exhausted just seconds ago. He knew that if he waited long enough the fatigue would return. Minutes passed as he steered his thoughts away from Elswyth, and what had happened.

. . . What had happened?

He knew.

But he didn’t want to think about it. She was his sister. Family. That’s how he saw her.

He clamped his eyes shut, about to lower himself to the floor, but he knew sleep would elude him.

He didn’t want to waste time, so he focused on the liquid metal enveloping his soul. Aziroth’s instructions were clear. He was to cycle the weight through his spirit, and eventually he’d Advance. Easy enough.

Right?

As he filled his channels with the cold metal, he felt as if he’d injected his soul with lead. The weight was almost unbearable, and he had to fight to keep himself from faceplanting into the weathered floorboards. As he cycled the weight from the crown of his head, and down his face, he found it ridiculously sluggish. It was as if he was trying to push frozen honey through his channels.

As the liquid weight passed down his face, the spirit of his head grew warm, then hot and achy. It reminded Lael of when his muscles burned after exercising them for an extended period of time.

The cycling helped keep his mind off . . . everything. Right now, he needed to focus on one thing: cycling to Advance. He hoped to reach Tungsten as fast as possible. For his family’s sake. For the Light’s sake. For the world’s sake.

Chapter 2

Secrets

Aziroth was sitting cross-legged on the grassy sand, meditating on the deadly nature of the swamp. He’d passed though the Fen of Fontinova only once—a native had led him through, teaching him of plants to avoid, flowers to eat, creatures to kill.

Aziroth took a deep breath through his nostrils. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the light of the rising sun caress his face. His smile broadened, but it was a farce. Kind of. He was happy. He had to be, for the sake of the company’s morale. If he didn’t encourage them with his dashing grin, then who would?

His smile faltered as he thought of Lael, and the path he was treading. He knew the boy had many difficult days ahead, and he cared deeply for him. So why was he keeping Lael at arm’s length? True joy came from relationships, and he was preventing one from truly developing.

Actually, he knew why . . .

The death of his master—of his father—had broken him. He didn’t want the death of a loved one to strike his heart again.

He wasn’t sure his soul could handle it.

Lael had a lot on his plate right now, anyway . . .

Cyra’s prophecy had explicitly claimed that Lael would take out the overlord. The pyromancer also had foreseen his involvement with the rise and fall of Modrea, but he hadn’t told the boy that shocking news yet. No sense heaping that on him, too.

While Lael climbed the ladder of Advancement, Aziroth was on the lookout for anyone with the capability of becoming one of the Knights of Light. The previous Knights were made up of eight Soul artists . . . So far, Aziroth had five, but he had faith he’d find others.

According to Cyra, all he had to do was gather them to the Temple, and have them speak the ancient oaths, covenanting them to their roles as leaders in the Light’s rising kingdom . . .

That was it!

It was Lael’s duty to slay the overlord.

But it was their duty—as Knights—to destroy Modrea. So simple! Ha!

“It’s not quite that simple. Let’s not forget the sealing.”

Oh . . . Yes. The sealing. The crowning event. It was too complicated to think about right now. But when he did, it would be rather fun, finding the right vessel . . . someone Lael’s age . . .

Someone he’d willingly marry . . .

That would come. Eventually. But first, he needed to help Lael Advance while he kept an eye out for three future Knights. Then, he could play matchmaker . . .

* * *

Gurgs sat atop Master’s covered wagon, bouncing up and down, wishing that Jrenlla’s bug would hurry up! Was the juicy beetle trying to torment him? It plodded along, pulling the wagons with all the grace of a slug.

It was hard to ignore such antics, especially with the swamp just out of reach! He could see it clearly, even from this distance. Towering trees guarded the edge of the Fen. Brilliant rays of light caressed their warped branches. They swayed in the wind, welcoming him home, gesturing for him to hurry.

The weird guy with metal hair was sitting atop the giant beetle, driving it forward with the stroke of a whip. It picked up the pace, scuttling across the sandy grasslands. A surge of ecstasy filled Gurgs’s soul and he cried out for joy. He was going to see his family, after so many years!

He couldn’t wait for them to meet Master! He bowed at the thought, worshiping the lovely human. Where would he be without Master? Where would he go without Master? What was he, without Master? Gurgs hopped up and down, dry wind blowing through his thin hair. That dryness would soon change. The Fen was the pitiest of pits, the humidest of humids. And Master would finally enjoy the thickest of wateriest of heats in the world!

He started to sing a song about him walking through the swamp. It went a little like this: “Mastery Master, dancing through swampy swamps. Oh! Master, how I looooove you.” This went on for some time. It was stopped by a thought. Not his own . . .

“Who you trust in?”

Gurgs halted. That was his brain talking. It’d talked with him for the first time not long ago, and it never spoke since. “I . . . trust in Master.”

“Why? Man unstable. Man fail you.”

Gurgs frowned. “Master never fail me. He save me!”

“Can he always save you?”

This was already getting frustrating. Who was his brain to ask such questions? “Master always save me. Always!”

His brain chuckled. “We see.”

Gurgs spat. The spittle splattered against the tarp of the canvas, steaming, burning a hole through it. “We will see.”

“And if you wrong?”

“I never wrong about Master.”

“But if you are?”

That put a halt on Gurgs’s thoughts. What if . . . he was? If Master died, what else did he have, who else would he turn to? He trembled, thinking of the possibility.

Crouching there, staring at the swamp, thinking about the terrifying prospect of Master’s death, the hint of a memory drifted through his consciousness. It was of a time, years before he knew Master. When thousands of glittering eyes watched him from above, through the reflection of the lake’s surface. When she kept him safe. When she held him. When she protected him.

But where had she been when he was forced from the swamp?

He shook his head. “Master’s here, I trust him.”

His brain seemed to sigh. “. . . Very well. See where that bring you.”

“I will.” Gurgs frowned at the twisted trees of the Fen. Great, now he was in a sour mood. How was he supposed to enjoy the family reunion now?

* * *

Vaaloo lifted the lid of the crate, peeking from his hiding place, unseen eyes spying Lael. That feeling he’d gotten, back when he’d given the boy mana, rippled through him. He wanted to be around the mysterious soul. Wanted to follow him. Wanted to talk with him. His hesitation remained, though. Part of him screamed to run, to find and help his own people, but it was as if a wordless voice spoke from within, urging him to stay. So, for now, he was staying.

And once the boy truly proved to be safe, Vaaloo would reveal himself. The call from within urged him to. Until then, he’d stay out of the way.

Carefully, he dropped the lid in place, enveloping himself in darkness.

Chapter 3

Where is Everyone?

Lael peeked from the back of his wagon, catching a whiff of sulfur. He gagged and covered the lower part of his face with the fabric flap. The air was humid, and each breath was a struggle. He’d grown somewhat used to it, but it was like trying to breathe underwater.

Saints, he needed something else to focus on. Like the luscious plant life surrounding him. The swamp was, to his shock, vibrant with life. Orange fauna, blooming next to blue flowers, grew from dangling vines. Massive trees scraped the sky, each one reaching out with hundreds of thick branches. Their gargantuan hides were covered with purple lichen and green moss. Their roots arched overhead and swam through damp soil like great wooden snakes. These made the journey difficult for the scarab, slowing its progress. It couldn’t climb over most roots, thanks to the wagons hitched to its back.

“Ha, ha! Ha!”

Gurgs was following the company from behind, having the time of his life. He scooped up handfuls of mud and chucked it in the air. It fell and splattered against his face, like great gobs of poop. He laughed maniacally, and at first Lael worried that the emphatic mirth was going to attract unwanted attention . . . but that fear was unfounded, thanks to the discordant chorus of chirps, clicks, hums, hoots, and every other conceivable noise. Saints, it wasn’t even dark out! What would the Fen sound like when it was?

Tiny red bugs, with green luminescent wings, buzzed toward Lael. There were a few at first, then a swarm joined in. The sight made Lael squirm. Time to go back in.

He pulled his head back and closed the flap.

I should probably eat another one of those berries, he thought, turning to ask—

“Are you ready for some more?”

Lael flinched. Aziroth was sitting on a crate, in a meditative pose, smiling. His eyes were closed, and white Soulfire hovered around his body in a flaming mantle. Olhatha was orbiting around his head, eye closed. The spirit was pulsing, and Lael wondered what it was doing. He’d never seen it do that before.

“Olhatha. The berries, if you will.” Aziroth held up a hand. When the misty spirit passed over the palm, he widened like a mouth and hacked up a patched bag, then continued his orbit. Lael grimaced. That was . . . unexpected. “Lael, come. Eat another handful.”

Lael walked over and sat on a crate next to the man. He grabbed the bag, and pulled out a black, pyramidal berry. A tuft of leaves poked from its tip, and seeds were embedded within its juicy flesh. Lael popped it into his mouth and chewed. It tasted . . . like nothing. The texture was gritty, thanks to the seeds. He swallowed, then ate another. According to Aziroth, these fruits would keep most insects away, including some of the most poisonous crawlers.

“Now, tell me, my pupil,” Aziroth said. His eyes were still closed. “What have you learned thus far?”

“From . . . ?”

“Cycling the liquid weight.”

Lael winced, grabbing his face. The spirit of his head ached, like a muscle sore from exercise. The metallic goop was enveloping it. Saints. He still hadn’t pushed it past his neck! And he’d been cycling nearly all night. “The liquid weight is . . . not to be underestimated.”

“Precisely! . . . Why?”

“It feels like I’m trying to cycle solids through my channels, and it hurts anything it touches.”

“And!” Aziroth threw up a finger. “It gives your spirit the nutrients it needs, to recover, and eventually Advance.”

“That’s what I want.”

“And it’s what I want,” Elswyth said as she threw open the front flap and stalked in. She was wearing one of Jrenlla’s brightly colored outfits. Her top was the vibrant hue of the sun, her trousers a supernatural shade of green, and . . . she was wearing sandals! They had a muddy pigment. Or, wait, no. That was actual mud clinging to the soles. “What?” she said, noting Lael’s eyes. She looked down at herself, a dismal expression forming on her face. “My last outfit was getting . . . smelly. Jrenlla and Fiora voted for me to change into something clean.” She opened her arms, as if presenting herself. “It was the only thing that could fit.”

“And I think it makes you look absolutely marvelous!” Aziroth said. “Less serious. More cheery.” He smiled. “Come, sit.”

Elswyth walked over and sat on a crate opposite Lael. She folded her arms and crossed one leg over the other, looking at Aziroth. Her right arm twitched. She clutched it with her left hand, knuckles going white.

“How is that spirit of yours doing?” Aziroth said, peeking at her, back straight.

“She hasn’t lashed out in several days, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” Elswyth said.

“I’m not hinting at anything. I was merely curious.”

Elswyth nodded but said nothing. The wheel outside squeaked, but it was quiet compared to the discordant clamor echoing through the swamp. It sounded like thousands of children had taken it upon themselves to form the worst band in history. Lael shifted, looking from Aziroth to Elswyth. Should he say something? He was about to break the silence . . . but he had nothing beneficial to offer, so he kept his mouth shut.

Elswyth sighed. “If there’s anything I can do to help Lael Advance, I will,” she whispered. “But I need to Advance too. The more Tungstens there are in this party the better off we’ll be. So . . . uh . . . I need one of those pills. The same one you gave him.” She nodded toward Lael.

“No, you don’t,” Aziroth said. “You have something just as good.” He took a deep breath, then relaxed, kicking his legs over the edge of the crate. Lael couldn’t see them, thanks to that forest green robe of his. Embroidered woodland animals prettied up the hem, but dragons—of course—spiraled along the sleeves. “Cycle the essence of your Scythe shadow from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. That’ll tear up the fibers of your soul, so you’ll need a spirit fruit, or something similar, to nourish and heal.”

“Are there fruits like that in this swamp?”

“Oh, I’m sure!” He nodded, smiling. “There’re hundreds, maybe even thousands of varieties of fruit here, but I have no clue which one is poisonous, and which one is . . . not poisonous.”

Elswyth huffed. “Then what do you suggest?”

“We wait till we find Kin Kinboa. He has tonics stronger than any fruit we could find out here. So, for now, cycle your Scythe’s essence. That’ll start you on the path to Tungsten.”

Elswyth nodded, head bowed.

Lael cocked a brow. “Is . . . everything okay, Elswyth?”

She looked up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Yeah. Of course.” Her right arm twitched, and her grip on it tightened.

Lael averted his eyes. Should he have even asked? He never liked it when people pried into his—

Something red flashed in his peripheral vision. He looked over, and gasped. Tiny tendrils wiggled from the pores of Elswyth’s arm. The tips of the tendrils had red, curved blades.

Elswyth glared at them, gritting her teeth, as if trying to bite through leather. The tendrils wiggled violently, then lurched toward Lael. He yelped, falling off the back of his crate, landing hard. Bones jostled, and a few splintered, and it felt like a thousand miniature knives pierced through his muscles. He bit back a cry as Elswyth screamed.

The tentacle scythes peeked over the crate, straining down toward Lael with their blade faces. His hearts were hammering, Phantomfire surging through his channels. It was agony lifting his left arm, aiming his palm at the scythes . . . but he hesitated. If he attacked the peculiar phantoms, was he attacking Elswyth? Would this hurt her?

* * *

Elswyth cursed, grasping a fistful of inky tendrils, tugging back on the horror arching over the crate.

“Stop them!” she yelled to her mom.

Reanna moaned.

She was enveloping Elswyth’s spirit, like a coat for her soul. She said something, but her voice was a garbled mix of bubbly phlegm. A deep hunger welled up inside of her, and the tendrils lurched toward Lael. Elswyth pulled back with equal strength, keeping the creatures from stabbing her friend. She couldn’t see the boy, and she was wondering why he wasn’t burning the freaks!

“Lael?” she yelled, biting down. “Lael!”

He groaned.

“Attack!”

“I . . . wouldn’t do that,” Aziroth said.

Elswyth gasped, looking over. “Help me!” Why had none of the scythes tried attacking him?

“If I do, you’ll never learn.”

“And if you don’t, Lael’s going to be stabbed to death!”

“Or will he?”

“This is no time for games!”

“Or is it?”

Her cheeks grew bright red. “Aziroth!”

He threw his head back and laughed. Of all things! Scat, he wasn’t a mentor. He was a maniac! “Girl. You’re doing it all wrong,” he said, pointing to her arm. “Cycle the Scythe’s essence. Its being.”

“What does that even mean!” Thunk. Thunk-thunk-thunk! Elswyth turned. All the red blades had stabbed themselves into Lael’s crate. They pulled on it, dragging Elswyth across the floor. She blessed the name of Jrenlla for giving her sandals. If she wasn’t wearing them, her feet would be filling with splinters right now.

“Focus on the parasite like you do your Soulfire,” Aziroth said. “Cycle it to and through your channels.”

Elswyth focused on the Scythe—and her mom. They were fused to one another, so . . . was it right to refer to them interchangeably? As Elswyth homed in on the oozing parasite, she sensed a pulsing force of energy. It felt nothing like the warm glow of Soulfire. It was cold, sticky even. But she grasped it with all the will of her spirit. Mana—the energy of her soul—started burning.

She tried willing the shadow’s icky essence toward her channels, but it was enveloping her soul, squeezing her spirit. It was suffocating. She was just about to let go when Aziroth shouted, “Don’t!” Elswyth flinched. “Force it through your channels, Elswyth!”

She regained control of the Scythe, willing its essence to flow through her channels. Icky lifeforce trickled through into her spiritual ducts, and a shrill shriek passed Elswyth’s lips. She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. Reanna was screaming, thrashing like a wind-tossed vessel.

Elswyth’s heart ached. “I’m hurting her!” she yelled.

“It’s all part of the process,” Aziroth said. “This will bring you two closer!”

The tendrils stretching from Elswyth’s arm withered, but they refused to recoil. As she continued cycling Reanna’s energy into her channels, the scythes flailed, but eventually curled around one another, sinking back into her pores. Sweat dripped from her skin as she stood there, panting. Cycling. She wouldn’t dare stop. The chilly, sticky essence moved like slugs through her channels. Was it clogging up her ducts? Hopefully not.

Someone clapped. She turned to find Aziroth slapping his palms together, a satisfied look on his face. “Excellent.”

Her spirit shuddered. Nausea welled up inside of her. She grew lightheaded, grabbing her stomach. “Ugh . . .”

“It’ll take some time, getting used to cycling the spirit. Sit down. Take a breather. Soon, you’ll be . . . Elswyth?”

The color in her skin was fading. And so was her consciousness.

* * *

Lael listened for Elswyth’s response. When nothing came, he bit his lip. “Elswyth?”

Aziroth was chuckling. He stepped up to Lael’s side, looking down at him. “She’s out.”

His hearts skipped. He tried sitting up, but his bones shifted, causing a shockwave of pain to shoot through his muscles. He cringed, tensing up, waiting for the anguish to pass.

Aziroth grabbed his hand, and gently helped him to his feet. As he balanced against a crate, he peered over at Elswyth. She was lying on the ground, motionless. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes.” Aziroth looked over at her, brushing a lock of platinum hair from his face. “Advancing is going to be . . . much harder for her. But I have every reason to believe she’ll reach Tungsten, maybe even before you.”

Lael sighed, relieved. “Good.”

“Now!” Aziroth clapped. “Where . . .” He looked over his shoulder. Lael followed his gaze and found Felicity and Fiora peeking through the flap. The sight of them made his hearts leap.

“Mom!” He smiled. “Fiora.”

“Don’t be shy.” Aziroth waved them over. “Come in!”

His mother hovered inside, wearing a simple white dress. She had transparent skin, and the golden flames flowing through her channels gave her an otherworldly glow. Her coils of hair reached past her shoulders, her oval face an expression of concern. Fiora, dressed in vibrant reds and blues, stood on her wooden legs. She was holding an o-shaped stone to her eye, peering through a circle of glass set within the stone. Gurgs had given it to her. With it, she could see into the realm of spirits.

“What happened?” Felicity thought, floating over to Elswyth, kneeling by her side. It was still . . . unbelievable that she was dead. He wasn’t sure if he’d accepted her death, or if he was merely numb to the concept. Zarra—her golden, serpentine draca—hovered above her head. Whiskers trailed from its snout, and its eyes were completely white.

“She was cycling for Tungsten,” Aziroth said. “Take her. Put her to bed. Watch over her. She’s on the threshold of a harrowing journey. She’ll wake up soon, and when she does, get me. I have a few more words for her.”

Felicity nodded, picking Elswyth up. Lael raised his brows. How was she still able to hold things? She looked over at him, purple eyes expressing pity. His hearts tugged. As the two of them stared at one another, he bit his lower lip, wishing she’d never come. Not that he didn’t want her here. He did! But it was his fault she’d died.

Saints . . .

The further they traveled, the deadlier things would get. Why hadn’t he forced her to stay in Hidden Valley? She shouldn’t be here. Fiora shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t their task. It was his!

“Are you doing well?” she asked him.

Lael shook from his thoughts. “Yes.” His muscles were still throbbing from when he fell off the crate.

“You’re lying.”

“He is,” Aziroth said. “But don’t worry, we’ll find Kin soon enough!” He put an arm around Lael. “Then he’ll be good as new.”

“Stay with him,” Felicity thought to him, tone serious. “Protect him.” She’d protect him too, Lael knew that. She wasn’t ignorant to the challenges up ahead . . . and the danger surrounding them. They weren’t in the depths of the Fen yet, but when they were, it was eat or be eaten. At least, that’s what Aziroth claimed. Gurgs told a different story, speaking of fluffy bugs and glittery toads.

“I will protect him.” Aziroth bowed to his mother. “You have my word, fair lady.”

Felicity nodded, then exited the wagon. Fiora waved at Lael, giving him a cute smile. He waved back as she followed her mother, watching her through the o-shaped lens.

“You have a great family, Chosen One,” Aziroth said, hands behind his back. He was staring at where his mother had exited “And a great mentor!” He spun, opening his arms, sleeves flapping.

“Mentors,” a dignified voice added. Olhatha exited Aziroth’s head, taking on the form a white, misty eye.

“Yes. Mentors.” Aziroth cleared his throat. “Now.” He walked over and sat back down on his crate. He gestured to the floor in front of him. “Sit.” Lael nodded, hobbling over. Saints, he felt like an old man with these fractured bones of his. It’s all part of the process, he told himself, biting against the discomfort of his broken body. If his previous two Advancements had taught him anything, it was that one didn’t progress with ease.

Pain and suffering were his greatest teachers.

He sat on the ground, but his mind was elsewhere.

Seconds ago, Aziroth had called him Chosen One and that title seemed to echo in his mind. The more he thought about it, the quicker and shallower his breathing became. He huffed. This wasn’t making any sense. Why was he feeling this much anxiety now? He’d experienced some earlier on his quest, back when he faced Briar and Blaise, but the Light’s presence had buffered that fear. Comforted him. Supported him. But that didn’t seem to be the case right now.

His power is fading . . .

Lael cocked his head. Felsacor? No. He’d asked the draca to scout ahead, probably an hour ago. And it wasn’t Aziroth. The man was blabbing, eyes closed. Contrarily, Olhatha’s eye was wide open. The spirit was hovering above Aziroth’s head, squinting at Lael, as if trying to read his mind.

“. . . and I personally wouldn’t cycle it like that,” Aziroth said, “but—”

Olhatha bumped against his scalp.

Aziroth frowned, opening his eyes, looking up. “What?”

“The boy’s mind is elsewhere.”

Aziroth’s frown deepened as he turned his attention to Lael, eyes narrow.

Lael shifted, looking away.

“What’s troubling you?” he asked.

Lael refused to look into the man’s eyes. What if he could read his thoughts? He didn’t want him to see anything hidden within the confines of his skull or feel the fearful feelings of his hearts. Lights above! What happened to the confidence he’d experienced?

He touched the center of his chest, trying to focus on the swirling ball of glowing light. It hovered between his two beating hearts. He wanted it to speak to him, to comfort him. It had earlier, so why was he complaining? He shouldn’t be trying to force the Light to do anything. It was His choice whether or not He reassured Lael, and He’d done so time and time again. Saints, but that voice. The one he’d heard just seconds ago. It wasn’t the Light’s. And what the Nether was it talking about? The Light’s power fading? Lael already knew that! It’s why he needed to reach Tungsten, then find the Light’s domain.

“Lael,” Aziroth whispered. “Lift your chin, friend. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Lael forced himself to look his mentor in the eye. After all, he was the man God told him he could trust. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth and—

“Lael,” a gravelly voice said to his mind.

“Felsacor?” Lael straightened his spine, turning his attention toward the wagon flap.

His draca flew through seconds later, gliding over Lael’s head. He curved left, arcing through the air before landing in front of him. His iridescent scales shimmering white at one angle, then black at another. He stared up at Lael with one blue eye, and one red. Felsacor bowed, revealing the two horns projecting from the back of his skull, and the two distinct scales lined vertically on his neck. “You should have a look outside,” the draca said.

“Where’s Najala?” Aziroth asked. Najala and Danbala had joined Felsacor in his scouting adventure.

“She remained near a village we found miles ahead,” Felsacor rumbled, smoke trailing from his nose. “But I’ll tell you about that in a moment.” He nodded toward the back of the wagon. Lael looked to Aziroth for approval, but the man was already standing, helping him to his feet. As Lael walked toward the door flap, he clenched and unclenched his left hand. The draconic skull engulfing his bone cannon opened and closed. He was making that happen, thanks to his ever-growing connection with the prosthetic.

Aziroth threw the flap aside, and Lael peeked out. He scanned his swampy surroundings, and the first thing that caught his eye was a ramshackle hut. It stood off to one side, built under an arching root. It was made of splintered wood and shaped like a box. Beyond it—surrounding a shallow pool of green water—were . . . ten more? They looked trampled, their splintered panels lying haphazardly around the lake. There were no corpses, although Lael thought he spotted several patches of red mud.

A lone flag stood at the center of the civilization. There was no wind, but the sagging banner was black, and the message was clear. Dharamadeva’s men had been here. And they left no survivors.

Lael’s hearts were drumming, his chest clenching. More deaths. More innocent people killed by strong Soul artists using their power in an act of unrighteous dominion. He clenched his jaw, tendons bulging on his neck.

They passed several crushed huts, and many deserted hamlets. Blood dyed the ground, speckling the dry wood. Black standards, with Dharamadeva’s glyph, were in every one of the small villages.

You see the destruction he spreads? The voice said. It was gentle, like the whisper of a kind father. You cannot stop him alone. Why put your trust in a dying God when you could place your confidence in something much higher?

“Like what?” Lael found himself thinking.

Like me.

The light at the center of his chest burned. It filled his channels, scorching them with what felt like white-hot flames. Leave him, the Light whispered, his voice carrying an air of authority despite how soft it was.

You cannot send me away, the other voice whispered. He is not yours. At least, not yet.

“I’ve seen enough,” Aziroth said, sounding disgusted. Lael shook, coming back to reality. He blinked, staring at his mentor. It shocked him that the man had heard none of that. The voices sounded so real.

So close.

Aziroth was about to close the flap when he stopped. He looked upward. Jynzo was crouching on top of the wagon, right on the edge, staring down at him with a masked face. A reptilian eye was carved into the wood. “Jynzo,” Aziroth said. “How’s Jrenlla?”

He nodded. “Fine,” he said, sounding emotionless.

“Good. And you?”

While they talked, Lael noticed light flickering off an object high in the sky. It was descending, dodging monstrous branches, and vibrant vines. The closer it got, the clearer it became, and what he saw was totally unexpected.

It was a blue-tinted bubble.

“Huh?” he whispered. What kind of bug was that? A second later, it vanished. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. There were insects of every kind and sort buzzing about, their iridescent wings glinting in the light.

“. . . so the scarab shouldn’t be too exhausted,” Aziroth was saying to Jynzo. “Right?”

The masked man nodded, swatting a purple fly away. Several others were buzzing around, getting close. “Did Felsacor tell you about the village ahead?”

“Yes,” Leal said.

“Kind of,” Aziroth added.

“I mentioned it,” Felsacor muttered, perching on Lael’s shoulder, which was aching from the creature’s weight. “Come . . .” He nodded to the inside of the wagon. “I’ll tell you more.” He jumped off his shoulder and glided to a crate.

Lael and Aziroth walked over and sat down on a crate next to Felsacor. Lael sighed. It felt good to rest his bones. “There’s not much to tell,” the draca said, tucking his wings. “But Najala, Danbala, and I found a village on the course of our path. The overlord’s standard was there . . . but the villagers were alive.”

“Were there any soldiers?” Aziroth asked, folding his hands.

“None that I could see, which is why Najala and Danbala stayed behind. They wanted to scout around, to see if they could find any.”

“Good.” Aziroth stroked his chin. “Very good. It’ll take some time for us to get there . . .” He glanced at Lael. “How do you feel about holding off on cycling the liquid weight for now?”

Lael looked surprised but nodded. “Uh . . . Sure. I wasn’t cycling it right now anyway.” Saints, he should have been.

“Good! We’re going to teach you how to fight.”

“In here?” He looked around. All the boxes were pushed aside to the periphery of the wagon, but still. It was kind of small.

“There’s more than enough room,” Aziroth said. “Now, stand on the other side of the wagon.”

Lael limped to the designated spot, bones creaking, feeling sorely unfit for this kind of exercise. “Are you sure I’m okay doing this?”

“Of course!” Aziroth said.

“He’s going to teach you how to fight.” Felsacor nodded. “But my expertise is in the techniques of Phantomfire.”

“Thus,” Aziroth said, opening his hands, “our teachings will coalesce, helping to make you into a Soul artist whose name the very devils of hell will fear!” He nodded toward Felsacor. “You start.”

“Gladly.” The draca flapped his wings and lunged from his perch, landing in front of Lael. He nuzzled the draconic cannon prosthetic. To Lael’s shock, he felt the draca’s warm snout as if with his hand—the one that was no longer there. “We’ll begin by training with this.”

“But first, Lael, let’s see that Soulfire of yours,” Aziroth said. “You haven’t used it since humiliating Blaise, and I want to see you summoning it. Fusing it.”

Fusing it! That ability had been the product of his Advancement into Steel, and he’d only used it once. He cycled Phantomfire along his left arm, and pushed it from his hand. A black fireball hovered above his palm, crackling with chaos.

He guided Salvefire along the same path. It soothed his spiritual ducts, healing the minor corrosion caused by his black Soulfire. He summoned white flames from his palm, and it clashed with the dark fire. They intermingled, refusing to bond, like oil and water. Lael forced them together, willing them to mix.

The flames swirled, turning silver, sparkling with a metallic luster.

Aziroth’s eyes were growing eager, hungry. The light of the fire cast shadows across his face, and with that smile of his, he looked rather mad. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes!” He chuckled. Now”—he nodded toward Felsacor—“take it away!”

The draca nodded. “Let’s give you some target practice.”

“Wait,” Lael said, calling off his silver Soulfire. The wagon grew dim. “What are you going to teach me?”

“Long range attacks, through that cannon.”

Lael hesitated, then nodded, following Felsacor to the back of the wagon. Aziroth hurried over and held the flap out of the way.

Lael crouched, raising his cannon arm. He placed a hand beneath the jaw of the draconic skull and aimed the barrel at nothing in particular. Felsacor jumped upon his back, moving his head next to Lael’s ear. “Aim at the flowers,” he whispered. “The ones dangling from the branches.” Lael looked up at the vines. There were hundreds of flowers, all of them bright and vibrant. “I want you to shoot off the red ones.” There were only a handful of those. The rest were bright orange and blue.

Lael aimed at one high above his head. He tried focusing on the brilliant flowers, but his attention wavered as he spotted swarms darting this way and that. Tiny white beetles glinted in the sunlight. Small pink snakes undulated through the air, flaps of skin stretching from their sides. They opened their wide mouths, dashing through clouds of insects.

“Focus,” Felsacor said.

Lael shook his head, turning his attention to a red flower. A light flickered at the bottom of his vision. He lowered his head and stared straight ahead. Shadows were deep in that area, thanks to the giant trees and their leafy branches. Two blue shimmering dots bobbed in the distance. “Huh . . . ?” he whispered. As the shimmering specks drew near, he realized they were eyes. They glistened on the mud-brown face of a reptile. The creature’s body was narrow, with spikes jutting along its spine and curly tail. On each foot there were four toes spread out like the talons of a great bird. It was about fifty paces away, but even from that distance, it looked to be the size of a horse.

“Start charging,” Felsacor muttered.

Lael filtered Phantomfire to his cannon, fueling the first Binding box. Once he filled that up, he could shoot.

“Would you look at that?” Aziroth whispered. “A sacred beast, on our very doorstep.”

“Lael,” Olhatha said, sounding worried. He floated near his head. “Be careful not to—”

“Shoot it,” Felsacor said.

“Shoot it?” Aziroth said, sounding hurt. “Why, that’s a sacred beast! The creature is practically a—”

The chameleon threw open its maw and shrieked.

Everyone flinched. The piercing cry persisted, stinging Lael’s ears.

“Shoot it!” Aziroth shouted, slamming his hands over his ears. “Rammit, Lael, make it stop!”

Lael’s blaster radiated heat haze. The first Binding box clicked, ready to use. He looked up just in time to see a pink tongue launch from the creature’s mouth. Lael quickly aimed and shot. A round fireball streaked from the barrel, and exploded against the tongue, all in the blink of an eye. The reptile howled, coiling its burning tongue. With a hiss it picked up speed, squelching mud with each hurried step.

To Lael’s shock, the creature’s scales changed from a muddy brown to a smoky black. Fire flickered from its scales as its eyes burned bright red. It growled, and smoke trailed from its mouth.

“What is that?” a woman shouted from the front of the caravan. That was Jrenlla, the merchant from Akkesai. She was at the reins, guiding the massive scarab pulling their wagons.

“I can kill it,” a deep voice resonated from above. Lael looked to find Jynzo crouching on the top edge of the wagon, head hooded, face masked. Curved sword in hand.

“Hold back,” Aziroth said, smiling. “Leave this one to Lael.”

Lael was already charging his blaster, cycling Salvefire to the first box of force Bindings. There were five in total, each representing a new level of power. He refused to charge past the second, for fear of the cost. When he’d blasted Blaise—back in Akkesai—he’d powered up his blaster to the fourth. That nearly killed him. Without Aziroth’s healing Salvefire, he would have died. Instead, he now had a body full of splintered bones.

The chameleon rushed forward, drawing closer, and . . .

Lael’s stomach dropped. Now that it was a mere twenty paces away, he was shocked to see how big the creature was. Saints, it was larger than their wagon! It opened its mouth, and thick smoke trailed from its gaping maw.

Lael blasted out another fireball, this one white. It hit the back of the creature’s throat, and it gagged, stumbling. As it recovered its footing, its scales shifted from black to white. Its eyes shimmered light blue. It slowed down, then shook its head, swiveling its bulging eyes, appearing confused.

Lael wasn’t sure what the creature would do next, so he started charging up again, this time with his fused Soulfire.

“You don’t have to charge it up every time.”

Lael flinched, looking over his shoulder. Jrenlla—a woman with tan skin, beaded dreadlocks, and tattoos on her face—stood behind him. Her clothing was practical, yet fashionable. Her top was threaded with gold, her slacks edged with purple.

“Charging is for stronger attacks. If you want to shoot rapidly, you can.”

Lael frowned, then looked at his blaster. The dragon skull’s mouth was hanging open, the blaster projecting from it. A snarl caught his attention. He looked, and found the chameleon changing color, going bright red. Its eyes turned black.

It whipped out its tongue. The sticky flesh latched to the wagon’s wooden lip. The creature dug its feet into the mud, slowing the wagon to a stop. Lael aimed at the creature’s tongue, then hesitated. He shifted his aim, pointing at the reptile’s eye. Without charging, he fired. A flurry of small fireballs whipped from the barrel, exploding against the beast’s eye. But Lael didn’t stop. He continued firing, shocked at how loose the cannon was! Each flaming bullet burned only a smidgen of mana, and a hint of Soulfire, which was a shock, considering how fast they were flying.

The chameleon bellowed, recoiling its tongue, and shaking its head. It’s left eye was burning with silver flames, its scales glinting with a metallic sheen. It screamed—the cry horribly shrill. Then it barreled toward Lael, squinting its eye.

“Saints!” Lael shouted, aiming at the other eye. Charging up his blaster.

“Jrenlla,” Aziroth said, voice conversational. “Who did you leave to manage the—”

“Fiora!” she yelled, running through the wagon, toward the other flap. “Whip those reins! We need—”

The wagon lurched forward, throwing everyone to the ground, and Lael out of the wagon. He yelped as a hand seized his collar and pulled him back to safety. Lying on his back, he looked up to see Aziroth staring down at him, platinum hair dangling beside his face. “You’re welcome.”

Lael sat up to look at the reptilian beast. It was racing under arching roots, scuttling across mud, jumping over squat mushrooms. Why wouldn’t it leave them alone! Lael aimed at the creature’s other eye as the draconic skull opened its jaws. He fired wildly, yelling. Silver balls exploded against the lizard’s face, lighting it on fire. The beast moaned, dropping to the mud and scratching at its eyes. Flecks of dust drifted from silver scales.

As the wagon raced ahead, Lael kept an eye on the creature. It remained where it was, covering its eyes. It parted two of its fingers and peered at Lael with a dark pupil. A smirk formed on its reptilian face. Lael blinked. A smirk? An orb glinted near the creature’s head, reflecting sunlight. Lael frowned, staring at the floating sphere.

The wagon jostled, nearly tossing him out again. Luckily, Aziroth had a firm grip on his collar. “Why don’t we find a safer spot?” They moved and sat near the center of the jostling wagon. It bumped several times in succession, and Lael worried they’d lose a wheel or something. As he sat against a crate, trying to get comfortable, Felsacor hopped in front of him, pointing at the blaster with his nose.

“You see the power of your prosthetic?”

Lael looked down at his draconic cannon, hearts throbbing. He didn’t know it could rapidly shoot out flaming bullets. And at such a low cost, too. “It’s better than I imagined.”

“And better than I would have hoped!” Aziroth said, sitting across from him. “Just . . . don’t use too much of your silver fire.”

“Why?”

He pointed to the barrel of the cannon. It was edged with silver.

Lael grimaced. “Is it . . . eating up the gun?”

“I don’t know,” Aziroth said. “But keep an eye on it.” He winked.

Lael nodded. He sat there in silence for a time, staring at the metallic sheen. It didn’t hurt, but then again, he couldn’t feel things very well with his gun. He wanted to touch the silver edging with his hand, but he hesitated. What if it chipped? Or what if it merely vanished to dust?

As Lael mused, Aziroth and Felsacor chatted. “It’s like a shield,” Aziroth was saying, gesturing to Lael’s cannon. “And a sword, and a flamethrower, all in one! We need him to master it.”

“It’s a great weapon, yes,” Felsacor said, climbing up to the top of a crate. “But focusing on the blaster alone will stifle his growth . . .”

They went on like this for a while, chatting excitedly. Lael glanced out the back of the wagon, but he could no longer see the chameleon. It was long gone, but he couldn’t help feeling . . . off. He couldn’t get that smirking reptile out of his mind. Had it been toying with him? He shrugged, trying not to care, but a wiggling worm of worry gnawed at the back of his mind.

He tried shifting his thoughts to something else, but no matter what, his mind would inevitably turn back to that scaly smirk. He lost himself to this line of thinking, trying to puzzle out why he felt so strange. He touched the center of his chest. Was it a warning from the Light? The God had a way of speaking to him, guiding him in moments of danger. Never had that guidance been stronger than when he’d battled Blaise . . .

He lost track of time, thinking like this, but when the wagon slammed to a halt—throwing him across the floor and jostling his bones—he snapped back to reality. For a moment, he felt nothing but shock. Then the stabbing pain of his splintered bones ripped through his nerves. He bit back a scream, not wanting to sound like a baby.

He cycled Salvefire through his channels. The soothing flames burned his bones, bringing them back together, easing his pain. As his bones clicked back into place, Lael continued dousing them with fire. They didn’t mend, because there was a deeper problem, but he didn’t know what it was. Was most of his marrow missing? Had pieces of his bones vanished? He huffed as Aziroth stood over him, looking down at him with a pained expression.

White Soulfire flickered on his fingers as he knelt by Lael, placing his hands on his head. A wash of Salvefire warmed him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Lael nodded his thanks as his joints popped and creaked.

The man looked like he was about to say something, but he lifted his gaze, staring at the curved ceiling of canvas covering the wagon. His eyes narrowed, and Lael wondered if the man was distracted by a . . . bug or something. He jumped to his feet and spun, green robe flapping. Holding out a flaming hand.

Jrenlla was entering, swaying as if drunk. She flinched when she spotted Aziroth.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He lowered his hand. “Thought you were an enemy.”

She nodded out behind her. “Follow me. All of you. You need to see this.”

Chapter 4

Warts

Gurgs sat on top of the wagon just behind the giant beetle, heart throbbing with delight. There, next to a wall made of large splinters, was a green lake. The water was rippling.

It was rippling.

A blue head popped up from the surface, holding a purple something in its mouth. Four others popped up next to him, then twelve more. “Cousins,” Gurgs whispered, voice trembling. His legs were wobbly. Was he going to faint?

“Proceed with the cautionest of cautions,” his brain thought. “You don’t know if—”

Gurgs lunged from the back of the wagon and landed on mud. It splattered beneath his hands and feet as he launched forward, diving through an arching root, racing toward his lovely, lovely relatives! Oh, how he missed them! And oh, how delighted they’d be to see him!

* * *

Lael exited just in time to see Gurgs dash like a rabbit and race toward a distant lake. To Lael’s surprise, he spotted heads poking up from the . . . Was that water green? Disgusting. Why were people swimming in such a putrid lake?

Next to it was a village, surrounded by a tall wall of spiked logs. An even taller flag sprouted from the center of the civilization, flapping in the wind. Dharamadeva’s glyph—like a hand reaching out to grasp the world—was painted on the swaying standard.

Lael gritted his teeth, clenching his fist. Black flames flickered on his hand.

“Dangers lurk about,” Aziroth muttered, stepping up to Lael’s side, feet squishing in the mud.

Lael looked down at them. “Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

“I prefer to be one with nature.”

“But what if you step on a thorn? Or a nail?”

“Ha! Good joke.”

Saints, of course. As a Quartz, his body was safeguarded against such menial inconveniences.

“Are you ready?” he said, eyes twinkling.

“. . . For?”

“A trip to the—”

“Village?” a woman’s voice asked. Lael turned to see his mother floating next to the girls’ wagon.

“Yes,” Aziroth said, hands behind his back. “As much as I want to avoid the soldiers, we can’t. Not if we want to find Kin.”

“Elswyth’s still recovering, and Fiora’s practicing runes.” She folded her arms. “I’ll stay here and watch over them till you get back.”

“You could . . .” Aziroth stroked his chin. “If you want them to get eaten by a giant chameleon.”

“It hasn’t been following you,” another familiar voice said. Lael looked to see Danbala gliding down from above, arms stretched out. They were attached to her outstretched wings, making her look like a bat with bloodred scales. “I’ve been keeping watch since the confrontation.” She landed on the top of the wagon.

“Hm. Good,” Aziroth said. “Then stay here and continue keeping watch. Lael and I will enter the village and ask around for Kin Kinboa.” He cocked a brow, then looked toward one of the giant trees, and smiled. Lael followed his gaze. There, clinging to the bark, was a pearly white dragon. Najala’s deep, blue eyes shimmered as she watched them.

She launched from the tree, gliding through the air. When she landed in front of Aziroth, she straightened her spine, tucked her wings, and held her head high. “There is no sign of the overlord’s men. I searched the vicinity, though I didn’t travel far.”

“Continue keeping watch,” Aziroth said. “Warn us when you spot some.”

Najala bowed, the flames flickering from her scales growing dim as she launched off. The wind from her launch tousled Lael’s hair. He watched her fly away.

“All right then! Ready?” Aziroth asked.

Lael nodded, about to say something when someone spoke up. “Shouldn’t he stay behind?” He turned and saw Jrenlla. She was standing on top of the large beetle, hands on her hips. “He’s in horrible shape.”

“Nonsense!” Aziroth waved a hand. “He’s got me.” He gave a big grin.

“That’s what worries me,” Jrenlla muttered, turning her attention to their beast of burden, kneeling by a yoke. It was attached to the insect’s iridescent back. As she started the process of taking it off, Jynzo stepped up next to her. The mysterious man stared at her with the eye carved into his mask.

“What are you doing?”

Jrenlla started. “What?” she said. “The bug’s thirsty. It hasn’t had anything to drink for days.” The woman was talking way too loud, but thanks to the wild chorus of chirps, tweets, clacks and hoots, her voice didn’t stand out.

Aziroth chuckled, then started walking, gesturing for Lael to follow. “Come.”

Lael hesitated, then followed him. His bones were creaking; he had to limp to keep them from snapping out of place and piercing his muscles. What was he doing? Jrenlla was right. He should stay behind! Cycle the liquid metal. But if Aziroth was telling him to come along . . .

“Why do you want me to come?” Lael asked.

Aziroth smiled but said nothing.

“Be careful,” his mother whispered to his mind.

Lael looked over his shoulder as he walked away. He spotted her, sitting on the edge of the girls’ wagon. She watched him, her expression a conflicted mess. Fiora peeked out from the back of the wagon, her wavy hair tied up in a tail. She gave him a worried look.

He frowned, biting his lower lip. What would happen if something attacked them while he was gone? Yes they had Jynzo and Jrenlla, but Fiora had no way to defend herself . . .

He tried sighing out a wriggling discomfort in his chest, but it refused to leave. “You’re afraid that if she dies, it would kill you.” Felsacor landed on his shoulder.

Lael nodded, giving Fiora a fake smile before facing forward. “I can’t lose her,” he thought, trembling inside. “I can’t.” And it wasn’t just Fiora he was worried about. Elswyth was vulnerable too. And even though his mother was technically dead, she had her own ghouls to worry about.

“You won’t.” Felsacor exhaled smoke through his nostrils, eyes gleaming. “Advance, Lael. That is the only way to protect them.”

Lael nodded. Saints. How was Aziroth so certain they’d be safe without him? What if a beasty cat or a swamp monster popped up and swallowed the wagons whole? There could be anything in this place!

Lael glanced back, but all he could see was Jynzo standing on top of one of the wagons, and Jrenlla guiding the large beetle to a stagnant puddle of water. Were any of them really safe? Including Lael? Aziroth was strong . . . But there was always something or someone stronger.

Like Blaise.

Lael shuddered, placing a hand beneath his draconic cannon, lifting it up. Gritting his teeth, he looked toward the walled village ahead. His eyes fell on the flapping, imperial flag. He set his jaw. He needed to Advance. Yearned to. Once he reached Tungsten, it was his duty to find the Light. Then, they would bond. But what did that entail?

“Power,” Felsacor thought.

Lael’s skin tingled. Power. Power to protect the ones he loved. Power to stop Dharamadeva. Power to put an end to darkness, fear, and oppression.

And that all started with him finding Kin Kinboa. And, of course, Advancing. But the liquid weight required a lot of concentration. He’d need to sit if he wanted to cycle. If he couldn’t walk, then he might as well stay back at the camp. He would have stayed, but Aziroth wanted him here for . . . some reason.

Aziroth cleared his throat as he walked up to the village gate, which hung on a single, rusted hinge. “Hello?” he called out, and Lael winced. The man was far too comfortable here. Najala hadn’t seen guards, but what if they were using this civilization as a base?

Aziroth pushed the gate, and its hinge broke. It dropped to the mud with splat. “Hm,” Aziroth said, looking down at the door. “Poor thing.” He flashed Lael a big smile. “After you.” He bowed, gesturing into the village. Lael grimaced, looking at the ramshackle homes. They were boxy, and the windows were dark, but he thought he could see faces peeking from a few of them, watching with wide yellow eyes.

Lael stepped forward, and Aziroth followed behind him.

“What’s the plan?” Lael whispered.

“Find good ol’ Kin,” Aziroth whispered, as if trying to keep himself from being known. Which didn’t make any sense. Everyone and their mother was aware of them, thanks to him. “If he’s not in this village, then I’m sure one of the residents can direct us to his current location.”

“He’s that famous?”

“Yes, and more. How’s your Fontinovish?”

“My what?”

Aziroth smirked, swatting a narrow insect away from his face. “That’s the language of the swamp.”

“You already know I—”

“Olhatha,” Aziroth said, looking up.

The ghostly eye was hovering above his head, squinting as he scanned the village. “What?”

“Will you freshen up our pupil on the basics?”

He cocked an eyelid. “The basics?”

“Yes.”

“You mean . . . I have permission to—”

“Enter his brain.” Aziroth nodded. “Yes.”

Olhatha’s expression brightened, then he morphed into mist as he flowed through Lael’s scalp. His brain tingled. “Lael? Can you hear me?”

“Uh . . .” Lael smirked. “Yes.”

“Excellent! Ha! This is fabulous. You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve—”

“Go.” Aziroth gestured to the rickety homes. “Walk around the village, search for Kin.”

“You’re not coming with me?” Lael asked.

“I’ll be right here.” He bent down and broke apart a spiky log the length of their wagon, then stabbed the spiky side into the mud. He sat down on the flat side, smiling brightly. Always smiling. Lael needed to ask him about that one of these days. Not that it was annoying; he was honestly curious. The man had gone through some terrible things, from what he understood. How did he keep smiling, then? “Now go.” Aziroth waved him away. “Search. Then return and report.”

Lael slowly nodded, cocking a brow, but he didn’t question the man. Anything Aziroth had him do was to teach him, so he saw this as an opportunity to learn . . . something.

“Let us be off,” Olhatha muttered in his characteristically noble tone. “Thankfully, it’ll just be us for a while. Oh, and Felsacor?”

“Hm?”

“It would probably be best for you to enter Lael’s soul. No need to scare the locals anymore than we have to.”

Felsacor puffed a plume of smoke, then flowed into Lael’s spirit, resting at the base of his soul.

Lael limped deeper into the village, eyeing gloomy windows. His hand was still on the bottom of his draconic cannon; as he rubbed the ivory jaw, he glanced down at the blaster. He’d done some incredible stuff back there when the chameleon was chasing them. He didn’t know he could shoot a flurry of flaming bullets, and the thrill of it all made him anxious to do it again.

“Shooting from your cannon is a simple thing, really,” Felsacor thought. “There are Soulfire techniques I want to teach you, but because of the condition you are in, I really shouldn’t. But . . . there is one move I can teach you, even with your fragile skeletal structure.”

“Now?” Lael asked, looking around. He was surrounded by several splintered huts. Now that he was closer, he noticed vines creeping along the weathered wood, crawling into open windows. A warty toad sat upon one of the sills, watching him with bulging eyes. Its throat bounced up and down as a low croak rumbled from its throat.

“I could teach you the basics.”

Lael continued forward, his boots sticking to the muddy ground. It squelched as he stepped on a particularly nasty spot. Several brown frogs lunged from the gooey slime, hopping away.

“Uh . . .” He looked from home to home. “Give me a quick rundown. I’d love to practice now, but I have some people to talk to.” Before soldiers come and try to kill us, he mentally added.

Felsacor’s head peeked from his shoulder. “Understood.” Flames flickered around the base of his neck, where his scales met Lael’s skin. “Listen close.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve already taught you the basics of how to blast Soulfire from your source points . . .”

Lael nodded, heading toward a structure that was holding up better than the rest.

“You know about dragon’s breath, and the flaming cloak. Once you’re healed, I want you sharpening up those techniques. But here’s the one I want you practicing now. I call it the blazing vortex.”

“I like the sound of that.” Lael walked around the home, but he couldn’t find a door. He shrugged, stepping up to the wall beneath a window. “How does it work?”

“Concentration.” Felsacor closed his eyes. “Focus on the aura around you.”

Lael scrunched his face, and was about to ask him how, when his ears caught wind of a whispered conversation from the window above. It sounded strange, like low gurgles. But as a cold sensation washed over his mind, they grew discernable.

“ . . . just two more people sent to torment us,” one hissed, probably female.

“Juin Ri,” a male voice said. “Peace. We are better off than our brothers up north.”

“Ha! Do you really think that? What with the emperor on the verge of Godhood, and Modrea on the rise, we’re all doomed.”

“Don’t say that!”

The emperor on the verge of Godhood? Modrea on the rise? How did this backwater town know so much about the doings of the capitol? They continued talking, but Lael’s hearts were starting to pound as the pressure of his calling pressed on him.

But he wasn’t here to eavesdrop. He was here to find Kin.

Lael cleared his throat.

The man and woman gasped.

“Uh . . . Olhatha?” Lael thought. “Can you translate my—”

“Yes,” the dignified eye said. “Start talking.”

Lael cleared his throat again. “Excuse me?” White mist trailed passed his lips, emitting bubbly gurgles, burning up mana. “Hello?”

“What do you want!” the woman snapped. He still couldn’t see her.

“I’m looking for Kin Kinboa. Is he—”

“Dead. Now leave this place!”

“Juin,” the man whispered. “The boy speaks our tongue!”

The woman didn’t reply, as if contemplating.

“Forgive us,” the man said. “But times are dark, and it would be in your best interest to leave this place.” He paused, seeming to consider his next thought. “I’m curious, though, how do you know our language?”

Lael bit his lip. “Long story.” He hesitated. “I’d love to tell it, but I’m in a hurry. Tell me, is . . . is Kin Kinboa really dead?”

“He might as well be.” The man peeked from the window. A wide sedge hat sat upon his head, shading his pea green face. “He was taken by the Volmorrians.”

“The overlord’s men?”

“Yes, but there are rumors spreading. Zeredathah’s clan is getting antsy. They want the potion master, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they already have him.”

“Zeredathah?”

“Yes.” The man nodded. “Zeredathah,” he whispered, squinting his strange fish-like eyes. Saints, those pupils of his were huge. And he didn’t have a nose, either! “And I don’t know who’s worse. Dharamadeva’s men . . . or Zeredathah’s . . . or you.” The peculiar person frowned. “But . . . you’re not like them.” He leaned closer, drawing his lids to narrow slits, staring him down. “No . . . You’re not.”

A peach pink hand reached from the window and yanked the man back. “What are you doing?” the unseen woman hissed.

The man didn’t respond for a time. Actually, he didn’t respond at all. Or was that him whispering?

No . . .

That was coming from behind.

Lael turned around. Grass green men hobbled toward him. Bits of bark covered their torsos, while spiky-edged leaves were wrapped around their loins. One had a pudgy frog on his hairless head, while another carried a warty toad. The amphibians croaked as frogs peeled away from the chests of the approaching Fontinovans.

“Leave this place,” a hunched man croaked, carrying a bulky frog on his back. Hair like long grass dangled from his face. “Leave!” The warts covering his skin bulged.

“Qiu Kran!” the man in the house behind Lael shouted. “He is not like them!”

“We care not!” Qiu spat, slime seeping from his skin. He stopped about fifteen paces from Lael, as did the others. “His presence presents a risk. He cannot stay.”

“But if the Volmorrians find out we let him go,” a tall, lithe Fontinovan said. “We all die.” Warts bulged on his skin, and the amphibian atop his hairless scalp emitted a gurgling hiss.

“Don’t hurt him!” the man in the hut shouted, words ringing in Lael’s ears. His back was to the splintered wall, but he stood proudly, watching as the Fontinovans considered him. Felsacor stirred within his soul, excitement pulsing through him.

“Now would be a good time to learn a little more about—”

“The vortex?” Lael hefted his blaster, the bones in his arms shifting uncomfortably; its jaw chattering. Saints, he was shaking. Why did he always get so nervous with confrontations like this! “I’m afraid there isn’t any time for that . . .” He glanced down at the draconic cannon. “I don’t want to hurt them. Just . . . help me get away.”

“There is no getting away. Not in your condition.” He could feel Felsacor smile. “We might not be able to summon the entire vortex, but we can at least scare them off . . .”

Chapter 5

Burdens

“My brothers!” Gurgs screamed, dashing on all fours toward a green pool of water. “My sisters!” He panted, his long tongue dangling from his mouth. The towering trees shaded the swamp, giving it a melancholy dankness. Just the way his vertically slitted pupils liked it. He could see everything clearly, unlike outside, where the daylight blinded him.

He stopped near a muddy shoreline, searching the murky depths for his fellow Gurglings. They’d dived down earlier and hadn’t come up since. “Brothers?” Insects of every kind skirted the placid surface, and buzzed around his blue head. One landed on his neck and pricked him. He smiled, revealing serrated teeth. Oh, how he missed these critters.

Crouching there on the shoreline, with the water reflecting his face, a memory whispered from the past. Back when he was but a wee Bogyn, staring at the stars’ reflection. Back when he met . . .

He bit down hard, his grin broadening, like that silver-haired weirdo’s.

Those memories were gone now, being replaced by new ones.

“You use to cherish those memory,” his brain said.

“I no cherish them no more.” They tried inching back, but he glared at them, and they shied away. To give them his time was to betray Master. He used to revel in them, think of how she loved him, even when he’d worshiped the boy. But that was before their friendship had grown into what it was now. To give her any more of his devotion was to betray him. Even if her billions of shimmering eyes still intoxicated him . . .

He grabbed his head and shook it. No. No, no, no!

The center of the pool faded from green to purple. He froze. Purple?

A blue head broke through the surface. He was holding a plant in his mouth, swimming toward a shoreline off to Gurgs’s left.

“Brother!” he shrieked, waving his arms. The Bogyn yelped, turning a shocked face in his direction. Others were popping up, and many were taking notice of Gurgs’s wiggly behavior. He chuckled, hoping they’d join in on—

All of them dove back underwater.

Gurgs frowned, slowing his dance to a stop. He glanced back, wondering if they’d seen a predator. He searched the swamp, eyes passing over bloated roots and squat mushrooms. He even scanned the vines dangling from the interweaving branches above. Thousands of winged insects danced through the air, playing tag with pink snakes.

When his gaze returned to the slimy pool, he stared in silence. That beating drum rap-tat-tatting in his chest sank, and his shoulders sagged. White beetles crawled along his blue face, reaching his wispy hair, blending in with the bland color.

“You see?” his brain said. “They off. Something wrong . . . Look left.”

Gurgs, head bowed, looked to find a pile of purple kelp. He perked up, recalling days when his mothers and fathers gathered the delicacies and mixed them up with hog’s hide to make one of the tastiest of munchies he’d ever eaten!

He reached to crawl in that direction, but his guts sank again. He looked toward the oily surface of the water. His kin . . . were still hiding. Why were they hiding? Why were they—

A clawed hand shot out of the water and clutched his wrist. Gurgs gasped as it yanked him forward. He splashed through the murk, allowing his cousin to drag him under as he opened his gills. He took a deep breath, allowing the sultry liquid to flow through his aquatic filters.

“What you doing out there!” the feminine voice warbled, reverberating through the water.

Gurgs looked at his captor, a lady Bogyn. Her long white hair hovered around her blue scalp, her reptilian eyes bright pink. The clothes she wore were brown and ragged. “Sister?” As his eyes adjusted to the new lighting, he noticed something . . . off about the woman. Her skin was tight against her bones, making her look like a skeleton with blue flesh.

“They kill you if you slack!” She slapped him in the face. His cheek stung. “And why you so fat, hm?”

Gurgs didn’t respond. He couldn’t. This wasn’t the way he expected to be greeted by his family. And yet, he wasn’t mad. He could sense desperation radiating from the woman’s tight skin. Others approached, floating over, keeping their distance. They were just as emaciated as the woman, some even worse.

“Why you down here?” Gurgs asked.

The woman swung to slap him, but he caught her by the wrist. She tried pulling back, but he held it with an iron clasp.

“Why you down here? Why you no eat? All you look starve!”

“And you look like fat king!” Bubbles trailed from her lipless mouth. “What bog you run from? They feed you good?”

“I grew up in bog miles from here, but I gone for years. I come from outside, to pay you visit, and all you do is slap me.”

The woman was silent. Gurgs let go of her wrist, and she pulled back, rubbing it. The others—about ten or fifteen—continued watching. There were a few adolescents, but most were adults. A couple of them were holding purple kelp in their mouths.

“Why you down here!” Gurgs asked, heat simmering beneath his skin. Why were none of them speaking? They should be dancing! Greeting him with licks and love.

“Black armor men force us to,” a young Bogyn muttered, red eyes lowered. He hovered in the murky water near a shaky man. “They crush bones if no listen . . .” Gurgs noticed scars on the boy’s arms. There were cuts and bruises on the others, in various places. The sight of it sent the drum in his chest off on a rapid beat.

“ . . . Why?”

Sploosh!

Gurgs flinched; all of the others turned. A Bogyn, with hair reaching to her ankles, swished toward them. “They coming,” she said. “They coming!”

The Bogyns scattered—some shooting to the surface, others descending to unseen depths—leaving Gurgs alone. He hovered there in the water, clenching his jagged jaws. An acidic warmth pulsed through his veins, bringing his body temperature up to the level of a flame.

The water around him boiled as he floated upward. When he reached the surface, he peeked his eyes above the greasy film. He watched as some of his kin added to the pile of purple kelp.

The heavy tromp of footfall caught his attention. A group of armored men were heading in his general direction. They were dressed just like the ones in the desert. These were the type of men who were after Master. And here they were, hurting his kin.

Gurgs growled as he drifted forward, keeping the lower half of his head submerged. How many Bogyns were being treated like this? How many were starved? How many in fear?

There was no way of knowing. All he knew was that these were suffering.

And it was his duty—as a Gurgling himself—to put an end to it.

Now.

He gave a fang-toothed smile.

Once they were free from this burden, they could play. They could sing. They could dance. Just like old times.

* * *

Lael raised his left hand, enveloping it with black fire. A mantle of flames whirled from his body, covering him from head to toe. His irises changed from violet to red, his eyes from white to black.

“Stop!” He took a step forward, and all the Fontinovans—even the tall lithe man—took a step back. His already wide eyes bulged. The toad sitting on his head gave a low croak. The warts on its body were still expanding, as were the lumps on each of the Fontinovans’ bodies. “I don’t want to hurt any of you, but if you don’t let me go, I’ll burn this village to the ground.”

No one said anything. The bumps on their green skin looked ready to pop, but they stopped expanding. The elderly one—with strands of grass growing from his face—cleared his throat. He glanced at the lithe bald man, as did several others.

“We won’t kill you, stranger,” the bald one said, throat sounding as if clogged with phlegm. “But we can’t let you go, for the sake of our women and children.”

“Listen, there aren’t any soldiers for miles,” Lael said. “Trust me. If I go, no one will know I was here.”

Felsacor stirred in his spirit. “Focus on the aura.”

Lael matched the tall Fontinovan’s wide globes with his own shadowy eyes. The man looked away, unable to hold his blood red gaze. “Focus on the aura?” How was he going to do that with twenty pairs of bulging eyes looking at him? “How do I do that?”

“It’s easier to do once you’re a Quartz, but even as a Steel you can sense the surrounding energy.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I merely shot out a column of dragon’s breath?”

“Yes, but why do something that menial when you can burn the very air you breathe?”

Lael grimaced. “Is . . . that what the vortex does?”

“Yes. Now, focus your awareness on the aura surrounding you. I’ll help.”

Lael kept his flaming mantle up as Felsacor moved through his spirit. When the draca reached his mind, the spirit in his head grew warm. It was already aching from cycling the liquid weight, so having a dragon and Olhatha up there was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Lael didn’t know what to expect, so he waited, watching the Fontinovans as they awkwardly stared back. Were they . . . scared he would attack? He had threatened to burn their entire village to the ground. Saints, he wouldn’t. There were women and children in those homes. All he wanted was to get out of here! Now that he knew that Kin Kinboa was being held in enemy territory, it was time for him to leave this place and find him.

But . . . wait. He really had no idea where the man was. And it wasn’t like he could just walk up to the Volmorrians and ask them to point him in Kin’s direction.

But there was that other person Juin had mentioned. Zeredathah. What had she said about him again? That his clan may have taken the potion master?

As he was thinking on this, he grew light-headed. “Whoa.” He grabbed his head as his spirit extended above his scalp. It felt like it was reaching out, touching the air around his hair. The energy trembled, as if uncertain.

“Do you . . .” Felsacor said, as if speaking with gritted teeth. “. . . feel it?”

“The energy?”

“The aura.”

“I think.” Lael frowned. “It feels . . . anxious.”

“Aura adapts to the strongest elements and emotions. You are feeling what the Fontinovans do. Now, I need you to—”

A cry rose from beyond the wall, startling Lael. Shaking his concentration. He turned, listening while most of the Fontinovans hurried backwards. The tall lithe man stayed his ground, glaring at Lael.

“He’s not going to let me go, is he?” Lael whispered to Felsacor.

“If he does,” Felsacor thought, “and the soldiers see you run away, he—”

The tall Fontinovan dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead against the mud. The warts on his body exploded, erupting with clear slime. A wave of it crashed against Lael, throwing him back. Dousing his flaming mantle. Sticking him to the splintered wall of the hut.

The toad on top of the Fontinovan’s head lunged at Lael. Felsacor burst from his spirit and crashed against the amphibian. Together, they tumbled through the air, screeching. Lael enveloped himself with another flaming cloak, burning away the slime as the Fontinovan dashed toward him, raising slimy hands.

Lael lunged at the green man, bones jostling as he collided with him. Lael called off his cloak as they hit the ground, rolling. He screamed at the pain of his snapping bones. When the rolling ended, Lael found himself on top. He held the enemy down, pressing the side of his blaster against his neck, raising his left hand in a flaming fist.

“I need to leave, but I’m not going to let your people get massacred.” Lael’s ears perked. People beyond the village wall were screaming now. “The overlord is my enemy, too. And if you help me, we can take out these soldiers together.” That’s who he assumed were beyond the wall. He couldn’t see who was shouting, but the guttural howls matched the tone of those armored jerks back in Akkesai. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for letting them get away with treating the people there like trash. But today was a new day. And despite his fractured skeleton, he was determined to take out the Volmorrians. With Aziroth’s help, of course.

“And mine, too,” a dignified voice said in his head. Lael perked. How had he forgotten about Olhatha? “Also, it’s about time for me to stop translating.”

“Why?”

“Check your mana.”

Lael focused on the energy—the lifeblood of his spirit. It trickled through his channels, which surprised him. How had this gone undetected? Distractions, he thought. And a broken skeleton.

“I . . . also drained most of it,” Olhatha thought. “Translating your tongue, and another’s, takes a lot more energy than you might think.”

Lael’s knees dug into the Fontinovan’s chest. Slime oozed from his pores, and he struggled to breath. This came as a surprise, but for only a moment. The man—despite his height and great build—appeared malnourished. Also, as Lael did a quick scan with his spiritual senses, he discovered something that startled him.

“He’s only Brass . . .”

“And you’re only a Steel,” a voice rumbled in his mind.

Lael glanced up to see Felsacor gliding over. “I know, but I thought the people up north were better than this?”

“They are.” Felsacor landed on his shoulder. “You have to remember, we have a lot more north to travel.”

Lael nodded, then his hearts froze as the shouts beyond the village drew closer. Saints above! The soldiers were here. Wasn’t Najala supposed to warn them if they were getting close? With them here, not only was he in danger, but Fiora was too—and Elswyth!

He started rising, but the Fontinovan—lying on his back—grabbed Lael’s cannon arm with a sticky mitt. “You will not leave!”

Lael ground his teeth. If it weren’t for his injured bones, Lael could have easily pulled his arm free. Compared to a Brass, he was a man; the Fontinovan, a boy. He raised his left hand again, emitting a Phantomfire ball. “Let. Me. Go.”

The Fontinovan set his jaw, grip tightening.

Destroy him, the fatherly voice spoke to his mind. If you take too long, your friends will die.

Lael’s hearts pounded, and he found himself nodding, eager to scorch his green enemy. He quickly shook his head, stomach sickening. He wasn’t here to kill. He was here to save!

An awful sound, like the splitting of wood, rent the air. Startled, he spun to find part of the low wall falling over. Men in black armor—the edges of which were sharp and sinister—were pushing against it. When part of it crashed to the ground, they trampled the rest of it with ease, entering the village. The foremost had arms encased in gray, glittering stone. He held a large sword made of the same rough material. A gray, semi-transparent dragon perched on his shoulder.

“People of Fontinova!” the man said, speaking with a lazy air. “It seems your neighbors have forgotten their place.” He glanced back, and Lael followed his tired gaze. A group of soldiers crouched near that nasty purple pool. They were holding someone down. A blue person. A—

“Gurgs!” Lael shouted. His voice echoed loudly, carrying an authority that wasn’t his own. The soldiers stopped, most of them flinching, but the foremost perked up, cocking a brow. He glanced at Lael, then at the Fontinovan on the ground, then back at Lael.

“And . . . you are?”

Lael aimed his blaster at the armored man. The draconic skull opened its jaws wide, revealing the ivory cannon. Swirling, runic grooves shimmered as Lael cycled Phantomfire to the weapon, charging it up. “Where the Nether is Kin Kinboa?”

The man gave Lael an amused expression. “Kin Kinboa?”

“The potion master.”

“Hm . . .” He smirked, then looked to the soldiers beside him. “Tear down the huts. Bind the people. Kill any who re—”

Lael released the charge. A black fireball zipped from the barrel and exploded against the soldier’s head. He slammed into the ground. Everyone gasped. Had Lael been in better condition, he would have lunged with the strength of his Steel body and walloped the surrounding soldiers. A quick spiritual glimpse showed him that all of them were . . .

His stomach sank.

Steels.

He began charging up, aiming his blaster, and squatting in a stabilized position as soldiers helped their leader to his feet. Lael shook his head. Charred hair dropped from his scalp. He glanced at it, a scowl forming on his face.

“Psst,” someone whispered.

Lael looked over his shoulder. Aziroth was peeking from a window, his smile bright. He gave Lael two thumbs up and mouthed, You got this. Lael stared with pleading eyes. The man was saying something, but Lael was having a hard time reading his lips.

Olhatha buzzed in his head. “Aziroth’s got a message for you,” he drawled.

Lael heard the man clear his throat. “Hello?”

“Help me,” Lael thought.

“I will! Later. From here, I will teach you the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Now go forth! Win! Now’s the hour of your greatness!”

“But I thought you wanted me to wait till my bones healed!”

“Ha! Did I say that?”

“Yes!”

“Well, then, I take it back.”

“You burned my hair . . .”

Lael faced the stone-armed man.

He was touching his scalp with a rock hand. “My beautiful, beautiful hair.” He glared at Lael, marching toward him, brandishing his tall stone sword.

“Lesson number one,” Aziroth said. “When an opponent wields a weapon, and you do not . . . run.”

“What?” Lael shouted, taking slow steady steps back.

“Only if you’re a coward. If you are not a coward, then approach your foe with confidence!”

“Aziroth,” Felsacor muttered. “Let me take the reins. The boy will shatter if he tries fighting.”

“That’s a good thing!” Aziroth said.

“No, it’s not. I want him focusing on his techniques right now.”

“But this is the perfect opportunity for him to—”

The Volmorrian swung his stone sword. Lael ducked, and it swooshed over his head—as it swung for him again, Lael lifted his blaster to block it. The blade smashed against the ivory skull, knocking him to the ground. A shockwave of pain surged through his bones, cracking them further, and he cried out.

“ . . . You’re right,” Aziroth said. “Hurry, Felsacor, teach him!”

The Volmorrian with the burnt hair stood over him, raising his stone blade.

* * *

“Soldiers are coming!”

Elswyth blinked, wiping bleariness from her eyes, momentarily lost. Where was she? A wagon? Right. Wait, huh? When had she dozed off? She shifted her eyes, and gasped. Felicity was hovering over her, looking down with her transparent face—the eyes of the woman held her; her warm presence cradled her.

“Soldiers are only minutes away,” she continued. “Stay here. I’m going back outside. I’ll come back before they get too close.” She glanced at something behind Elswyth with a pained expression. “Tell Fiora. Please.” She turned around and shot toward the canvas enveloping the wagon, slipping right through.

“Elswyth?” someone said.

Elswyth craned her neck to find Fiora sitting behind her. The girl was shaking, hugging her wooden legs. “Fiora . . . ” Elswyth’s heart ached as she sat up and crawled to sit by the girl, wrapping an arm around her, looking into her eyes. For a blink, Elswyth thought she saw the face of one of her sisters.

“I-I,” Fiora stammered. She adjusted the lens on her eye. Jynzo had crafted runes along the o-shaped stone; when accessed, they acted like glue, clinging to the skin. “What’s happening?”

“Soldiers are coming.”

Fiora paled. “Soldiers?”

Elswyth nodded.

“. . . I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

Elswyth’s heart skipped, and her cheeks flushed. In a flash, she saw her sisters lying in bloody heaps on the floor of her living room. “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.” She stared at Fiora with intense eyes. “I refuse to let you die—and I refuse to let anyone else in this family to . . .” She trailed off, thinking of Felicity. The woman was dead, but her spirit was very much alive. So, did she count as a casualty? Elswyth shook her head. “I’m going to protect you, Fiora.” She glanced down at a leather tome. Pages and pages of parchment—with runes sketched all over them—were spread across the floorboards. A quill, lying by an inkwell, completed the picture.

“You’ve been practicing your runes?” Elswyth asked, trying to distract the girl.

She nodded. Color was returning to her cheeks. Good, Elswyth thought. But before she could continue the conversation, an anguished cry rent the air, nearly stopping her heart. Fiora yelped and wrapped her arms around Elswyth, squeezing with a strength that belied her size. Elswyth hugged back, heart pounding, listening as the distant howl trailed off . . .

“That was the cry,” a woman muttered, “of a man tasting death.”

“Mom!” Elswyth placed two fingers on her temple. It’d been how long since her mother last spoke to her?

“Where, uh . . .” Her mother was silent for a moment. “Where are we?” she slurred. Scat, was she drunk?

“We’re in a swamp.”

Her mother cleared her throat. “A swamp?”

“Elswyth?” Fiora asked.

“Hang on.” She patted the girl’s face. “Talkin’ with my mom.”

Fiora perked up, though her eyes were wide with fright.

“Mom, the last time you talked with me was right when we left Akkesai. Why’ve you—”

Her mother moaned.

“Mom?” Elswyth’s arm twitched. Something slimy slid beneath her skin; her arm started growing cold. Scat! She ground her teeth, recollecting Aziroth’s teachings. Cycle the Scythe’s essence. Will it into your channels! She homed in on the cold energy, burning mana to yank the Scythe’s being into the channels of her arm. It squealed, thrashing against her will. “Fiora,” Elswyth grunted, clutching her twitching arm, trying to keep it from going berserk. “Move to the corner of the wagon.”

The girl scuttled away.

Elswyth screamed as she inwardly yanked the Scythe’s very lifeforce into her spiritual veins, vaporizing an armful of mana. It shrieked and spat as her channels filled with its frigid energy.

What now?

. . . Wait.

Reanna was panting. “Hold it Little Cub!” she shouted, voice far more lucid than ever before. “Now, cycle it to the tips of your fingers, then all the way to your shoulder.” Elswyth didn’t ask questions. She followed her mother’s instructions and cycled the slimy essence along her spiritual ducts. As it inched toward her fingers, knives—or what felt like knives—lacerated her spirit. She . . . almost screamed. But the frost of the essence numbed her arm, buffering the pain.

When it reached her fingers, five bloodred blades—in the form of fiery lasers—extended from her fingers, one for each digit. Black, viscous sweat oozed from the pores of her hand. “What the Nether!” She stared at her hand with wide-eyed disbelief, horror and fascination welling up in her gut.

“You’re forcing control over the Scythe! Over our power. This is what you’ll have to do until you break through to Quartz, and bond with us.”

“It’s tearing up my spirit!” She accessed her spiritual vision to behold her arm. Parts of the spirit of her arm were sliced to ribbons. “Do I have to do this every time I—”

“No! It’ll get easier, but you should work on disciplining it one limb at a time.”

Elswyth nodded fast, glancing at the tartium band on her right bicep. There were two others, one on her left thigh, and one on her right. For reasons she didn’t understand, the metal disrupted her spirit, limiting its power. It held back the Scythe shadow—and her mother—as a result.

If she was going to do this one limb at a time, she’d need to break off those bands, one at a time. Something for another day. Right now, she was struggling to cycle the shadowy essence through one arm.

When the cold slime enveloped the spirit of her left arm, Elswyth watched in revulsion as black slime oozed from her pores. It covered her left arm, from her shoulder, all the way to her blazing fingers.

Her arm looked like it belonged in a nightmare!

Holding the form in place required a steady stream of mana, but Elswyth was already running low, thanks to how long it took to form into the scatting arm. “Hold it,” her mother thought. “The longer you do, the more disciplined the Scythe becomes.”

“How do you know this?”

“We’ve . . . spent a lot of time together. I know how it—”

People shouted curses just outside the wagon. Metal clashed against metal. Something large hit against the wagon, jostling it. Fiora squealed, huddling up in the corner. Elswyth cussed. The soldiers were here. Spitting, she cursed the name of these filthy, overlord grunts and lunged toward the canvas wall, swinging her claws. They tore through the fabric, so when she collided with the tears, she ripped right through.

Landing in a predatory crouch, she quickly took in the scene. Jrenlla and Jynzo were surrounded by hundreds of narrow spires, and ten soldiers. Their metal armor was a patchwork of stone plates . . . or, was that Soulstone encasing their armor? A Soul artist she’d faced back in Akkesai had done something similar.

One of them noticed her and cried out. He summoned a sharp rock from his hand and chucked it. Elswyth snarled and ducked. It smashed against the body of the wagon, sticking there. She lunged forward, racing on all fours like the ferocious beast she was.

Five of the soldiers turned to face her, unamused. If anything, they looked even angrier. As one, they stomped toward her, summoning grit from their pores. It encased their fists, forming stone gauntlets. Stone blades extended from their knuckles.

“Thrust out your arm!” her mother shouted.

Elswyth hesitated, then thrust her black arm toward the nearest soldier. It stretched, shooting toward the man’s head. She gasped as her palm slapped against his helmeted face; she gripped with her bladed fingers, burning through his headplate. He screamed, dropping to his knees as steam rose from his melting helmet.

The other soldiers had frozen in place. But as the man’s screaming persisted, they shook from their moment of stupor and lifted their bladed gauntlets, intent and hacking at her extended appendage. Elswyth pulled back, and her arm recoiled, forming into its normal shape. She stared at it with awe, flexing her flaming fingers.

One of the soldiers growled. “Kill her!”

A different man punched toward her, and his bladed gauntlet shot off. She gasped and sidestepped the zipping projectile, but another one slammed against her gut, knocking the wind out of her. She dropped to her back, holding the gauntlet, struggling for air. She dared a glance at her belly, afraid of what she’d see . . .

The gauntlet had crumbled. The stone blades had failed to pierce her gut, but she could feel that they’d bruised her. A Steel body, she remembered Aziroth saying, is called a Steel body for a reason.

The soldiers were rushing toward her, a few spitting nasty curses. She tried sitting up, tried lifting her Scythe-enhanced arm, but as she did, she started seeing stars. When she tried cycling Surgefire from her heart, through her channels, they tightened and shocked her spirit. She gasped.

Scat.

She was out of mana.

* * *

“Master!” Gurgs shouted.

Something rough as stone walloped him on the back of the head. “Quiet!” a harsh voice demanded.

Gurgs was only momentarily dazed, for tinglies tingled from his brain, caressing the bruise bruising up his scalp, making him good as new. When he blinked, he saw the world upside down. One of the armored fiends was carrying him over his shoulder while the rest of them were yelling at his kin, demanding they get back to work. Then they rushed over to a broken, spiky wall, beyond which lay the precious form of Master.

He was lying on his back, struggling to rise. A man with a stone sword was sauntering over to him, raising his abnormally long weapon, seconds away from slicing Master in two. And there was no one to stop him . . .

No one, but Gurgs.

He glanced over at his cousins and saw them watching from the purplish green water. His attention shifted from them to the armored monsters running toward Master. Acid was still surging through his blood, making him abnormally hot. He gritted his sharp fangs, grinning with a tense smile.

“If save Master,” he thought. “I save kin.”

“Should not he be saving you?” his brain thought.

Gurgs’s blood boiled. “Why you hate him so much!”

“I not hate him!” His brain said. “I . . .” He sighed. “Forget it. You learn eventually.”

Gurgs frowned, bobbing on the soldier’s rough shoulder, cycling stinging liquid to his nails. It was time to get out of this soldier’s grasp.

“You need lot more Soulacid,” his brain thought, “if you going to . . .”

He ignored the voice. Something he should have done the day it started speaking to him. It wasn’t helping him. It couldn’t. All it wanted was for him to let go of Master—and how could he? Master came into his life at a time when no one else dared, treating him like a friend. Like a brother. Only he was more than a brother. He was a god. A savior. One who snatched him from the depths of depravity to the bright light of redemption.

. . . Like another he once knew.

Gurgs screamed, stabbing his steaming nails into the armored back of his captor. The metal hissed and the man cried out, shoving Gurgs from his back. He crashed against the cap of a shroom, crushing it as he scrambled to his—

A metal boot smashed against his face.

Crack!

Stars consumed his vision.

When he blinked, he found himself on his back. Staring up at an iron sole. The armored fiend was lifting his foot. It came down on Gurgs’s chest, cracking ribs. He gasped, losing air.

“Filthy Bogyn,” the monster muttered.

Tingles crawled along Gurgs’s spine, toward his fresh injury; when the sensation reached his broken ribs, it started mending them. “I here for you,” his brain said. “I not your enemy.”

Gurgs tried to speak, tried to move, but the fiend’s metal foot was crushing his lungs.

“I heal you. . . . That prove my loyalty, does it not?” His brain sighed. “But if that not enough, let me protect you . . .” It was silent for a moment. “ . . . Let her protect you.”

. . . Her?

Her.

He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know who he was talking about.

There was no protesting, either. He was dying—Master was dying—his kin would inevitably starve to death . . . A warm presence slid from his brain and enveloped his soul. His entire being tingled as a poison green haze drifted from his blue skin. The man’s armored boot hissed and began to melt.

* * *

Lael called upon his Steel scales as the soldier’s long sword swung through the air. Translucent scales covered Lael’s body and the stone blade collided with his protected chest. Clang! Lael grunted as a wave of mana evaporated, leaving him with almost nothing.

“Shall we continue our training?” Felsacor thought, his rumbling voice unconcerned. Before Lael could respond, his draca continued.“Good. Let me help you focus on the aura.” The draca’s warm presence filled his skull, pushing against his scalp. His spirit—in that specific area—stretched. It touched the air above his head, and he sensed a chaotic field of energy.

The enemy soldier lifted his stone sword high and brought it down on Lael’s chest. Lael cried out as his scales cracked.

“Stay with me!” Felsacor shouted. “Focus.”

If Lael was doing this alone, he would have tried escaping. Fighting with broken bones was suicide. But he wasn’t alone. Aziroth brought him here to train and train he would.

Lael homed in on the discordant energy bustling around his scalp.

“Good! Now, move that focus to the aura around your enemy’s eyes.”

Lael frowned, turning his attention to the soldier’s face. The expression he wore was one of confusion. He looked at the chipped edge of his stone sword, then back at Lael.

Time was running out. If he hit him again, his scales would shatter.

Lael focused on the air surrounding the man’s eyes. He sensed the bustling aura bouncing there, but it was faint. Slippery. Like a bar of wet soap.

“Now . . . cycle your Phantomfire.”

Lael moved black Soulfire from his left-hand heart, cycling it through his channels. At the same time, the soldier lifted his sword, a dull expression on his face. Saints . . . That wasn’t the expression of a bloodthirsty warrior; it was the bearing of an apathetic killer.

“Cycle it through the aura!” Felsacor shouted. “To his eyes. Hurry!”

“How!”

“Through where you feel me, in your skull!”

Lael forced Soulfire to his head, to where he felt his spirit reaching beyond his scalp, touching the chaotic energy. Soulfire slipped into the field of aura, transferring to the air surrounding the soldier’s eyes.

Phantomfire exploded in his face. He shouted in pain, flinching. Eyes burning. He screamed, dropping his weapon.

The surrounding soldiers cursed loudly. Some ran to their leader while most raced toward Lael, weapons drawn. One—a man with greasy, stringy hair—reached Lael first, raising a stone battle ax high in the air.

A white fireball exploded against his face. He stumbled back, skin on fire. He screamed, chucking his weapon aside while slapping his face. The rest of them hesitated. Dirty, bearded faces peered in the direction the fireball had come from.

“I suggest,” a carefree voice said, “you leave the boy alone.” Aziroth stepped up next to Lael, flaming sword in hand. He held up a pallid hand, and a fireball formed above his palm. “Unless you want to die, of course.”

One of the soldiers shot a spiky rock from his palm; another threw two daggers. Aziroth ducked the rock while slashing the daggers aside. He kicked off the ground, Soulfire exploding from his feet. He landed in front of the soldiers, swinging his sword. Slicing off an arm. The victim howled as Aziroth drove a blade through the man’s chest.

Saints!

Soldiers tried overpowering him with the sheer weight of their numbers, but Aziroth seemed unconcerned. He was smiling, even. Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He ducked a mace, dodged a punch, sidestepped a spray of sediment—in a flash, he sliced off a wrist, cut off an arm, and severed a leg. Even when someone landed an attack, it merely shattered against him, leaving him unharmed.

Most of the soldiers gasped.

A few blinked, scanned him with glowing pupils.

“A Quartz?” one of them shouted, stumbling back. “A Quartz!”

People started fleeing. Their leader—whose eyes were now burned away—was being dragged by several of his men, head bowed. Aziroth hopped through the air, and landed right next to the man. Those dragging him spooked, dropping him and sprinting for their lives. In a matter of seconds, the soldiers were gone, their frightened cries echoing in the distance.

The leader scooted away.

“Whoa there!” Aziroth placed a bare foot on his chest, pinning him down. “Stay awhile, will you?” He leaned down, resting an arm on his knee. “I’ve got a few questions I want to ask.”

* * *

Elswyth was being dragged across the mud when, in the distance, someone shouted, “Quartz? Quartz!” The soldiers around her faltered, looking to one another with their grimy faces. It was hard for Elswyth to distinguish their expressions, thanks to the stars blotting her vision.

Cries of distress sounded off to one side, and Elswyth turned to see Jynzo dueling two soldiers. His curved swords trailed light as he whipped them through the air, blocking the attacks of his opponents. Jrenlla backed into him, thrusting her hands out. Metal whips shot from her palms. They wrapped around a soldier’s leg. When she tugged, he flopped into the mud.

The men surrounding Elswyth started toward the brawl.

“Leave them!” one of the soldiers hissed. “Grab the girl and let’s go!”

A bald soldier with bruises coloring his face leaned over and picked Elswyth up. He slung her over his shoulder. Her chin bounced against his armored chest as he turned, hustling away from the fight.

With a sudden gasp, he stopped.

Elswyth blinked, splotches discoloring her vision. With some effort, she raised her head.

A short figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat, long sleeves, leather gloves, striped puffy pants and red-brown boots stood before them. His face was enshrouded with darkness, but as he lifted a glowing finger, his eyes began to glow.

His finger shifted up, down, left, and right in four swift motions, forming a rune in midair. Before Elswyth’s captor had a chance to respond, Vaaloo thrust his finger forward, pointing at the man. The rune shot toward him, exploding against his chest. He seized up, dropping Elswyth. She landed on a bush, snapping twigs, watching as Vaaloo dodged a slicing sword, four spiky rocks, and a swooping stone draca.

She’d been fighting against an oppressive weight crushing her consciousness, but now, without those nasty dogs breathing down her neck, and with Vaaloo taking care of them, her resistance slipped.

Everything went black.

* * *

Gurgs panted, healing from the wounds of his battle.

Bones cracked into place, cuts mended, blood dried. Acidic mist trailed from his amphibious flesh, eating away what was left of the soldier he’d killed.

“Quartz?” someone shouted. Gurgs turned, digging his claws in the mud. Ready to race to Master’s aid. “Quartz!” Like a flock of frightened sheep, the soldiers fled from the broken wall, dashing through the swamp, racing under roots, and leaping over mushrooms.

Gurgs spat in their direction. His saliva splattered against a leaf, shriveling it to a crisp.

“. . . B-brother?”

Gurgs turned to find his emaciated relatives. They were bowing, faces pressed against the mud. A woman in rags groveled over, whispering. When he listened close, he heard her pleading for forgiveness.

“I sorry for slapping. Please no kill me. I sorry!”

“Sister,” he whispered, frowning. “I . . . no kill my kin.” He looked up at the others. They were motionless, bowing to him as if he were their king. “No bowing!” he shouted. They flinched, rising immediately. “I no better than you. We are family. Kin!” They gawked, as if beholding a deity. That gave Gurgs the shivers. And not the good kind . . . He wasn’t a god. Master was. His brain was. But he—

Gurgs blinked.

His . . . brain?

“I no god,” his brain said. “I serve only she who gave me you.”

She.

Gurgs shivered, unfocused memories seeping through to his consciousness . . .

He was young, singing praises to the evening sky. Staring into the pristine waters of a massive lake. Eye-to-eye with the Queen of the Night. She watched him with her billions of shimmering eyes. They reflected against the placid surface, glittering like stars. With a ripple, she spread her arms wide, inviting him in. When he dove through, she embraced him. Whispering to him words that warmed him like the cozy light of fire.

I love you, Gurgs . . .

Gurgs blinked, tears dripping from his eyes. They hit the mud, hissing.

Why had she abandoned him? If she loved him, then she wouldn’t have done that! It’s why he had Master now. Master loved him. Master . . . protected him. He glanced in Master’s direction.

He was lying on the ground; the smiley man with the shiny hair crouched by his side and picked him up, cradling him in his arms. Master’s flesh arm dangled, his entire body limp like a boneless shrimp.

No . . .

Master . . . couldn’t protect him. Not with his broken bones. He was in danger. Even with smiley keeping watch over him. There were monsters in the swamp—beasts strong enough to stomp smiley to pieces.

They would have crushed Gurgs as a child, if it weren’t for her.

But where was she now?

And why had she abandoned her people?

Gurgs glanced over at the starving Bogyns. They gawked with glazed expressions; one gnawed on a mushroom, another, a piece of purple kelp. The drum in his chest skipped two beats—it constricted, growing heavy. His shoulders slumped, and another acidic tear slid down his face.

The Queen no longer lived. She was dead. Or at least dead to him. If he wanted to protect Master, it was time for him to take matters into his own hands, and protect him. He had done so before. He could do it again . . .

But what if he couldn’t?

He gritted his sharp teeth. He had to at least try! He had to. But . . . where would he start?

The answer came almost immediately.

“Family.”

“Family?”

“Home . . .”

“Home . . .” He trailed off

Home. The lake. Where he was born. Where he grew up. Where most every Bogyn resided. It was there where he would find his kin, and build an army worthy of the Gurgling name!

Home was at the center of the Fen. Or close to it, at least. He glanced around, then raised his eyes toward the leafy canopy shrouding the sky. As much as he boasted of his innate sense of direction . . . he was lost. “Sister,” he said. His cousins flinched, but the woman wearing the rags perked up. “Where is center of Fen?”

Her jaw dropped. “Center? Why?”

“I need go there.”

“No!” four of the Bogyns shouted.

Gurgs flinched. “Yes!”

“No,” his sister said, shaking her head, grabbing the collar of his fish-scale top. “You no go there. It infested with armor men. They kill you!”

Gurgs frowned, drooping. Of course those filthy mongrels were there. He thought about that for a long time. If his home was infested, then starting there was a fool’s move. He’d need to build up a separate army if he was going to have any chance at rescuing them, and increasing his manpower. When he came to a conclusion, he met his sister’s gaze. “Help me save them.”

She paled. “I . . .” She trailed off, averting her pink eyes.

“Not just you. All you.” He waved his webbed hand toward his brothers and sisters. They appeared shocked, glancing at one another. “We going to gather our family! They help us fight!” Hundreds of smaller bogs were littered throughout the Fen. If there were slaves in this one, then there had to be slaves in the others. “We going to liberate our people!” Gurgs, crouching on all fours, straightened his spine, a powerful resolve enveloping his soul. Going from bog to bog, liberating his kin, and gathering an army had to be his best idea yet. Gurgs was no warlord, but he’d heard plenty of war stories, considering himself an expert on the topic. He would use that expertise to lead them against the scoundrels at the heart of the Fen—his drum clenched. “Ack!” He grabbed his chest with clawed hands.

What was he thinking? Leading them against foes? He would lose members of his family!

“It’s either that, or face the center of the swamp yourself,” his brain said.

Gurgs bit his lower lip. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d seen Master do it before. He remained silent, thinking, but the decision was clear. He would gather an army of Gurglings. Then, he would march on his home swamp at the center of the Fen and make war on the murderers. Slaying them and releasing the people there would only guarantee Master’s safety!

Gurgs was nodding, eyes squinted. His spirit jittered, his teeth chattered.

There was no time to waste.

He glanced over his shoulder. He could no longer see Master.

Should he tell him? That he was going?

Gurgs winced.

It would be too painful, saying his goodbyes. But he had to. Master would worry something awful if Gurgs just disappeared on him. “Sisters, brothers,” Gurgs said, looking back at his kin. They perked up, one munching on her sharp fingernail. “Eat kelp,” he nodded toward the pile. “I no want you hungry when we march.” He nodded toward the village. “I go now to bid farewellness to Master.” It wouldn’t take long. “Prepare for my return. And the liberation of our kin.”

Chapter 6

Jests

Kiyish Kua bowed before her audience, relishing every clap, hoot, and whistle. The applause went on for so long, she wondered if they would ever stop. She, of course, never wanted it to stop. If it was up to her, she’d stand there all night, relishing in the praise, absorbing it like a blooming flower in the face of sunlight.

But she had duties to perform . . .

Meetings to hold.

Shifts to adjust.

Conduct to fix.

Soldiers to bore . . .

She sighed, glancing up at her audience. Which consisted of her ecstatic niece, and a hundred of her lifeless stuffed animals. The little girl was hopping up and down, slapping her palms together in an aggressive act of gusto. “Again! Kua, do it again!”

“Not now, Siiffa.” Although her pulsing heart yearned to. Dream essence swam through her channels—light and wispy—sending a thrill up her spine. She almost summoned an illusion, but reality slapped her in the face. She wasn’t a clown anymore—this wasn’t the circus. That dream had died decades ago, along with all the rest of them. Her duty was to the crown—to Overlord Dharamadeva. That’s what kept her safe—that’s what fed her family—that’s what was practical. “Come now . . .” She nodded toward the door—the exit. It was dark and daunting, out of place in this cozy room.

“Kind of like you,” came a tender whisper, “leading an army . . .”

She almost snapped at the spirit, but bit her tongue, not wanting to scare it off. She’d fused with the ghost decades ago, back when she’d Advanced to Brass. Their bond had deepened when, just last year, she broke through to Quartz, earning a place among the top ranked officers.

Siiffa was shuffling toward her, hugging a stuffed dragon half her size. Her human features stood in stark contrast to her pea green skin. Her hair, dark and long, was intertwined with wiry strands of ivy.

Kiyish’s heart ached, and she knelt with one knee on the plush carpet, placing a light-pink hand on her niece’s shoulder. “Your parents are going to be returning soon from their expedition. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already home. I need to take you to them.” She lifted Siiffa’s chin. “You understand?”

Her niece, eyes downcast, shook her head.

Kiyish sighed, feeling another tug on her heart. The girl looked so much like her own daughter, Raya Lee. What was the girl doing now? Her most recent letter claimed she was starting school, playing with friends, and practicing juggling, so she could grow up to be a clown, just like momma used to be.

I miss you, the girl had written. When are you coming home?

Kiyish found herself stroking Siiffa’s hair. Should she have brought Raya along? She shook her head. No. It was safer back in Moonlight Gorge, so near the capital’s border. Bringing her to this rotten swamp, so near the Voiceless Expanse, was just asking for trouble. Plus, her husband needed her. Yes, her relatives were taking care of him, but the presence of their daughter kept him sane.

“You ready?” Kiyish asked.

Siiffa shook her head.

Kiyish picked her up anyway, cradling her in her arms. She would only carry her like this to her foyer—never beyond the front door. If any of the soldiers witnessed such a tender act of kindness, respect would be lost, her image shattered.

She exited the room, entering a corridor made entirely of obsidian—the overlord’s favorite stone. At the center of the room was a stairwell leading to the bottom floor. She walked across a carpet sewn with the glyphs of justice, passing sconces flickering with black fire. Siiffa huddled close, burying her face in Kiyish’s armored chest.

Tremoring.

. . . Or was she the one shaking?

When she reached the massive front door—a slab of metal, carved with a black dragon—her spirit shuddered. Expanded. She sensed the aura field beyond her entrance. A platoon of soldiers awaited, standing at the ready. Her heart skipped, and she looked down at her lightweight armor—a casual suit. She was in no way dressed to address her men . . .

What were they doing here, anyway?

“Hang on, dear.” She placed Siiffa on her feet, then called on the power of her bondspirit. Keaton, the ghost bound to her being, shuddered. Soullusions, with its feathery touch, brushed her veins, looping through her channels.

“What . . . will it be this time?” Keaton asked, speaking with a careful tone.

Kiyish visualized her silver battle armor in lucid detail; the black glyph of justice marking one bulky shoulder plate, a clear crystal the other. Only High Officers—those in the Gem tier—wore such signets.

Red, yellow, and blue mist puffed from her body, enveloping her in a whirl of color. Siiffa clapped excitedly, and a spike of fear pierced her soul. She didn’t want the girl to see her—to hear her—in the presence of her men.

“Keaton,” she thought. “Escort her to another room.”

As the colorful mist swirled around her form, a tendril stretched from the spinning mass. It broke loose, coiling on the floor, forming into the rainbow silhouette of a nine-tailed fox. Prismatic color evaporated off its gold-furred body. Large ears twitched, and adorable eyes blinked. It sniffed Siiffa, who gasped as she placed her hands on her face. She reached out to pet the fox, but it turned and dashed off. She giggled, chasing after it.

Kiyish watched until she could no longer see the girl. She allowed her illusion to form to her body, shaping into silver battle armor. Although a helmet concealed her face, she could see through the faceplate—it was a little like staring through colored mist.

She approached the massive door, then placed a hand against it, cycling mana into a hidden rune. The draconic carving lit up, and the door started sliding down, sinking into the floor.

The soldiers knelt, bowing their heads. They shuffled uncomfortably as Kiyish approached, armored boots squelching mud. She kept her lips sealed, allowing silence to linger as she touched the aura.

“Dread,” she thought, cycling dream essence through her channels. It radiated from her, diffusing through the aura. Keaton reappeared inside of her, swirling through her spirit, shifting from one emotional state to another—when it reached a black, weighty sensation, it bled into the field.

The soldiers notably bowed low; a few trembled, trying to hide it.

She glanced past them to the bridge spanning from her plot of mud to the next. Buildings—built like sinister, spiked domes—dotted the island. Fifty of them spanned the marsh. Mountainous trees surrounded the groggy glade, their branches blocking most of the starlit sky.

Her post, out here in the Fen of Fontinova, was considered small. Not much happened near the borders of the swamp, which was both a relief and . . . a disappointment. She craved action, even if it meant straddling death’s door. The circus had been that way—her team had known the risks, yet they still followed her. One had broken his back. Her best friend lost an arm. The twins had even burned their faces in a freak accident.

Was life at the center of the Fen similar?

It was said that skirmishes happened almost daily . . .

What would it take to convince her peers to let her move her army there?

A man kneeling before her cleared his throat. Stone covered his arms and fists. He was the only one with enough gall to glare her in the eye. His armor was dented, scuffed, muddy. As were the others. Now that she was really looking, she realized something. These weren’t soldiers from camp—these were men on duty.

At least . . . they were supposed to be.

“Deep,” she thought, speaking to her spirit. “Menacing.” Keaton hovered to her vocal cords, enveloping them with her gentle caress.

“Soldier . . .” Kiyish’s resonant tone carried. “Why have you left your post?”

“Commander.” He bowed low. “We were attacked. Had the assailants been Steels, or even Tungstens for that matter, we would have held our post. But—”

“But there was a Quartz!” one of them shouted, face bruised, teeth missing. “A Quartz!”

“A Quartz?” Kiyish said, heart pounding. “Was it one of Zeredathah’s?”

“They weren’t guerilla warriors,” another soldier said, this one wearing a dented helmet. “They were . . . outsiders, I think.”

“And they attacked you?”

“At a village, due south of here.”

Kiyish found herself trembling with suppressed excitement. When was the last time a village under her jurisdiction was attacked? Months? And even then, the dispute was handled with relative ease.

That wouldn’t be the case with this one. Taking out a Quartz might just kill her.

A dark part of her welcomed that—another side, one determined to see her little girl again, refused the possibility. No matter what Path this Soul artist was on, she doubted whether he or she had the resources to take on a Dreamweaver. Most Sapphires couldn’t even handle her, so she had every reason to believe she could take out this budding revolutionist.

“Fan out,” Kiyish said. “Go from bunker to bunker and gather half the army. We leave tonight.” The soldiers hesitated, then turned and hustled away, armor clinking.

“Get ready to put on the greatest show of your life,” Keaton whispered.

Kiyish grinned. “I plan to.”

Chapter 7

Victoria

Victoria reclined on a couch sewn with golden thread, staining the expensive fabric with her blood. Red rivulets streamed down her skin, saturating her leather garments. She’d anticipated the purge, which is why she’d chosen to wear a suit of sinister armor. The ichor slipped through chinks, enveloping the defensive suit.

The blood tightened against her armored body, stabbing through her skin, sucking like a leech. Mana cycled through her channels, flowing into the bloody parasite. Stars speckled her vision, but she couldn’t see anything but red anyway. As the constant sucking drained her of vitality, her muscles tightened, and she sank into the couch, feeling like a boneless worm . . .

She ebbed in and out of consciousness. Without any windows in her private quarters, she had no way of telling how much time was passing. When at last she came to, the blood slipped off her armored body, slithering to the polished floorboards, bubbling. Expanding. It formed into a bloody replica of booted feet, then legs with shin guards. An armored torso formed next, followed by arms, and a helmeted head. Crimson hair wriggled from the back of her helmet, growing long, swaying as if blown by an undersea current. A mouth formed on the creature’s otherwise featureless face. It grinned, revealing row after row of serrated fangs.

Victoria took a deep breath, lying there, helpless. Like a spineless baby. If anyone had the gall to break in and try to kill her, they’d have her blood-forged bodyguard to deal with. And not just this one. There were at least fifty aboard her ship, the Bleeding Harpy.

The crimson doppelgänger gurgled, bloody froth dripping down her chin. It crouched, placing a wet hand on Victoria’s forehead. It was trying to talk, but it would take the creature weeks before it could form its own words. Still, it was endearing to watch it try.

Victoria turned her head to stare at the wooden ceiling. Someone had waxed it, giving the surface an appealing gloss. The eyes of her reflection—set with rich, mahogany irises—glared at her. Her skin, the color of porcelain, contrasted with her red liquid hair. The bloody strands undulated like weeds in the sea, smearing ichor across the costly couch.

“Time is running out,” her reflection said, black smoke trailing from her lips.

Victoria’s chest grew cold. A dark, frigid sphere swirled near her pounding heart. She pasted an easy smile on her face, the color of her lips going from bloodless to cherry red. “I have five ships capturing refugees from Akkesai, and several more scouring the desert. It’s only a matter of time before we find Aziroth’s location.” When they found him, they found Lael. Killing them both would keep the Knights from manifesting.

“Time is against us,” her reflection said, unamused. “Your father is on the verge of Godhood, and Lael continues to Advance. The Light of Hope dwells within him.” Her reflection’s expression twisted into a scowl. “Crush it.”

“I will . . .” Victoria chuckled. Lael was but a flea. And Darkness was speaking of him as though he were the deadliest threat in the world. Modrea’s fear seemed irrational, but she didn’t question it. She wouldn’t. If the renowned pyromancer Cyra Dredfall claimed to have seen both her father’s and her master’s downfall—all by the hand of this chosen one—then it was no wonder they feared his name.

A hard knock came from the gold-gilded door. Victoria frowned. Her women knew not to disturb her. She looked at her blood-forged servant and nodded. It nodded back, grinning eagerly as it turned and hobbled toward the entrance.

“Lady Victoria!” someone yelled from the other side. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but one of your ships has returned, bearing glad tidings!”

Victoria’s heart skipped. “And what tidings would that be?” she yelled, trying to keep her weariness from sounding.

“They interrogated the—”

Her blood servant opened the door, and a woman in armor stumbled in, bumping into the chest plate of her gruesome copy. She gasped, backpedaling, wiping gore off her face.

“C . . . Uh . . . M. In!” the blood servant . . . said.

Victoria stared in open astonishment. It spoke. In all her many years under the curse of her Sapphire soul, she’d never heard a bloody servant speak this soon.

The armored woman stared in open disgust. But when she turned to face Victoria, her face paled. Victoria smirked. What a mild response. If the poor soldier could see all the gore beneath her armor, she would have fainted on the spot.

“What is it?” Victoria asked, tone less than courteous. And why should she be? These women were tools, only months from expiring. Soon, her-blood forged servants would take their place.

“O-one of our squads interrogated a crew, one person at a time. More than fifty people claim to have witnessed the demise of Blaise, from atop Akkesai’s wall. They stalked the one who killed him but kept their distance, claiming to have seen him set off in a northeastern direction.” She tightened her jaw, shooting a sidelong glance at the blood servant. The creature was watching her, its abnormally long jaw hanging, long tongue swaying like an eel.

The news was . . . mediocre, to say the least. But it tied in with a few other accounts. Most claimed to have seen the dragon-slayer—as they called him—head north. If that was true, then Lael was either in the Forbidden Highlands, or the Fen of Fontinova. She could send half her fleet to one place, and half to the other, but it wouldn’t be as effective as sending them all to one place.

She needed to interrogate the peasants herself . . .

And she’d need to cross-examine a lot of them, and it would get . . . messy. But did she really have any other option?

“Where are they?” Victoria muttered, obvious fatigue in her voice. Who cared? She was tired of putting on a front for these women. If any of them had the gall to rebel against her now, they’d have her blood-forged soldiers to deal with.

“W-we don’t know”—the armored woman swallowed—“where the chosen one currently—”

“Not the chosen one. Where are the people you interrogated?”

“Aboard the Scarlet Raven. The ship is hitched to yours, my lady.”

“Good. Send word to the captain. I want all the hostages here. In my room.” She glared at the soldier. “Now.”

The soldier bit her lower lip, shifting from one foot to the other. “My lady, there is . . . one other thing you should know.”

Victoria’s heart started pounding. This woman should have left immediately. To stay was to disobey orders from a superior. Was this a hint of rebellion? Or did the woman feel the need to establish dominance? . . . Yes. Victoria should have never let her in. Allowing her to see her like this, deflated on a blood-stained couch, was foolish!

Her blood soldier whipped out its arm, clutching the woman’s throat with its clawed hand. The woman’s eyes bulged, and she grabbed at her neck as the monster lifted her off the ground. “You know the consequences for disturbing me with such menial news . . .” Victoria rasped.

The woman’s eyes pleaded as her face slowly shifted from white to blue. “Lady . . . Victoria,” she choked. “There . . . ‘nother ship—” The blood soldier squeezed. Crack! The woman’s eyes rolled back as her head slumped.

A smile touched Victoria’s lips. One of the benefits of serving Modrea was that she never felt bad for things like this. In fact, she rarely felt at all. She had to admit, it did make life rather boring. But she and Darkness were close. If she really wanted her apathy lifted, she need just say the word, and her master would grant her request.

The heavy tromp of feet sounded outside her door. Her blood soldier tossed the female soldier aside, facing the entrance. Spikes rose from its back, and it hunched over, extending its claws. It widened its jaw, fangs jutting from its gums, tongue swaying back and forth.

“Lady Victoria!” multiple voices shouted as the tromp grew close. “Lady Victoria!”

Several soldiers entered at once—each in dark armor, wearing crimson cloaks. They stopped short when they noticed the blood servant watching them eagerly. At once, they backed up, panting as they looked from the creature to where Victoria lay.

She would have thought this a coup—or an act of mutiny—but there was something . . . sincere in their tones. It carried hints of dread. Something Victoria only remembered feeling. “What is it?” she asked, pulling on every ounce of strength to sit up straight. She quivered, but thankfully, her armor concealed it.

“A dark vessel,” one of the ladies shouted, “is coming this way.”

Victoria’s heart skipped. She still wasn’t sure why it did that. Wasn’t fear out of the picture? Or was it just the natural response of her body, to news that used to knot her up? “What flag does it fly?” She already knew the answer but she hoped she was wrong.

“Dharamadeva’s,” her soldier responded. “And Uunoa’s.”

Victoria grinned. It was about time that witch showed up. “Excellent,” she whispered. “About when do you think she’ll—”

Crack!

The room lurched, tossing her soldiers to the floorboards. Victoria sat where she was, unmoved. Her blood-forged copy clung to the polished wood floor with its claws. The soldier it killed rolled across the floor. When the ship balanced out, her women scrambled to their feet. All of them had their wide eyes on the fallen woman, noticing her for the first time. “Report to the top!” Victoria yelled, and they flinched. “Welcome our guest with open arms . . .” They all nodded and ran out the room.

Victoria focused deep within herself . . . to the parasitic spirit swimming through her veins. It was already beginning to drain her of blood and mana, though it did so at a lazy pace. “Harrmoc,” she thought. “Summon your sisters . . .”

It hissed, and her blood began to boil. As her spirit expanded, touching the aura enveloping the Bleeding Harpy, she sensed the awareness of over fifty clones. As her reach expanded, their attention turned to her. A deep yearning for their presence welled up at the pit of her soul, and the blood-forged creatures cried out, hungry to satisfy her. They were scattered all throughout the ship, but she could sense their approach . . .

There was a disturbance in the aura field. It was subtle at first, then great spikes of discordance stabbed through the air. It took her a moment to detect what it was.

People were dying.

She smiled, blood trailing from the corner of her lips. Looks like her women were expiring sooner than she—

An overpowering presence consumed her attention. It seemed to radiate, blinding her to all else. And it was approaching. Fast.

Crash. Distant wood split.

Crash! . . . That was much closer.

CRACK! A red-clad figure broke through the ceiling, polished wood flying in a hundred directions, splinters raining over Victoria. The figure landed with another crack, splitting the floorboards. She was crouching, her blood-stained cloak concealing everything beneath her maroon, plated shoulders. Her head was covered by a helmet, and as she stood tall, she locked red irises with Victoria’s grinning eyes.

“Uunoa,” Victoria said in a conversational tone. “I didn’t—”

The woman shot forward, throwing out a gauntleted hand. Clutching Victoria’s armored neck. Squeezing. Victoria gagged.

“I could kill you right now,” Uunoa said, her voice muffled by her helmet, “and your father wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep.”

“But . . .” Victoria gasped. “You’re . . . not going to . . . are you?”

“No.” She let go of her neck. Victoria dropped to the bloody couch, going slack. Her blood-forged soldier—crouching a dozen paces away—was shrieking. Clawing at the floorboards, trying to reach her. An invisible force was holding it back, but when it let up, the bloody monster lunged for Uunoa—an Archdiamond. She spun and punched the creature in the face, tearing through its fluid skin. Red light burst from her fist and the bloody soldier exploded, splatting across the floor.

Uunoa turned to regard Victoria. “Why did you do it?”

Victoria gave her a questioning gaze.

“Why did you leave?”

Victoria tightened her lips.

Uunoa slapped her left cheek, sending her flying through the air. She slammed against the wall, knocking a painting to the floor. She gritted her teeth, face throbbing, soul aching. There was no standing up to this woman—alone, she was powerless . . .

But you are not alone, Modrea’s fatherly voice echoed in her mind, a cold chill swirling near her hammering heart.

Blood oozed from the hole in the ceiling, dropping to the carpet in great gobs of gore. One by one, they stretched into their humanoid, armored forms. Wide grins formed on their faces, revealing fangs longer than fingers. The corners of their lips stretched to where their ears should have been.

Uunoa ignored them. She was striding gracefully, heading over to Victoria, the hem of her cloak brushing the floor.

Even if all sixty of her blood-forged soldiers attacked, they wouldn’t so much as scratch her armor. Archdiamonds were known for their hardiness, not to mention their mastery over aura. It wasn’t complete—that didn’t happen till one reached Godhood—but she still had the power to take on armies without lifting so much as a finger.

The doppelgängers launched themselves at Uunoa, stretching out clawed hands.

They froze midair, as if locked in an invisible field of ice.

Uunoa kept walking, only paces away from where Victoria lay. The aura pressed in on Victoria, clutching her, lifting her.

Let go, Modrea whispered to Victoria’s mind. The dark, swirling mass in her chest expanded. Give me control. The words evoked a horrid sensation of overwhelming dread. She trembled, recalling the last time she gave herself up to the influence of Darkness.

He was eating away her soul, piece by piece.

But what other choice did she have?

If she did nothing, Uunoa would take her home, to the dungeons of Volmorra. Where she would rot for eternity.

“You know,” Uunoa said, clutching Victoria’s neck with a gauntleted hand, “this is quite fortunate for me.” As she squeezed, her fingers bruised pasty skin. “No one else from your father’s court was sent to find you.” Those red eyes grinned. “Lord Dharamadeva will be most pleased to have you in his custody. But not only that; I’ve heard the reports . . . of the chosen one.” This wasn’t a surprise. Diamonds had a limited measure of omniscience. She’d probably eavesdropped on the interrogations. “Imagine your father’s surprise when I show up, not only with you, but with the one fated to bring him down . . .” As Uunoa’s hold on her neck tightened, the edges of Victoria’s vision darkened.

I . . . she thought. . . . give you control, master . . .

She could feel him grin. The void near her heart expanded, spreading through her soul. Black mist trailed past her blue lips.

Everything was growing dim.

Uunoa cocked her head, squinting with a questioning gaze. Then her eyes grew wide, reflecting realization and horror.

But it was too late.

The last thing Victoria remembered—before completely succumbing to the influence of her lord—was Uunoa’s bloodcurdling shriek.

Chapter 8

The Saint of the Desert

Briar ran across crumbling stone, sweaty within a suit of rune-enhanced armor. The finish line—a white platform—was a mere stone’s cast away. Two others were racing for it. He could hear their footfalls and heavy breathing above the cracks echoing through the cave.

He glanced back at Annec, twin of Cenna. The boy was a mute, gangly, and awkward. He’d helped Briar this far, but there was a look in his eyes. One that bespoke backstabbing treachery. He couldn’t trust the boy any longer; it was time to let him go.

That thought was interrupted by an awful sight.

Lael.

Crouching on the crumbling stone, way behind.

The cursed teen lunged forward as a burst of unholy fire exploded from his soles. He screamed as he flew forward—brown locks whipping in the wind—and landed only a few feet behind Annec, stumbling, eyes black.

He crouched again, shaking like a leaf. Preparing to lunge.

“No!” Briar bellowed, spinning around. He clutched Annec, who yelped in surprise. The runes on his vambrace—enhancing his armor’s strength—shone as he lifted the mute and chucked him at Lael. The collision sent the two of them rolling back onto a crumbling section of the stone floor.

Briar hurriedly walked backwards. As soon as he stepped onto the white platform, it shone. The remaining stone floor cracked, echoing like a thunderclap, and falling apart. Lael and Annec lay on the shattering stone, dazed . . .

Falling to their doom.

Good, Briar thought. That made him frown. Good?

Horror welled up in his chest.

“No.” He shook his head. What had he done? What was he thinking? This was murder! “Annec!” He dove headfirst into the pit. “Lael!” He dropped like an arrow, chest knotting up. Blackness surrounded him on all sides. He could no longer see the mute, or Lael. He tried crying out for them, but his throat tightened.

Your soul is mine, Briar, a whispering voice echoed. Chills ran up his spine, and an oppressive weight settled on his shoulders.

He was set for hell.

His soul was damned.

And he deserved it.

“No!” he inwardly shouted. “NO!” He gasped for breath. “NO!”

* * *

“NO!” Briar screamed, sitting up. His throat stung, and he started coughing. It devolved into a hacking fit. When it passed, he was left panting. Sweat dripped from his forehead, onto his scuffed trousers.

His leg was asleep. When he shifted it into a comfortable position, sand clung to his sweaty foot. His brows knitted, and his golden eyes turned to the gritty ground. The sediment was speckled with flecks of silver.

His pocket grew warm. When he reached inside, his fingers found the smooth surface of a crystal ball. He pulled it out. His sister, Yvonna, stirred within. He could only see her lightly freckled face, and those auburn locks cascading off her shoulders, but she appeared to be sleeping. Not wanting to disturb her, he pocketed the crystal sphere. Just knowing she was with him comforted his agitated heart, but there was still one question that needed answered . . .

. . . Where am I? he thought, examining his surroundings.

He was sitting in the middle of a spacious, earthen chamber. Stalactites hung from a curved ceiling. One of them was dripping with what looked like liquid steel. When it hit the sand, it hissed, forming into a glistening silver speck. He glanced right and—

He cursed, flinching at an unexpected sight: a reptilian skull, the size of a wagon. The lower half of its jaw was buried beneath the sand—three eye sockets lined the left side of the creature’s face, its ivory fangs tinged yellow. Nine horns, like the branches of a tree, projected from the back of the creature’s cranium. And a . . . pile of coarse hair sat upon its scalp.

Briar started when he realized that the coarse hair was actually a pelt worn by a man. It covered his entire body; it was a cloak, probably made from the hide of a bear.

His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Oily white hair cascaded down his back, reaching past his hips. White tattoos danced across his features, standing in bright contrast to his dark-brown skin.

“It is eating you alive . . .” The stranger’s gravelly voice was accented, each whispered word spoken with careful deliverance. “. . . Is it not?” He slowly lifted his gaze, parting his eyelids, revealing all-white eyes.

Briar gasped, jaw dropping.

Those all-whites shimmered, piercing Briar’s soul. His spirit shivered, his mind expanding. And every memory he had up to this point rose to the surface of his mind. An unsavory horror welled up inside of him as he witnessed, in full color, his murderous sin over and over again.

“Stop.” Briar grabbed his head. “Make it stop!” His voice echoed through the cave.

The stranger blinked. His eyes stopped shimmering.

But the memories persisted.

Guilt inflated in Briar’s chest, growing heavy. He dropped to the sand, overwhelmed by the weight of it. When he tried to breathe, his lungs refused to expand. He tried again, panicked, but failed to inhale.

“If the past didn’t fade,” the stranger said, “every man would be crushed by the weight of the memory of his sins.”

Anguished memories scraped his mind raw—times he screamed at his mother, days he bullied his sisters, moments when he shoved people to the floor. But they paled in comparison to the murder he’d committed at the heart of the lakeside sanctuary . . .

He clutched his chest, his heart feeling tight.

This was it.

He was going to die . . .

As Briar blinked, darkness encroaching on his vision, the stranger stood over him. His eyes were glowing again. When he blinked, the memories in Briar’s tormented mind shied back. He took a deep breath, tasting the musty, earthen air of the cavern. He panted, replenishing his lungs with air.

“I’ve seen what you’ve done, Briar, son of Onido,” the stranger said. “I know whom you seek, and I know what you want.” He was silent a moment, letting the words settle. “I want something too. Very badly. But alone, I cannot get it.” This close, his features seemed chiseled into a perpetually serious expression. “But I’m not alone. Not anymore.”

Briar’s breathing had calmed down, since he no longer felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. This whole situation was . . . How could he describe it? He should have been terrified. Here he was, in a cave with a complete stranger—one who somehow knew his name, and his past—and yet, he . . . wasn’t sure what he felt. Guilt, for sure. But what else?

“Who are you?” Briar’s voice scraped his throat. He coughed.

The stranger’s expression . . . shifted? His brows twitched, and he almost looked amused. “You really don’t recognize me?”

Briar narrowed his eyes. What was that supposed to mean?

The man thrust out a muscled arm to one side and spread thick fingers. Tattoos spiraled along his forearm, circling around the back of his hand. They shimmered. As they grew bright, crimson fire crawled along the twisting ink. It reached his palm, and expanded, forming into the shape of a massive weapon. As the fire evaporated, it left behind a sinister sword. The blade was twice the size of a man, the cross guard made of sharp bones.

The stranger cried out and jabbed it into the sand.

Briar flinched, staring at the flat of the blade. Archaic symbols flared, most of them shapes of flames or runic motifs, but one outshone them all. It was the glyph of Elavendhan, Saint of Honor.

Briar choked on his spit. Coughing, he looked up at the Saint’s chiseled face. His expression hadn’t changed, but Briar’s perspective had. He recalled a statue in his father’s chapel—it was of Elavendhan, in a suit of armor, long hair dangling to his knees. There were seven others, and he could recite each Saint’s name by memory . . .

Saints!

He was lying before one of the Saints.

Briar hurried to his knees, pressing his forehead against the sand. Grit stuck to his still-slick skin.

“None of that,” Elavendhan grumbled. “Up.”

Briar lifted his upper body, still kneeling, staring up at the beast of a man. What was he doing, wearing that greasy pelt? Such apparel was unbecoming of a man of his standing!

Elavendhan stared.

Briar dropped his gaze.

“You seek the one,” the Saint said.

Briar hesitated. “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lael.”

Briar’s head shot up, eyes locking with the Saint’s strange orbs.

“He left the desert days ago, passing beyond my sight.”

“Which way did he go?”

“North. Into the Fen of Fontinova.”

“Into? Did the flying ship land?” Briar had seen the magnificent vessel leave Hidden Valley weeks ago, carrying Lael.

“Blaise no longer has him.”

Blaise? Was that the name of the ship? “How?”

“A fortunate turn of events.” The Saint grabbed the hilt of his blade. “Like me finding you, a Pathless, rankless warrior.”

Pathless?

Rankless?

Should he be offended? No, he wouldn’t dare. Not in the presence of this heavenly being. If only his father were here. Oh, how he would revel in this moment!

“If you are going to have any chance of reaching Lael, you’ll need my help.” With his other hand, he threw part of his pelt back and unsheathed a smaller blade. That gave Briar a quick glimpse at his muscled torso—chains clung to his tattooed flesh, but before he could make out details, the pelt was back in place. The Saint chucked the slender sword at him, hilt first. Briar caught it, rising to his feet. He grew lightheaded, and almost dropped to the sand. But he shook it off, brushing auburn hair from his face.

“Are we . . . going after Lael together?”

“No.” The Saint pulled his sword from the sand, and shot forward, slicing vertically.

Briar yelped and quickly blocked the attack—Clang!—the force of it threw him back. He slammed into the wall, losing all air from his lungs. He gasped for breath, and before he could recover, Elavendhan was in front of him, pointing the tip of his blade at his neck.

“You’re going after him alone,” he whispered.

Briar took a shuddered breath.

“He’s heading toward the Temple of Light.” The Saint relaxed, resting the blade on his shoulder. “He should reach the sanctuary in the coming months, and so should you.” His penetrating eyes held Briar’s. Was the man . . . glaring at him? No. Wait. Yes . . . ? It was hard to tell. “There, you can make penance for your crime against Annec’s soul.”

Briar flinched. Only Annec and Lael knew about that. The Light too, of course, but that was a given. And now . . . Elavendhan was privy to this sin of his. It was humiliating. Yet, in a strange, twisted way, it was liberating. His heart pounded at the hope of forgiveness. “Where is the Temple?”

“Farther north. But you are in no condition to go.”

“I’m ready.” Briar leaned against the sword the Saint had given him. “If you pack me up with supplies, and direct me to the nearest village, I can manage.” Briar’s heart was hammering in his ears. “I’ll do anything to get rid of this hell inside of me!” He was breathing heavily again.

Elavendhan watched him. This time, Briar was committed to holding the uncanny gaze.

“If I let you go now,” the man said, “you will die.” He jumped backwards, sending a shockwave through the sand. Briar balanced against the wall, watching as the Saint landed atop the oversized, reptilian skull. “The deeper you travel into the desert, the deadlier it gets. And even if I carried you all the way to the other side, I’d be doing you a disservice.” He nodded toward him. “Look at your sword.”

Briar glanced down. There were seven complex runes vertically inscribed along the flat of the blade. This piqued his interest because, back in Hidden Valley, the sword he’d owned and the armor he’d worn were both enhanced by the strange symbols.

“Every soul, even a rankless one, has command over his mana.” The tattoos on his face pulsed with light, and his eyes glowed. “Your channels are weak, like neglected muscles. And your swordplay, while good, is lacking.”

Briar nearly balked at that, but he bit his tongue. This was a Saint talking to him—a legend! And he could only be insulting him for one reason. “You . . . wish to train me?”

Elavendhan nodded. “By the end of this month, you will wish I’d never found you.”

Briar swallowed, but no saliva slid down his dry throat.

“It is the only way . . .” For the first time, the Saint twisted his stone-hard features into a look of pain. “Lael needs help. And I cannot help him. But you can.”

“Help?” Was Lael trying to get back to Hidden Valley?

“He is going to face Dharamadeva.”

Briar sputtered. “D-Dharamadeva? The Dharamadeva, Saint of Justice?”

“He is not what you think, Lightsworn,” the Saint whispered, voice cold. “You know nothing . . .” He sighed. “But I cannot blame you. Hidden Valley is a land far from the horrors of this region . . .”

Briar waited for more, but the man trailed off, looking to one side, as if in deep thought. Another silver drop dripped from one of the stalactites, splashing against the sand. Forming into a fleck of liquid metal.

The silence gave him time to soak in the implications of what was said; from the hope of the Light’s forgiveness, to the training he’d receive from the Saint of Honor himself. As these thoughts danced in his mind, his heart drummed to a very different beat. He was anxious to learn. Determined to learn. A month seemed too short, but from what it sounded like, Elavendhan was going to make life a living Nether for him—it sounded absolutely dreadful. And he couldn’t wait to start.

“When do we begin?” Briar raised his weapon, holding the hilt with both hands.

A smirk teased the corner Elavendhan’s lips. “Now.” In a flash, he jabbed the scalp of the massive, reptilian skull with his large blade. Red lights flashed within its six eye sockets. The head shuddered, slowly rising from the sand. It lifted into the air—that’s when Briar noticed the spine supporting it from behind. Ribs emerged from the sand, followed by a right arm, then a left.

The skeletal creature took a raspy breath, then threw open its jaws and screeched.

Briar faltered and took a step back.

Then . . . he gripped the promise of the future—finding the Light’s Temple. Bowing before his God. Pleading for forgiveness. He would do anything for that blessed vision to come to pass. Even face hell itself.

He screamed, charging at the colossal skeleton.

It screeched in challenge, raising its skeletal hands. Red eyes glowing with eager hunger.

As bright as they were, they didn’t match the voracious craving driving Briar forward. It was now or nothing—life or death—heaven or hell. With his salvation on the line, failure wasn’t an option.

Chapter 9

Interrogation?

“Is this your card?” Aziroth swiped a playing card from the pocket of his outer robe, holding it up for their captive to see. Lael watched to see the man’s reaction, wondering how in the name of the eight Saints this was going to get information out of him. The soldier’s head was bowed, strands of his patchy hair dangling in front of his blindfold. His hands were tied behind his back, and Jynzo stood behind him, pressing a runic blade against the back of his neck.

“Do you really expect him to talk?” Elswyth sat on Lael’s right, folding her arms. A small tartium chain was wrapped around her left arm. Jrenlla had given it to her, to help harness the beast inside of her . . .

Er, actually, the mom inside of her.

Orange light played across her face. It radiated from a dancing campfire at the center of the abandoned village. After the Volmorrian soldiers fled, the Fontinovans scattered . . .

Then Gurgs showed up and had a brilliant plan. He wanted to say goodbye to Lael and leave, but Aziroth asked him to wait for the meeting to share his plan.

And wait he did.

He was crouched far from the flickering firelight, bouncing impatiently.

“Good boy,” a woman whispered. Lael looked to see Jrenlla, beaded dreadlocks swaying in the wind. She was petting the head of the elephantine scarab, watching as it munched on a pile of purple seaweed.

The spirits bonded to her soul—three ghostly eyes known as Lia, Eli and Zil—hovered around. One—Lia if he wasn’t mistaken—was chatting with Felsacor and Danbala. He caught notes of their conversation, listening as she talked about her most recent scouting mission. After, she transitioned to a much lighter topic. Apparently, Lia had offspring! One was going to bind herself to a soul who, as she claimed, loved everything about her.

Fiora walked from behind a hut, Felicity’s ghostly form hovering beside her. She walked over to Lael on her wooden legs, her wavy hair bouncing with each step. As she sat down on Lael’s left, he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close as she rested her head against his shoulder.

“Why do you think he’s following us?” Fiora whispered.

Lael followed her lavender gaze. It passed over the flickering tongues of fire and locked on a short figure covered from head to toe: a wide brimmed hat sat upon his head—the collar of his long-sleeved tunic covered most of his shadowy face—a big belt buckle kept baggy trousers in place—red-brown leather boots matched his gloves.

Vaaloo.

Who was he?

What was he?

When Lael had approached the guy, he backed away, refusing to speak. So he decided to keep his distance, and wait for the little stranger to come to him.

“What about this card, hm?” Aziroth held up a card painted black. “Remind you of anything? Perhaps the stain of your hellbound soul?”

“I think he’s out of it,” Felicity thought, words transferring to everyone’s mind. The only one who couldn’t discern her mentally expressed words was Fiora, a Pathless soul. Jynzo was one as well, but he had runic marks sewn into the fabric enwrapping his face, granting him the ability to perceive spiritual impressions.

“Give him a little smack,” Elswyth said. “Wake him up.”

Aziroth smacked his face.

The man started, shaking his head.

“Hello,” Aziroth said. “You with us?”

He tried speaking, but the gag around his mouth muffled his words.

“Good! Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Just a few. Think you can handle that?”

The man’s shoulders sagged.

“Ah-ah.” Aziroth snapped his fingers. “Stay with me.”

His shoulders slumped further as he bowed his head.

“Take off the gag,” Jrenlla said, patting her scarab. “He’s probably low on air.”

“Give him another slap,” Elswyth said. “He’s falling asleep again.”

“Just leave him alone,” Felicity muttered. “Wait till morning.”

Lael hoped Aziroth wouldn’t wait till morning. They needed to know Kin Kinboa’s whereabouts now. If they could find out where the potion master was, then they’d know their next step. For right now, they were bent on traveling from village to village, seeking the man. But that would take forever. And Lael didn’t have forever. He needed to get his bones fixed as soon as possible if he wanted to put up a fair fight with all his future opponents.

Felsacor alighted on his shoulder, a heavy weight compared to his previous form. “Lia thinks someone’s stalking us.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. “Who?”

“A spirit.”

“A spirit?”

“Yes. One without eyes. It flees whenever she approaches.”

Lael frowned. That was . . . kind of a strange description. But accurate, no doubt. Spirits were weird to begin with, so he wouldn’t be surprised if there were some without eyeballs.

“Look,” Elswyth said, pointing to the sky. Branches blocked out most of the stars.

“What?” Lael said. He couldn’t see anything other than shadowy branches and stars.

“That silhouette.”

Lael narrowed his eyes, searching. A silhouette? Was it a swamp creature, come to harm them? He hadn’t seen anything all night, and that disturbed him. But what made him even more uncomfortable was the silence. Back in Hidden Valley, chirps and hoots filled the evening air. He’d expected it to be even worse in the swamp, considering how loud it was in the morning.

But no.

Not a cry was heard. Only the rustling of the leaves, and the crackle of the flame.

“There,” Elswyth said, jabbing the air with her finger.

Lael followed the point and spotted a shadowy beast with outstretched wings. He started, and would have jumped to his feet, but Fiora was holding on to him. Plus, if he did, his bones would snap.

“Aziroth,” Lael said.

“No need to worry,” Aziroth said in his characteristically cheerful voice. “It’s just—”

A dragon landed near the fire, wind blowing from her arrival, rustling Lael’s hair. She looked to him with sapphire eyes, her pearly scales glistening in the firelight.

“Najala . . .” Lael breathed.

“There aren’t any soldiers for miles around.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Olhatha muttered, flowing from Aziroth’s scalp, forming into his eye-shape. “And then this happened.” He nodded toward the broken village wall.

“Najala sees better in the dark,” Aziroth said, kneeling in front of their drowsy captive. He sighed, then waved a hand toward Jynzo who removed his blade from the man’s neck, and stepped back. The man leaned to one side, then dropped to the packed soil.

“Did you see any other villages?” Lael asked. If she did, then they’d know their next destination.

“Yes. But all of them were . . . destroyed.”

Lael sighed, shaking his head.

Destroyed.

The overlord’s influence was a plague of destruction. What did he hope to gain from all these deaths? Was it merely to assert his dominance? Lael placed a hand over his chest, feeling his beating hearts. The golden sphere at the center of his chest pulsed, but its warmth seemed dampened by . . . something.

Dharamadeva is on the verge of Godhood . . .

The words sounded like the words of a dusty memory, with a tinge of that fatherly voice.

The Fontinovans had been talking about this—if it was true, then what was Lael doing sitting around? Time was running out. He needed to meditate and cycle the liquid weight! Its chilly presence enveloped his spirit, concentrated around his head.

“I need some space,” Lael said. Elswyth and Fiora immediately recoiled, staring at him as if he were about to pop. “I’m not mad. Just—”

“Stressed.” Aziroth walked over, hands behind his back. His purple robe sported two serpentine dragons in combat. “As you should be.” He gestured to a hut only a few feet away. “You are welcome to use that, if you are in need of privacy.”

Lael nodded, and carefully started to rise. Elswyth and Fiora gently pushed his back, helping him to his feet. The draconic skull, enveloping his blaster, chattered. He looked at it with surprise, then he realized that he was the one making it twitch. It was strange, being able to feel almost the entire gun.

“Cycle, my apprentice,” Aziroth whispered as Lael hobbled to the hut. “Exercise your soul. Advance to Tungsten. Miss one of the most important meetings in your life.”

Lael paused, looking over his shoulder.

Aziroth grinned, and Olhatha—hovering over his head—rolled his eye.

“Do you . . . want me to stay?” Lael asked.

“Of course I do! But I want you to Advance as well.”

“. . . Then what do you suggest?”

“That you do what your hearts tell you.”

“My hearts?” How did one listen to his heart? He’d heard the phrase so many times in his life, yet he never understood it. Not until he met the Light. Lael touched his chest, focusing on the golden sphere hovering between his beating hearts. It . . . was warm. Not burning, like it usually was. Neither was it telling him anything. “As much as I want to stay for the meeting, I need to cycle.” He nodded. “Give me an overview in the morning.”

“As you wish.” Aziroth gave a sweeping bow. Upon rising, he said, “Anyone else wish to go? Elswyth?”

Elswyth straightened, biting her lip. Lael watched her, and a piece of him hoped she would come. If she did, would she find a hut for herself, or would she join him? Was it safe for her to be with him? Would her Scythe shadow lash out again?

“I’ll go with Lael,” she said, and Lael felt his spirits rise. He really didn’t want to be alone, it just helped him focus. Hopefully he’d be able to with her joining him.

“Good!” Aziroth clapped. “Just . . . be careful. The longer you’re with one another, the more comfortable you’ll grow, and hey, who knows, opposites attract, so you might find yourselves drawn to—”

Elswyth chucked a rock at him.

The man ducked and it crashed into the fire, throwing up sparks. He chuckled, rising to his full height, and brushing off his robe. Elswyth grabbed Lael’s arm and tugged him toward a hut—one farther away than he was aiming for.

“Farewell, my little Knights!”

Lael looked back at Aziroth, then to his mother. She was floating, watching him. Hand on Fiora’s shoulder. “I would come, but I want to keep an eye on Fiora.”

“You’re fine,” Lael thought. “Stick with her and tell me what the meeting’s all about.”

“He already gave me a snippet. If we don’t get any information from our hostage, we’re going to keep heading north, and break through the center of the swamp. Apparently, that’s where the military’s headquarters are.”

“How’d he find that out?”

Felicity shrugged.

Lael nodded and gave her a little wave before facing his destination. The hut was large, with two domes connected to it on either side. When he stepped up on the porch, it creaked. He stopped, shooting a worried glance at Elswyth. She eyed the porch warily. “. . . Maybe we should cycle right here.”

Lael gave the ramshackle abode an uncertain glance, then nodded his approval. Together, they sat down, taking up meditation stances. Elswyth started taking the chain off her arm, and Lael stiffened. She stopped, looking up at him. “You’ll be fine. I’m getting the hang of the shadow.”

Lael nodded, still a bit hesitant. It was a good thing they were outside. If her Scythe got out of hand, he could easily run away, even with a splintered skeleton.

He placed his hands on his knees. That’s when he noticed that their knees were touching. Is that why his cheeks were flushing? Saints. This wasn’t right. Elswyth was his friend . . . practically his sister. What happened to her hating human contact?

As unobtrusively as he could, he scooted back, straightened, clearing his throat. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breath.

“First one to break through to Tungsten wins,” Elswyth said.

Lael smirked. “You better not disappoint me.”

“I’m not the one with the broken bones.”

“Well at least I don’t have a parasite sucking on my soul.”

Elswyth chuckled. Then slapped him on the face. His eyes fluttered, and he touched his tingling cheek. It . . . didn’t hurt, thanks to his Steel Advancement. But still. “What the Nether was that for?”

She was closing her eyes, taking deep breaths.

He stared at her warily for a time, worried she might slap him again. Was it wise having her here? He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to concentrate with the threat of a smack looming over him.

At length, he closed his eyes, focused on the liquid weight, and visualized himself Advancing. Not to Tungsten, but to Godhood. If the overlord was set on reaching to that height, then it would only make sense for Lael to.

The chilly, amorphous metal slid along his spirit, looping around the spirit of his head. He’d already exercised most of it, but as he began the process of forcing weight through his channels, he found that he had to start all the way back at the beginning. What? He sighed, but determination burned away his frustration. As he cycled the liquid metal, he found that the parts of his face that he’d already exercised allowed it to slip through faster than before . . . which was a relief. But once it reached his neck, it felt as if he were pushing the weight through miniscule channels. In that concentrated area, his spirit burned. He had to bite back a scream—but the pain was exhilarating! It meant progress. And he’d cycle all night if he had to. If Aziroth was set on hammering his way to the center of the swamp, to find the man who could heal his bones, then he wanted to be as close to Tungsten as he possibly could. Maybe, if he pushed it, he could reach the rank tonight? He doubted it, but it was worth a try.

* * *

“And that’s the plan!” Aziroth clapped his hands, sitting on a fat, spotted toadstool. He smiled, looking to each member of the audience. Felicity, hovering in a seated position near her daughter, stroked her transparent chin in a contemplative manner. Jrenlla, arms folded, stared into the fire, orange light flickering off her tattooed face. Jynzo, crouching before the flame, was as unreadable as ever . . .

He glanced over at the short mage, Vaaloo. He was sitting apart from the group, close to Gurgs. “What do you think, little mage?”

Vaaloo flinched, as if startled from a deep thought. He stared at Aziroth with an unseen face, which was a step in the right direction. Earlier, when Aziroth had addressed the little guy, he’d completely ignored him.

“I think it’s foolish,” he whispered.

Everyone turned to regard him. That was the first time any of them had heard him speak. Aziroth was absolutely delighted! He knew the plan was rash, and he’d shared it in part to get a reaction out of his team.

Vaaloo bowed his head, staring into the fire. Even with the flickering light of the dancing flame playing against his features, Aziroth still couldn’t see the mage’s actual face. He knew little about the race, as did most people—they were spirits, no doubt, but how did they have the capability of Advancement? A Soul artist had to bind with a spirit in order to do that. Or so he thought. Vaaloo, of course, proved him wrong. The mage was a . . . well, Aziroth actually couldn’t tell what rank he was. At least a Tungsten, that was for sure.

“I agree with the little man,” Jrenlla said, still folding her arms. She glanced back at the scarab, which had folded its legs under its body, and rested its disturbing head on the mud. After staring at it for a time, she looked to Aziroth. “Raiding the Volmorrians’ headquarters is suicide. Besides, we don’t even know if Kin is there.”

“No, we don’t know,” Aziroth said, poking the burning logs with a stick. “We don’t . . .”

“Which is why Gurgs raids it!” Gurgs said, swaying back and forth. “Gurgs and cousins!” He gestured toward the broken wall of the village. A group of Bogyns waited there, watching from a distance, their red and pink eyes glinting in the dark.

Aziroth rubbed his temples. How many times was he going to have to say this. “Your plan is brilliant, Gurgs. It really is. But it would take too long. If we’re going to strike, we need to strike now.”

“Which, like I said, is a stupid idea,” Jrenlla said.

“Thank you, Jren,” Aziorth said.

“Well it’s true! What if we go there, and Kin’s nowhere to be found? We need inside information. We need—”

“A spy,” Felicity thought.

“Hm?” Aziroth said, glancing at her.

“I’ll go,” Felicity thought. “I’m better than any draca, or bonded spirit. No one will see me. I can snoop around, eavesdrop, and let you know if I hear anything about the potion master.”

Aziroth was nodding, wagging a finger at her. “I like the way you’re thinking.” He glanced at Jrenlla. “How’s that for an idea?”

Jrenlla was stroking her chin. “It . . . could work. But again, it would take too long.”

“It would be much faster than going there ourselves,” Jynzo intoned, the reptilian eye of his wooden mask gazing into the flickering fire. “Or gathering an army of Bogyns.”

“And,” Fiora muttered, “it would be much safer . . .”

Aziroth raised a platinum brow. Fiora had said that as if she’d heard the entire conversation. As a Pathless, she shouldn’t be able to hear the dead.

Unless . . .

He narrowed his eyes. The monocle she was wearing clung to the skin surrounding her left eye. He couldn’t see the runes making that happen, but he had to wonder, had Jynzo inscribed other symbols? Ones that helped her hear her mother’s voice? It was possible.

“All right then!” Aziroth clapped, rising to his feet. “It’s settled. Felicity, you scout ahead. Everyone else . . . sleep. How’s that?”

Jrenlla looked at Felicity, who glanced back. No one said anything, so Aziroth waited, smiling pleasantly. He wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page. If there were any disagreements, they needed to deal with them immediately. They were inevitable, and overcoming them would make his team stronger. He just had to make sure it didn’t devolve into contention.

Contention . . .

It’s what broke apart the Knights of the past.

Here, before him, were the Knights of the future.

Felicity. Lael. Elswyth. Gurgs. And of course, himself. Five. Only three to go. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced at Vaaloo. Well, actually, only two to go. If the mage continued following them, Aziroth was determined to convert him to Knighthood.

“Protect her,” Felicity thought, speaking to Jrenlla. “Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“I can’t make any—”

“The girl will be safe,” Jynzo said, his deep voice void of emotion. “I will make sure of it.”

Felicity put on a brave face, then nodded, crouching to embrace her daughter. The girl hugged back, but to her, it would be like embracing air. “I’ll be safe, Mom,” she whispered. She was trembling slightly, but other than that, she seemed confident. Felicity nodded, then rose to her full height. Zarra, her serpentine draca, peeled from her spirit, perching on her shoulders.

“Follow Najala,” Aziroth said. The draca flowed from his spirit, forming into her draconic self. “She’ll put you on the right path.” He nodded to the draca. She nodded back, then lunged into the air, flying north. Felicity hesitated, then nodded, and dove after the creature, soaring through the air.

“Farewell, my ghostly friend,” Aziroth whispered, watching her go. “May you be safe in your travels . . . and may you find the famed Kinboa.”

He really, really, really hoped it didn’t take more than a week for her to find the potion master. They would find him, no matter how long it took. And while they searched, Lael and Elswyth would continue with their Advancements. If the boy was still a broken mess, Aziroth would have to stop him before he broke through to Tungsten. Advancing with a body like that would only make it worse. Now, if he was breaking through to an entirely new tier, he wouldn’t worry about it. Such an Advancement transformed the body, renewing it, mending it.

“Come,” Jrenlla said to Fiora. “Show us what you’ve learned so far.” The woman crouched in front of the wooden-legged girl, handing her parchment and quill. Jynzo was standing a few paces away, hands folded before him. Aziroth smirked, watching as the girl sketched out basic runes. She was lucky. Jynzo and Jrenlla were masters of the craft. Before long, she’d be outmaneuvering them.

Aziroth glanced over at Vaaloo.

He was gone.

“Snuck off, just minutes ago,” Olhatha whispered, hovering over his shoulder. “I . . . think he’s headed to Lael.”

“Keep an eye on him, will you?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No.”

Olhatha nodded. “You’re . . . worried about him?”

“Not necessarily, but he’s a stranger. I don’t know what he wants, or why he’s here. Trust takes time to build.” The ghost needed no further explanation. Fading to mist, he hovered away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the fire.

Gurgs watched Aziroth with brilliant red eyes, licking his lips and bouncing up and down, as if trying to muster up the courage to say something.

Aziroth dusted off his hands, as if signaling that his duty here was done. Turning, he leapt through the air, and landed atop a nearby, ramshackle hut. Wood creaked, but the flat roof held. This would be his bed for the night

Aziroth placed his hands behind his head as he dropped to his back. He broke through the roof, falling through the air, then slammed against floorboards, splintering them. All without losing his smile. He chuckled to himself. A tiny voice inside urged him to get everyone out of the village—to sleep somewhere else.

“No need for that,” he whispered. “Time for bed.”

He knew staying here was dangerous. That he should get everyone to a safer spot, but where was the fun in that?

He closed his eyes, and soon fell fast asleep . . .

Chapter 10

Guerillas

Lael’s trance was deep. Was he awake? Or, was he asleep? Was it possible to be both awake and asleep? Whatever the case, he’d forcibly cycled the liquid weight to a point that impressed even him. The spirit of his head and neck were weak and burning—like muscles after prolonged exercise—and he was currently forcing the metal through the channels of his chest. Everything above his chest, although alight with what felt like fire, had a cool and refreshing feel. It reminded him of the crisp taste of mint.

Shouts rent the air, sounding as if from a distant plane. Was he dreaming? The louder they grew, the more conscious he became. He blinked and was surprised to notice predawn light. Saints! He’d cycled all night?

Elswyth was still sitting in front of him, her knees touching his. Her arm was covered in what looked like tar, her hand enveloped in the same substance. But her fingers. They were bloodred, and shimmered, like flaming claws.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” she whispered.

Lael looked to find her staring at him with night-black irises. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot. He should have been disturbed, but he was enthralled. Perhaps the way his eyes changed had prepared him for this?

Shouts, and the tromp, tromp, tromp of marching feet sounded in every direction. He wished he could say he was surprised, but they were in enemy territory. And they had scared away a group of soldiers. And one of those soldiers was their hostage.

But Lael was in no condition to fight.

“But you are in a condition to practice the vortex.” Felsacor peeled from his shoulder, perching there.

“I need a place to hide.”

Elswyth helped him to his feet and looked to the hut on his right. “There.”

Lael nodded, then his hearts skipped. “Fiora.” He looked toward the camp, saw the dying fire . . . but the scarab and the covered wagon were gone. “Where is everyone?”

“Aziroth sent them away,” Felsacor said.

“But he let us remain?”

“And . . . that surprises you?”

“Ha.” Lael allowed Elswyth to help him into the creaky hut. It was plain; without furniture. “I’ll sit there, by the window.”

“No,” she said. “People might see—”

“I’m going to secretly burn people.”

Elswyth stopped in place, blinking. “You can do that?”

“Kind of.”

“It’s . . . a work in progress,” Felsacor muttered, glancing out the window. “Here they come.”

Lael took a deep breath. He was no longer cycling the liquid weight, so the minty fresh burning pulse of his upper spirit was devolving into something much more harrowing. Saints. It was only growing worse. How was he supposed to concentrate? That made him chuckle. He’d gone through much worse. Back in Hidden Valley, his spirit slowly shattered, and in Akkesai, his soul had melted . . .

Burning aches were nothing compared to those.

Only, those burning aches seemed to breach the skin. He looked and was shocked to see steam flowing from his pores. “Whoa! Uh . . . is this . . . natural?”

“Yes. Get ready.”

Lael glanced out the window. A soldier wearing bulky, silver armor entered through the broken wall. His feet crushed splinters, and light reflected off a crystal embedded on his shoulder plate. Men wearing the familiar, sinister black followed. They wielded curved blades, but most of them had fists of stone. Rocky dracas perched on their heads, or shoulders.

“They’ll find you,” the wind whispered.

Lael and Elswyth flinched, looking to the right. Vaaloo, with his wide hat and hidden face, watched them from the shadows of the room. He poked a finger in the air, and the tip started glowing. He swiped it up and down, left and right, and light trailed his finger as he sketched a rune. With a flick it shot toward Lael. It collided with his face, and he flinched, suppressing a yelp as warm lines slid across his skin, enveloping him like a glowing net.

“What did you do?” Elswyth hissed, grabbing Lael’s arm. She sounded frightened, but, if anything, Lael was intrigued. The fishnet of lines didn’t hurt, and they didn’t seem to be doing anything other than warming parts of his skin.

“He will go undetected for a time.” Vaaloo lowered a shaky hand. “I would shield you with one too, but I think it would be best if you and I . . . distracted the soldiers.”

Elswyth was shaking her head. “Why are you doing this? First, you steal my draca, then you turn around and . . . save my life. And now you’re treating us as if we’re best friends!”

Vaaloo didn’t respond. He merely bowed his head. Then he glanced at Lael. And stared. If there wasn’t the threat of soldiers on the horizon, Lael imagined that he would have stared for much longer.

“You . . . have . . . something.” He shook his head. “Something about you. Something I’ve never felt from any human before.” He bowed his head. “It’s . . . warm. Bright.” His next words were so quiet, Lael almost didn’t hear them. “I’m drawn to it . . .”

“Master,” a bubbly voice gurgled.

Lael jumped, looking toward the other corner of the room. Gurgs was crouching in the shadows, watching him with those red eyes of his. And he wasn’t alone. Fifteen pairs of glinting eyes huddled behind him, watching as if expecting Lael to scream at them.

“Gurgs?” How had he not noticed him?

“We protect you,” he whispered. “We—”

“WELCOME!” A cheery voice echoed through the air, hurting Lael’s ears. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”

Elswyth slapped her forehead. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

Lael glanced out the window, looking at the silver-armored man, and the large group entering the village. Accessing his spiritual senses, he scanned their souls. Most of them were Steels, a handful were Tungsten, but the heavily armored one was Quartz.

“Saints,” Lael cursed.

“What?” Elswyth asked.

“Quartz.”

She nodded, as if he’d told her something she already knew. “I’m going out there.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. He wished he could fight beside her, but he couldn’t commit himself to any hand-to-hand combat. Hiding out, and practicing his techniques on the enemies, would do more good for him and his team. “Be safe.”

She nodded, then hurried toward the exit.

“We follow you!” Gurgs said, starting toward her.

“No!” she hissed. “Stay here, protect . . . your master.”

Gurgs nodded as Elswyth slipped outside.

Lael glanced back outside. The silver-armored Quartz was shouting something to Aziroth. His voice was resonant and carried a sinister edge. Lael took a deep breath, glancing at his other opponents. They lined up behind the Quartz, brandishing weapons—they were far more organized than the last troop had been.

“Ready?” Felsacor asked.

“Ready.”

The draca sank into his spirit and flowed to his head. This time, it was easier to sense the aura above his scalp. Expanding it was the difficult part, but as he pushed, he found it easier to stretch his perception.

“Burning out that Tungsten’s eyes was a brilliant move,” Felsacor thought. “But it was pitiful, compared to what you could do.” The draca was getting hot—it made the aching heat of his face grow even more intense. “Now . . . let me show you why this technique is called the blazing vortex.”

* * *

Aziroth yawned, stretching his arms, standing atop a rickety hut. The silver-armored Quartz was presenting a magnificent speech, numbering reasons why Aziroth—and his team of rebellious vigilantes—should quit now. It was quite remarkable, really! The warrior spoke as if he were an actor, shining in the limelight of one of Wyvden’s grand theaters.

“Please,” the man continued, opening his arms, as if to embrace the world. “Do not make this harder than it needs to be. Come with us, and I promise there will be no bloodshed.”

Movement flickered in Aziroth’s peripheral, and he furtively glanced over. Elswyth, with part of her inky Scythe enveloping her arm, crouched in the shadows of a splintery structure. Good, my little predator, he thought. Prepare yourself. He cast his spiritual perception over the adobe, searching for Lael . . . and was shocked to find that he couldn’t sense him.

“What say you?” the man asked, his obnoxiously resonant tone ringing in Aziroth’s ears.

“What say I?” Aziroth picked his ear canal, rubbing the pain out of it. “I say have at it?” He opened arms, the sleeves of his robe flapping. “I’m always in the mood for a little bloodshed.”

The warrior sighed. “As you wish.” He jumped, sending a shockwave through the earth. Some soldiers dropped to the ground, while others managed to stay balanced. Aziroth jumped back and whipped out his sword, cycling Salvefire to the blade, catching it on fire.

He landed beyond the rickety wall, and the warrior slammed to the ground a mere twenty paces away, driving his fist into the mud. He looked up at Aziroth with a helmeted face—red globes shimmered through eye slits. They shifted from red to blue, then from blue to yellow, and back to red.

“Beautiful eyes!” Aziroth dropped into dragon stance, turning his body at an angle, holding his blade above his head. “Too bad I have to gouge them out.”

The warrior straightened, holding out gauntleted hands. Colorful mist flowed from his palms and formed into a sword three times his height. He held it with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. A rectangular shield formed in his other hand, as tall as he. The face of a fox was carved into the shield, and to Aziroth’s surprise, its eyes were shifting, seeming to watch him.

“Prepare yourself, vagrant.”

“Vagrant?”

The warrior chuckled. “Don’t think I don’t recognize you, Aziroth.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

The warrior chortled again, starting toward him, heavy boots leaving oversized footprints.

“And who do I have the pleasure of beheading?” Aziroth asked.

“Kiyish Kua,” he said.

“Mmm,” Aziroth said, taking steps back, circling his opponent. “Sounds Fontinovish.” He chuckled. “Tell me, how much did the overlord pay you to betray your people?”

Kiyish yelled and charged.

At that moment, Aziroth fed mana to Olhatha—time froze, and a vision played before his eyes. He saw Kiyish Kua’s flurry of attacks. A jab here, a slash there, and lastly, spinning fury.

Aziroth returned to the present, and sidestepped the jab, leaned back to dodge the slash, and did a backflip to miss the spinning slice. When he landed, he decided to do something he wished he could have done when he battled Blaise . . .

Attack with abandon.

Yelling, Aziroth summoned a white flaming cloak. It flickered from his purple robe, dancing across his pallid skin, kissing the pearly scales rising from his flesh.

The point of Kiyish’s blade rammed into Aziroth’s chest, throwing him back. He slammed against a swollen root, splitting it apart. The pearly scales took most of the blow, but the tip of the sword had pierced flesh. His Salvefire mended it immediately, leaving Aziroth to smile at his opponent. He spun and activated the glyph of Aashish, Saint of Mercy, etched on the flat of his blade. A cyclone of white flames spun around his sword, and when he thrust the point at his enemy, it blasted forward, too quick for the common mind to process.

It exploded against Kiyish, throwing his bulky form back. He smashed through the spiky pickets of the village wall, splintering them to pieces.

Calling off the activation, Aziroth leaped forward, arcing through the air toward his burning prey. He yelled, holding the sword over his head, coming down on his enemy.

He landed hard and the blade ripped right through Kiyish’s chest. Crouching there, surrounded by brilliant white flames, Aziroth was kind of . . . disappointed. Where was the blood? The broken bones? The dismemberment? He’d challenged Brasses with more fight than this—

Colorful mist swirled around him. When it dissipated, he found himself in a void of unending darkness. “What?” He spun, looking around. Seeing nothing but black.

A ring of black fire sprouted up around him. It sank, then formed into fifteen golden-furred foxes with squinting eyes. As one, they marched around in a circle, their tails flicking.

One lunged with lightning speed, headbutting Aziroth in the gut.

He nearly barfed as he flew back. He slammed against an unseen floor, rolling. Gasping. The pain passed quickly, but when he jumped to his feet, another fox headbutted him. Before he could react, another whipped him in the face with its tail, while a fourth bit his leg.

He screamed as the entire group dogpiled him.

* * *

Elswyth watched as the soldier with silver armor lunged toward Aziroth, sending a shockwave through the earth. She dropped to the packed dirt, hitting the back of her head on a splintery wall. Cracking the wood.

As Aziroth and the warrior disappeared beyond the outer wall, she turned her attention to the fallen warriors. They were shakily rising to their feet, some helping others rise. There were probably fifty of them . . .

Fifty.

Scat, and at least ten were Tungsten.

“Rip off your other manacle,” her mother whispered. Elswyth glanced at the tartium manacle enwrapping her right bicep. She’d just learned to cycle the Scythe’s essence through her left arm. Was she . . . ready for the next?

“You haven’t even seen all you can do with Surgefire.”

Elswyth glanced over at the splintered wall of the hut. Danbala was clinging there like a lizard with wings attached to her forearms. “What else can I do?” Elswyth asked.

“Techniques that complement us,” her mother whispered. “Look at your fingers.” Elswyth eyed her laser-claws. “They are a product of your draca, and the power of the Scythe shadow.”

“Let’s focus on the claws, my lady,” Danbala said, sounding hesitant. As if she were afraid to offend her mother. “If you try focusing on too many techniques at once, it’ll get overwhelming.

“But take off the other band.”

“I . . . wouldn’t,” Danbala said.

Elswyth bit her lower lip. Ripping off the manacle would increase her strength, but what if she couldn’t control the surplus power? What if the Scythe took control of her? Reanna’s unwarranted fusion with the shadow stood as a prime example of what might happen.

“Hey!”

Elswyth gasped. A Steel soldier was walking her way. A couple of his buddies followed him, their pupils glowing, granting them spiritual sight.

Scat.

What was she supposed to do, fight these with one arm and a restricted spirit?

“Distract them.” Felsacor’s rumbling words entered her mind. “Give us time.”

Fine.

But if she was going to have any chance of succeeding, she’d need her other scatting arm. Glaring at the approaching soldiers and eyeing a few others who decided to join them, she clutched the thin band wrapping around her right arm. Her bloodred claws burned her skin as she pulled, tearing through the manacle.

As soon as it dropped to the dirt, her right arm spazzed. She gasped, grasping it with her left hand. Hundreds of black tendrils stretched from her pores, each forming a curved red blade. They lunged at the soldiers, but Elswyth yanked back.

This wasn’t new.

She sensed the energy of each wiggly worm, and spiritually called them back. The tendrils balked, but eventually gave in; shrinking back, their essence enveloped the spirit of her arm.

The soldiers had halted. They looked to one another uncertainly, then one stepped forward, lifting a stone-covered fist. The gray draca on his shoulder growled. “Call off the technique!” The soldiers around him formed spiky rocks, and swords. “Call it off now, you—”

Elswyth thrust her left arm at the soldier. It stretched like taffy. Her palm slapped against his face. She dug her burning claws into his eyes, and he screamed. The other soldiers threw their blades or shot barbed stones at her—everything seemed to slow as her instincts kicked in.

She was back in Hidden Valley, in the forest, alone.

Prickly rocks, shafts of stone, and screeching dracas flew in her direction. There was an opening, near the center of the projectiles. That’s where Elswyth dove, straightening like a plank. She slipped through the opening, draca claws landing only glancing blows on her, sharp stones missing her by inches.

She slammed her right shoulder into the armored chest of the now-blind soldier. Her collarbone snapped, and she screamed as, together, she and her enemy fell to the mud. She lay on his chest, her vision blurring as she rolled to her back, eyes to the sky. He was cursing wildly, wrapping his arm around her neck. As he squeezed, Elswyth gagged. She managed to get her Scythe arm beneath one of his arms, and grabbed.

“Push!” Reanna screamed.

Elswyth obeyed, her throat slowly collapsing. If it wasn’t for the scale defense of her Steel Advancement, the soldier would have already crushed her throat.

As she pushed, her inky black arm writhed. Reanna screamed an inhuman scream, and—to Elswyth’s shock—she managed to lift the man’s arm. Was this the Tungsten she’d seen? No. This had to be a Steel. A Tungsten would have crushed her already.

Her blazing claws dug into the man’s armored arm, piercing flesh. He screamed something wild as the surrounding soldiers gawked in horror—some watched in awe—one looked amused, satisfied even.

“What are you pigs doing!” someone yelled, running over. “Kill the rat. Kill her!”

There were at least twenty surrounding her now.

And as Elswyth watched them prepare Soulstone techniques, she spotted a black flicker near one of their heads. She blinked, narrowing her eyes. Another black spark popped near a soldier’s face. Then another. Next to it, a tiny flame appeared, then puffed away.

* * *

“Illusions!” Olhatha yelled to Aziroth’s mind. Massive fox tails were wrapping around his body. They lifted him high, then slammed him against the invisible floor of the black void. They lifted him again, swinging him in an arc. Blood trailed from bite marks riddling his body. Slam!

Aziroth’s eyes grew cold, and white mist trailed from his pupils.

The darkness vanished, and he found himself swinging through the muggy air of the swamp. Slam! He was smashed face first into the mud. He shook his head, seeing double vision. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Kiyish was squeezing his ankle with his gauntleted fist. The man swung him over his helmeted head, and slammed him into a mushroom. It exploded in a poof of powder.

Aziroth took a deep breath, summoning his Salvefire. It enveloped his soul, burning his scrapes and wounds. As Kiyish swung him again, Aziroth enforced his free foot with pearly scales and kicked the man in the face. The helmet dented as Kiyish stumbled back, losing his hold on Aziroth. As Aziroth fell, he slammed both feet into the warrior’s chest, thrusting him back.

Aziroth hit the mud as Kiyish slammed into the village wall.

“Whew!” Aziroth shakily rose to his feet. As white Salvefire flickered along his face, mending cuts, he grabbed his broken nose and cracked it back into place. “You know, I thought you had me there for a—”

Soldiers shouted in rage, climbing over the spiky picket wall. They landed behind their leader, summoning Soulstone, enveloping their bodies with dark rock-armor. Ah Nether . . . backup. And not just any backup.

These were Tungstens.

Which, by themselves, weren’t a threat. But a group like this, aiding a Quartz, meant trouble. Aziroth backed up, throwing up his hands. “All right!” He chuckled. “You got me. Just, please, if you will, don’t—”

An arrow swooshed by Aziroth’s head. It slammed into one of the Tungstens and exploded with blue light. Aziroth stumbled back, holding a hand in front of his blinded eyes. “Saints above!”

When the light faded, and Aziroth’s eyesight returned, he was greeted by an astonishing sight.

Azure water, in the form of a gigantic perfect sphere, hovered a foot off the ground. It was triple the size of an average hut, and . . . wow, all the Tungsten soldiers were floating inside of it, motionless, as if frozen in fluid ice. Half of the Quartz’s silver-armored body was inside of the massive bubble; he tried pulling himself free, but part of the bubble stretched with him, like he was fighting against translucent tar.

“My . . .” Aziroth said, ears perking. Cries and chants echoed all around him. He turned to find a squad of about ten people running in his direction. They were dressed in animal skins, some wearing hoods sporting the faces of bears or tigers, others dressed in wooden armor marked with blue paint. Swirling cerulean tattoos beautified their faces in a way only Jrenlla would appreciate.

A woman—wearing a narrow mask with tiny eye slits and a growling mouth—nocked her bow with an arrow tipped with a writhing blue slime.

“Wonderful,” Aziroth whispered, opening his arms.

The women let the arrow fly . . . just as Olhatha opened a vision before his eyes.

In a nanosecond, he watched where the arrow was headed, how fast it flew, and when he needed to whip out his hand to snatch it.

When he returned to reality, he watched the arrow zip toward his chest—he sidestepped the point, grabbed the shaft, spun, and chucked the projectile at his oncoming enemies. They froze. Then the arrow slammed into the woman’s mask and exploded in a flash of blue light.

Attracting a team of about fifty tribal warriors . . .

Aziroth grinned. “Yes, come! I challenge you all to a—”

Twenty arrows flew in his direction.

* * *

Lael trembled with concentration, sweat beading down his scrunched face. He wasn’t even opening his eyes. And yet, he felt where the soldiers were. There were more than twenty, surrounding Elswyth. One was lying on the ground, choking her. Killing her!

He wanted to scream—to jump out the window and burn them all with dragon’s breath. But he’d crumple to the mud like a spineless doll if he tried.

“Focus!” Felsacor yelled. “Cycle your flames into the field surrounding the Volmorrians!”

Lael sensed where his draca was talking about. But that was a big field. Forcing that much Soulfire into the air enveloping all those men would kill him! So instead, he focused on the aura surrounding their heads. His concentration was slipping, but he managed to hold it. Every second in this metaphysical state of mind drained him of mana. How much did he have left? What would happen to him if he ran out? Overextending himself would—

A gentle hand pressed against his back. Cool, refreshing energy flowed into his spirit, and seeped into his channels, mingling with the Soulfire cycling through his veins.

Mana.

He wanted to turn and see who it was. But he didn’t need to, nor should he.

“They’re going to kill her!” Felsacor shouted. “Release the cyclone! What you have will be enough to—”

“Will you stop yelling!” Lael inwardly yelled, hearts pounding. “It’s stressing me out!”

“Peace, Lael,” the wind whispered. The mana flowing from the hand dampened his anxiety, washing out the strain, relaxing his muscles. “Save your friend.”

Lael took a deep breath.

Recalibrating.

Homing in on the energy field surrounding the warrior’s heads. A writhing, disturbing emotion jittered from the rigid men . . . They weren’t moving. They were just . . . staring. Why? Lael turned his attention to Elswyth, lying on the chest of a Tungsten. With a hand that radiated shadows, and claws that burned with heat, she pushed the soldier’s arm from her neck, liberating her windpipe.

“Now, Lael,” Felsacor whispered. “Do it now.”

Lael—hearts skipping at the sight of what he sensed Elswyth doing—concentrated on the field encompassing the soldiers’ heads. Without delay, he cycled his Soulfire into the aura. Sparks popped around the men’s heads, but they didn’t even seem to notice . . . As Phantomfire flowed from his soul, and into the space surrounding the soldiers’ heads, he gasped, clutching his chest. He was forcing so much of the flaming energy into the aura, and yet only poofs and sparks popped around his enemies! His left-hand heart clenched as he ran out of Soulfire.

He gasped, doubling over, slamming his palm and the barrel of his cannon into the rickety floorboards. He would have lost consciousness if not for Vaaloo’s donation of mana. Gentle hands were pressing against his foot now; soothing energy pulsed through his leg.

“They’re . . . they’re going to kill her!” Lael panted. “We have to stop them!” He tried rising to his feet, but his spirit quivered, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind. Saints, his body was useless! He opened his right-hand heart, and Salvefire coursed through him, easing his channels, healing them from the acrid corrosion of his Phantomfire.

But when he tried tuning in to the aura surrounding him, he got a splitting headache.

“Augh!”

“Stop, Lael,” Felsacor rumbled.

“But I can’t! Elswyth’s—”

An explosion sounded in the near distance. The house quivered, and for a moment, Lael wondered if it was going to collapse. If the structure caved in, not only would it jostle his fragile bones, but it would give him away.

As the echo from the explosion faded, a unified battle cry filled the air. It sounded as if from an army of savages! The fear shooting through Lael’s veins drove him to his knees . . . at the cost of his consciousness. Splotches interrupted his vision, and he found himself slipping. Unseen hands balanced his back and helped him to the floor. As the world began to swim, the shadowy face of Vaaloo and the red eyes of Gurgs appeared over Lael.

“Stay here . . .” Vaaloo adjusted his wide hat and nodded. “You’ve done your part to save Elswyth. Now leave it to me.”

“And us,” Gurgs muttered, glancing back at his kin.

* * *

Elswyth screamed as the shadow enveloping her arm burned her very last drop of mana. The inky slime melted, and her burning claws faded. Her shocking strength slackened, and the arm she was holding back grew heavy.

Her tongue buzzed, as if stuffed with hyperactive gnats and she started seeing stars. As she tried forcing the mana she didn’t have through her soul, her channels jittered as if electrocuted. She screamed, back arching as pain racked her soul.

Then the arm tightened around her neck, slowly crushing her windpipe. She thrashed, trying to free herself from the soldier lying on his back, but his grasp was too strong, and her spiritual energy too weak. Her lungs screamed for air. She tried to breathe, but her throat was collapsing. Darkness encroached on her vision . . .

An explosion sounded, shaking the earth.

Her killer hesitated, loosening his chokehold. She gasped, lungs expanding with muggy air as she rolled off the man’s chest and landed in the mud.

A second explosion sounded.

A unified shout echoed in the distance, silencing a rising chorus of chirping insects. The soldiers cursed, including the one on the ground next to Elswyth. He shouted at his men to help him up.

“What about the girl?” one of them asked as they brought him to his feet.

The choker glared. “She tore out my eyes!” he screamed. Elswyth turned her gaze and looked up at what she’d done. There were five melted holes on his face, two of which had taken his eyeballs. “Rip her apart . . .”

“But what about—”

The choker snarled, shoving the soldier aside and reaching for Elswyth. He groped for a time, then found her arm. His hand tightened around it, bending her bone. She howled as his grasp tightened. He used his other hand to feel for her face. When he had it, he squeezed.

“Want a taste of my pain, princess?” He grinned like a demon.

A flash of light shot through the air, and exploded against his face. He cursed something awful, swatting at a spinning vortex of light. It swirled around his head, and as it tightened around his skull, he screamed and stumbled back, dropping to the ground.

The sound of splitting wood rent the air.

Despite Elswyth’s ebbing consciousness, she twisted her head in confusion, eyes searching to see what was going on.

The soldiers had left her.

Some were fighting blue-skinned Bogyns, while others were fleeing. A few held their ground, summoning boulders, or shafts of stone.

The village wall was toppling over in several locations. Men and women wearing animal skins, wooden armor, and masks were tearing through the pitiful picket defense. Men held spears tipped with blades made of ice. Women raised polished bows, nocking back arrows of water, or shafts with writhing slime balls.

A stone-armored Volmorrian ran at a bulky barbarian wielding two spears. They dueled for a time, dodging strikes, trading blows. When the tribesmen rammed his frosty spearpoint into the Volmorrian’s armored chest, ice enveloped the chestplate.

Masked women were letting liquid arrows fly. They splashed against metal headplates, splitting into a dozen tendrils, wrapping around the helmet like an octopus. Warriors tried pulling the creature free, but it slipped through their eye slits. Men went berserk, thrashing as they tried pulling their helmets off.

Pandemonium raged around Elswyth, but her dimming mind buffered the chaos. She barely noticed Vaaloo stand over her, glowing finger dancing in a complex runic pattern. Two tiny lights shone within the shadow of his face, looking like eyes squinting in concentration.

He pushed the rune light into her face, and it enveloped her mind. She snapped awake, the disconcerting dizziness of her brain evaporating . . .

Thump!

A pasty man dressed in a purple, velvet robe landed right next to her. Platinum hair dangled from his head as he leaned over, staring down at her. Smiling. Elswyth scowled. If she wasn’t feeling so miserable, she would have slapped that grin off his—

“Time to go!” He squatted, ducking three liquid arrows as he picked her up.

Vaaloo darted to the adjacent hunt, jumping to an open window.

“My friend!” Aziroth stepped back, dodging a spiky rock. It exploded against the wall of a hut, shattering the wood. “Leave him! Your enhancement should hide him from prying eyes till—”

Vaaloo hopped into the ramshackle home.

Aziroth shrugged, squatted, then lunged. He flew through the air, long air trailing his scalp as they arced over skirmishes. Elswyth’s eyes fluttered as she tried looking around, but turning her head brought anguish to her spirit, so she remained stiff. Yet she reveled in the feeling! She was a bird, safe from the horror below . . .

For about two seconds.

Aziroth landed with a dramatic squat, the packed soil shaking beneath him. When he straightened, Elswyth saw that they were near some of the last standing wall-pickets. A bubble hovered over one of the posts. It was a beautiful blue, shimmering like a piece of the sky itself.

Aziroth didn’t seem to notice it as it bobbed away, hovering deeper into the fallen village. “Now isn’t this exhilarating!” Aziroth took a deep breath, then let out an, “Ahh . . .” He chuckled. “One more jump and—”

A hissing bellow rose above the tumult of war. It was followed by a crash. Elswyth peeked around Aziroth as the man looked back, face falling. A chameleon, bigger than a desert scarab, was racing toward them. It smashed through a building, throwing it to pieces, mouth gaping in a sort of eager grin.

Aziroth chuckled darkly. “We meet again, swamp devil!” He swung Elswyth over one shoulder—his bone dug into her gut, and she bit down hard, holding back a curse. She wanted to kick this scatting scat of a mentor for treating her like a slab of meat. For leading them into this pit of a swamp. For—

She gasped.

Lael.

He was still in that sorry excuse of a building!

She looked up, just in time to see the oversized reptile smash right through it. Lael, surrounded by ribbons of light, flew amidst the debris. But instead of landing hard, he . . . hovered. Vaaloo stood upon his chest, hands raised. White runic symbols shimmered on his gloved palms, his eyes glowing a similar hue. Felsacor flapped above his head, iridescent scales glistening, smoke trailing from his nostrils, regarding his surroundings with hostile eyes.

The tribal warriors were standing still, painted faces and masked heads turning to regard Lael. Even the chameleon slowed, swiveling its rotary eyes toward the peculiar phenomena. Elswyth’s eyes fluttered, unnerved by the sudden lack of action. Volmorrian soldiers were littered across the village. Most were frozen, others headless. Through gaps in the wall, she noticed armored warriors running. Most were carrying Bogyns Gurgs was chasing them, cursing their names.

“Peculiar,” Aziroth whispered, regarding the now-quiet village. “Most peculiar indeed . . .”

“You should leave, my lady,” Danbala thought, voice shaking.

Elswyth started, then turned. Her draca was clinging to the remaining piece of the wall. “Where were you!” She hadn’t noticed the dragon’s absence till now.

“I left in secret, following . . . that.” She nodded her bloodred head toward Lael.

No, not Lael. The ball above Lael.

It was that bubble! Scat, now that she was really looking at it, and with it being so near to Lael, she had the sudden urge to pop it. Without really thinking about it, she found herself scooting to drop from Aziroth’s shoulder. His hold tightened, and he shot her a sidelong glance.

“I wouldn’t move,” Aziroth muttered, “if I were you.”

“Well, I’m not you.” Mana trickled through her channels. She had just enough to blast a line of Surgefire at the orb. Her heart pounded at the thought. It didn’t seem logical. Why was she trying to shoot a bubble?

Because every scatting tribesman and their dog is staring at it. She gasped. And it was getting closer to Lael!

. . . No. Not Lael.

Vaaloo.

The little guy was holding up his hands, staring down at the surrounding tribespeople. Masked women were nocking liquid arrows, while painted men were readying frigid spears. All aiming for the enigmatic mage.

The runes on his hands were fading, and he and Lael were gently descending.

The fact that Aziroth was doing nothing about it made her skin crawl. Why wasn’t he jumping to snatch him out of midair?

Elswyth cycled Soulfire from her pounding heart. It zipped through her veins in quick, burning streaks. She tried lifting her arm, but it trembled and refused to obey. Come on! Her spirit shuddered, weak from spiritually overexerting herself. Mana naturally rejuvenated, and even with the little she had now, she should be able to lift her scatting arm!

“Elswyth, what are you doing?” Danbala muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Aziroth whispered, squeezing her. Winking. “She can’t do anything dumb when I’m here.”

Something snapped.

Logically, she knew it was a joke. But she was beyond exhausted, despite Vaaloo’s mental rejuvenation. Logic wasn’t her forte right now. Emotions were. The whispers were! The—

What?

Confused whispers teased her thoughts, so subtle, she’d missed them till now. Somehow, they made sense to her. She didn’t understand the language, but they urged her to rip off her remaining bands, to stop restricting herself, to release the full power of her spirit! And that seemed so right. Lael was going to die, with all these savages gawking at him. She needed to do something . . .

She reached for her right thigh, where a tartium band restricted her spirit, and her mother’s. Elswyth closed her eyes, hoping Aziroth wouldn’t see her—

“Stop!” Danbala latched onto her hand, flapping her winged arms, holding her back.

Elswyth’s anger spiked as her cheeks flushed. “It’s my spirit to do with as I—”

Aziroth slammed a hand against her mouth.

But it was too late.

Seven tribal terrors turned to face them, as if noticing them for the first time. Just then, the bubble dropped and expanded, enveloping Vaaloo. The little guy thrashed, his runic symbols vanishing. The ribbons dancing around Lael puffed away, and he dropped like a ragdoll, but Felsacor swooped in and grabbed his shirt, flapping like mad. The tribespeople punched the air and shouted “HOO!” and the chameleon dropped its jaw and shot out a pink, slimy tongue. In the blink of an eye, it wrapped around Lael’s torso and yanked. The tongue, along with Lael, recoiled into the creature’s mouth.

“Lael!” Elswyth shouted, voice muffled by Aziroth’s hand.

“HOO, HAH, HOO, HAH, HOO HAH HAH HAH!” the tribespeople chanted. Masked women fixed their bows on Aziroth. With a snap, they let liquid arrows loose. Aziroth jumped high, doing a backflip over the spiky wall. Arrows zipped through the air, and he spun, dodging three, but one ripped through his calf. Despite Elswyth’s muddled emotions, the unexpected sight made her scream.

Nothing was supposed to rip through him! He was a Quartz, not a measly Brass.

“Oh, my!” Aziroth shouted, falling through the air. “Oh my!” A smile spread across his face.. “Oh—” He gasped, then pulled Elswyth from his shoulder to his chest, cradling her. A second later, he slammed against the mud. Air burst from his lips, and he choked for breath.

“Aziroth!” Elswyth rolled from his arms, and to her knees. She trembled, unable to rise, but she had to do something! The man wasn’t breathing! He—

Aziroth inhaled deeply, sitting up and grabbing his leg. Liquid tentacles were wrapping around his calf and shin, expanding. Scat! That was the liquid arrow! It was . . . alive?! A crimson cloud diffused through the water inside the creature, flowing from the open wound in his calf.

Elswyth lifted her hand to slap it, but Aziroth caught her arm.

“Don’t . . . touch it,” he said through gritted teeth. White fire flowed from his wound, enveloping the creature. It writhed, but it didn’t scream, nor did it slip off his leg. Scat, the fire wasn’t doing anything! . . . Wait, yes it was. The water leech stopped expanding, thank the scatting Saints.

Tribal women with bows, and men painted with blue paint stalked around the remaining portion of thickets, heading toward them.

“Be gone,” Aziroth said, waving his hand like a drunk, “or face the wrath of my—”

One loosed an arrow tipped with a small, writhing blob. It smashed against Aziroth’s chest, exploding in a small flash of blue light, blinding Elswyth. Her skin grew cold, and everything went silent . . .

As the blinding light faded from her eyes, she tried blinking, but couldn’t flick her lids. She tried again, and still they wouldn’t work. When she could see again, she found herself inside of a liquid orb which had expanded and enveloped both her and Aziroth.

The man was frozen, his hair splayed as if being blown by a gust of wind. His eyes were closed tightly, forming creases near his temples. His lips were twisted in a wince, and he was squeezing his leg, hands near the liquid leech.

Elswyth tried moving but found that she couldn’t. For a second, she feared for her life. How was she going to breathe? She held her breath, but when it grew unbearable, she inhaled. Her lungs refused to cooperate.

A moment of desperation welled up inside her chest, and she—despite failing just seconds ago—tried sucking up a mouthful of air. Inwardly, she screamed, feeling doomed to die…

But the desperation passed. And though she yearned for breath, she wasn’t losing consciousness. She wondered if she would. If this was just some transitory moment, and in seconds, oblivion would take her.

She noticed movement on her right. She tried flicking her eyes in that direction, but they were restricted, like the rest of her body. She caught a glimpse of the person drawing closer.

It was a woman, wearing leather smeared with blue paint. It covered her body in layers, forming a series of v-shapes down her chest and belly. She held two short spears, one in each hand. She lifted one and tapped the outer layer of the liquid prison. Elswyth felt a gentle pulse of mana flow through the rippling water, and it started to shrink.

Elswyth’s heart skipped . . . or, at least, it should have. It wasn’t even pumping.

How was she still alive?

That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was alive. And as soon as this wretched water dropped from her body, she was going lunge at this witch and pound her skull to—

The water tightened to the form of her body.

. . . Are you serious?

She tried moving. Tried! But she was a living statue, enveloped by this liquid filth.

The savage woman stepped in front of Elswyth, sheathing her spears. She wasn’t wearing a mask. Part of her face was painted blue, but the other half was colorless, revealing stark-white skin streaked with vertical lines of black.

She was talking to a man standing next to her. He was built like a bear, wearing a pelt with blue-tipped fur, and the hood of a sabretooth tiger. After their short conversation, the bear crouched and picked Elswyth up, balancing her on his beefy shoulder.

Elswyth tried lashing out, but even in her frozen state, she was an exhausted sack of meat. Just the thought of fighting made her dizzy. Everything inside of her, from her heart to her gut, wrung tight, squeezing out her final drops of emotional energy.

How had she let this happen?

How had this happened?

Why was this happening! She should have stayed with Lael. Protected him in his weakened state. But no; instead, she tried to face a squad of Steels with her stupid arm!

Her eyes grew warm. To her surprise, tears sprang forth, intermingling with the liquid field enveloping her face. Her thoughts were a spinning mess, her emotions taut. Now she wished oblivion had taken her. At least then, she wouldn’t be left to wallow in this harrowing mess.

Chapter 11

Hiding, Trying not to Feel Useless

Fiora hugged her wooden legs, pressing them close to her chest as she watched metallic tendrils wrap around her ankle. They belonged to Lia, a spirit bound to Jrenlla’s soul. She was in the form of an eye, with a golden iris, and silver veins.

Fiora’s neck tingled, and she slapped it, smashing a . . . bug. She bit back a yelp as she flicked her wrist, throwing the smothered insect. She glanced back at the tree she’d been leaning on. Black insects with narrow, orange-spotted bodies crawled along rough, lichen-covered bark. She shivered, watching the bugs munch on the purple growth.

She wanted to scoot away, but she was sitting on a branch. If she left the trunk behind, she’d have nothing to support her from falling to her doom. Nothing but the ghost wrapping its tendrils around her ankle. She’d seen all three of the spirits lift Elswyth by her ankles, so she felt secure with Lia.

Kind of . . .

Was one ghost strong enough to hold her? It was a long way down . . .

She peeked over the edge and her stomach dropped. This was the highest she’d ever been. It was sickening. Why, then, couldn’t she take her eyes off the distant spread of mud, swimming roots, and squat mushrooms? How was it both terrible, and fascinating at the same time?

. . . Wait, what is that?

People wearing blue furs, and wooden armor, ran from tree to tree, blending with the bark and azure mushroom caps. There were ten of them. No, fifteen. Wait, twenty? It was hard to tell, because all she had to work with was predawn light. But they were so far away . . . she wondered if she was imagining things.

An explosion echoed in the distance, and Fiora flinched, looking toward the sudden sound. Although trees and branches obscured her vision, she searched for a glimpse of the village. Jrenlla and Jynzo had set off toward it minutes ago, after getting her settled up here away from danger.

She sighed. Am I that useless?

Part of her wondered if she and her mother should have stayed in Hidden Valley. If they had, then Felicity wouldn’t have . . . died. A spike of pain pierced her heart. She took several deep breaths, trying not to let this sudden surge of grief overwhelm her. At least she could still see her mother! She rubbed the spectral lens clinging to her eye, grateful to Gurgs for the donation.

Where are you now? she wondered, thinking of her mother. Despite not being able to feel Felicity, having her around was comfort in and of itself. Now that she was gone, Fiora shivered, cold without the blanket of her mother’s presence.

Another explosion shook the air—this time, she spotted a flash of blue light.

What’s going on!

“Lael, please don’t die. Be safe, please.” She uttered a silent prayer to the Light on his behalf—she even called upon the names of all seven Saints. Seven because now that she knew a little bit more about Dharamadeva, she decided not to count him. She shuttered to think of her brother facing him one day, so she hummed a sacred hymn, distracting herself from the terror of that confrontation.

She peered over her seat upon the branch, and down at the swampy bottom, violet eyes searching to see if she could find those strangers again.

Someone somersaulted from behind a root. He was covered from head to toe. Jynzo.

A woman followed behind him, wearing muted colors of brown and gray. Jrenlla.

Jynzo lunged for the trunk of Fiora’s tree. His bladed fingers smashed into its hide and he started scaling the rough bark like a reptile. Jrenlla ran toward an overhanging branch. She thrust out her hand, and a metallic whip shot from her palm. It wrapped around the branch, and she tugged. The whip coiled, yanking her into the air. She thrust her other hand toward another branch, and pulled herself toward that one, swinging from branch to branch until she reached Fiora’s.

She climbed atop the branch, standing tall, holding her arms out to either side as she walked toward Fiora.

Jynzo reached her first, climbing out from under the branch and crouching in front of her, staring with the reptilian eye carved upon his wooden mask. His hooded tunic was scuffed and smeared with mud.

Fiora’s throat filled with questions, but they refused to enter her mouth and escape her lips. What happened to Lael? To the others? Why weren’t they here!

Jrenlla reached Jynzo, hands on her hips, chest heaving. Her boots were caked with mud, and dirt splats riddled her muted outfit. An eye with a golden iris hovered around her dreadlocks, looking this way and that. . . . Where was the third one?

“They got ‘em,” Jrenlla said, panting. She glanced over the edge of the branch, searching the now-noisy swamp. Orange and blue striped birds soared through the air, emitting whistling shrieks. Swarms of emerald beetles buzzed from holes in nearby trees, rattling like maracas. Tiny, winged insects of all sorts buzzed about, their collective chirps sounding like a chorus of crickets.

Fiora’s throat tightened as Jrenlla’s words repeated in her mind. They got ‘em. “. . . They?” she whispered. “The Volmorrians?”

“No,” Jynzo said in his monotone voice.

Fiora hugged herself tight. If the soldiers didn’t take them, then it was only obvious that those strangers did. But how! Aziroth was a Quartz. Did they have . . . whatever was stronger than a Quartz on their team? What did they want with them anyway? Why would they take them? And why was everyone trying to take away those she loved!

A tiny spark burned inside of her.

“Oh, well,” Jrenlla said, sitting down, legs dangling over the branch. “This is your scorching problem.” She stretched, taking a deep breath. “Not mine . . .”

“. . . Our problem?” Fiora said. “Ours?” Seven Saints, she sounded like her mom right now.

“Yes. I’ve risked my hide long enough helpin’ all o’ y’all.” She exhaled deeply. “Time to go.”

“I thought you were sticking with us!”

“Ha! When did I ever say that?” She glanced at Fiora. The tattoo of an eye, just above her brow line, made her look like a three-eyed alien. Who was this woman, really? Fiora knew little to nothing about her. “I was coming along for the ride . . .” She shrugged. “Or, well, for protection, really.” She sighed, brushing flakes of mud from her moss-colored pants. “Looks like Aziroth couldn’t even offer that.”

“So you’re just going to abandon him? After what he did for you?” Fiora had only heard that Aziroth helped Jrenlla out in some way. She had no idea how, though.

Jrenlla was shaking her head. “Already paid off that debt by lettin’ you guys hide in my basement.”

Her cheeks were growing warm, the fire in her spirit burning hot. “Is that the way you work? Is everything just about favors to you?”

Jrenlla stared at Fiora with growing surprise. “You’re a little fireball, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a coward.”

“Fiora . . .” Jynzo was staring off in the distance. She had no idea what he was looking at, given the fact that there were hundreds of branches, dangling ivy, and colorful flowers blocking their view. “She is free to go if she wishes to go.”

Silence followed.

Jrenlla stared at the masked man with a raised brow.

“When you take the wagon,” he whispered. “Leave behind a bag of provisions.” Before she could object, he pulled out a thin coin. It was about the size of his palm. When he held it up, Fiora saw the glyph of justice imprinted on its face. “Take this as compensation.”

Jrenlla’s eyes were wide. Without hesitation, she snatched up the coin and tucked it away. She looked away, eyes roving the swampy ground below.

Fiora’s stomach quivered in disgust. How could someone live like that? “Life’s not all about money, you know?” What am I doing? Speaking out to strangers like this wasn’t like her. When Jrenlla didn’t respond, she said, “What about my training? I thought you were going to help me become a runesmith.”

“Jynzo will help you.” She didn’t look at Fiora.

“And the book? The one about Runesmithing? I suppose you want that—”

“Keep it. I have no use for it.”

“Forgive us, young runemaker,” Lia whispered to her mind. The eye was staring up at Fiora from near her ankle. “She . . . can get like this sometimes.”

“Tell her to stay!” Fiora thought.

“Now’s not the time. I will talk to her, but the decision is ultimately hers.”

Fiora nodded, looking away, focusing on a swarm of ruby beetles. They were getting closer, and for their sakes, she hoped they didn’t. She was ready to crush the next bug that crossed her path.

As she looked from swarm to swarm, insect to insect, she noticed a lone creature. It was in the shape of an orb, hovering upward. Tentacles trailed behind it . . .

Wait.

That was another one of Jrenlla’s eyes. Was that Eli? Or Zil? They were all identical, so it was impossible for her to tell them apart. When the eye reached Jrenlla, it communicated with her privately. . . . At least, that’s what she assumed, because after it stared the merchant in the eye for a time, she nodded, rising to her feet. Without giving either Fiora or Jynzo so much as a glance, she jumped from the branch, falling dozens of feet. Then she thrust out her hand. A metallic tendril shot from her palm, wrapping around a thick branch. She swung like a pendulum. When she reached the apex of her swing, her whip recoiled, and she shot off. Fiora could no longer see her, nor hear her, thanks to the trees and the surrounding ruckus.

She looked to Jynzo. “How do you know she’ll leave us provisions?”

“Jrenlla’s a woman of her word. Especially when money’s involved.” Jynzo was still staring as if he could see the other side of the swamp. “I’m losing sight of the clan.”

“The clan?”

“Zeredathah’s.”

“Who?”

“One of the locals mentioned his name while talking with Lael. I don’t know if the ones who attacked the village are in league with the man . . . but from what I’ve gathered, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were.” Jynzo stood and, for a second, Fiora thought he was going to pull a Jrenlla and hop over the edge. But he just stood there. “Do you have your stencils with you?”

Fiora frowned, then rummaged through her satchel and pulled one out. Sunlight, shining through the swamp at an angle, shimmered against its metallic hide. The sharp tip was covered by a cork, for obvious reasons.

“Jrenlla had you practice the basics of runesmithing.” His words were deep. Resonant. “How comfortable are you with putting what you learned into practice?”

“Not comfortable at all.”

“Good.” He crouched like a frog, then lunged toward a lower branch. When he landed, it wobbled. “You’ve done your homework. Now’s time for the test.”

Fiora stood, squeezing her stencil. “What do you mean?”

“We’re going after Aziroth, and your brother.” His wooden eye searched for another branch. “And I’m going to need your help.”

Fiora’s heart was pounding. She placed a hand on her chest, feeling the fibrous wool of her tunic, and the tough leather armor beneath her clothes. Jrenlla had given it to her, and Fiora had taken it as a sign of their budding friendship.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

She huffed, trying not to let the woman’s abandonment distress her. Jynzo was still here! She needed to focus on that. If he left her . . . She shook her head, refusing to imagine herself alone in this muggy swamp.

Now wasn’t the time for that. She needed to consider more pressing matters.

Like how on Terra was she going to get down from here?

A cold presence tightened around her ankle. Looking down, she found Lia, tendrils squeezing her ankle. “Lia!” She thought the spirit had left when Jrenlla did.

“Allow me to help you.” She started tugging.

“Wait.”

“No,” Jynzo said. “Let her.” He lunged for the trunk and clung to it with blades sticking from his fingers and toes. “The longer it takes for you to get off that branch, the farther Aziroth is taken.” He scaled the trunk like a human lizard, bladed fingers pressing into rough bark.

Lia started tugging again, but Fiora held up a hand. “Wrap around my wrist. I . . . don’t like being hung upside down.”

Lia stared up at her with a confused expression. “ . . . Really?”

“. . . Yes.”

“Hm.” Lia left her ankle, floated up to her wrist, and wrapped around it. “I always thought humans found it more comfortable hanging upside down.”

Fiora’s brows knitted. “Why?”

She shrugged some of her tentacles. “Jrenlla sometimes sleeps hanging from the rafters.”

“What!”

Lia nodded, then floated upwards, tugging Fiora’s wrist and pulling her from the safety of the branch. Fiora had to admit, she was shocked at how strong the ghost was. She also hoped this descent would end quickly. Her hand was already starting to lose blood, going numb.

She turned her gaze in the direction Jynzo had been staring, and where she’d seen flashes of blue. Her heart was rapping fast now, and to her surprise, she was looking forward to going after Lael! It was usually him doing the rescuing. And now, here she was, returning the favor.

Not only was she going to rescue him, but Jynzo had a test in store for her.

Maybe this was the test. If she was going to save her brother, she’d need to rely on the masked man, and what she’d learned thus far. She’d only practiced the basics, but they were enough to help her get by. Not in a straight fight, of course. Facing off with a Soul artist would be suicide. No, she wasn’t one for hand-to-hand combat. While practicing, and talking with Jrenlla and Jynzo, she’d devised a far more cunning way to use the runes.

Would it work, though?

Probably.

In a matter of, what, hours? Days? She’d get to try it out. And she couldn’t wait.

Chapter 12

No Eating Me

Gurgs woke up to a resonating stomach growl. He lazily clutched his belly, wondering if that was his gut.

Then he heard a loud crunch.

He peeked an eye.

Lying next to him was an armored man . . .

An armored man?

He stared at him for a time, confusion twisting up his face. He gasped. An armored man! It all came rushing back to him; the battle with the black-armored fiends, the coming of the blue-tinted savages, the capturing of his kin. His subsequent fight and loss . . .

His kin had to be nearby. But why was this man sleeping? His face was covered by a helmet, but he was lying slack, arms twisted at odd angles.

Crack.

Gurgs flinched. That sounded closer than before. He gently shifted his head, squinting his one open eye. Ten or fifteen men in armor lay scattered around the mud—a few of his cousins were littered among them, motionless. A six-legged reptile, with bulging eyes and a crocodile grin, was licking one of them. Its thick hide was covered with mud, the topside growing with moss.

The beast waddled over to one of the dark fiends. It opened its mouth, scooped up the person’s legs, then bit down hard and snapped his limbs. Gurgs winced, remembered when, long ago, his own legs snapped in half. It was a good thing bones mended in a manner of minutes . . .

For him, at least.

It wasn’t till Master’s own bones broke that he realized not every living thing healed as quickly as he did.

“Thanks to me,” his brain said.

Gurgs flinched. “Brain?”

“. . . Yes?”

He was about to say something, but the reptile, about the size of a desert wagon, lazily shifted its head, eyes turning to regard him.

Strange. It didn’t move with the usual speed of a baby crogator. When Gurgs glanced at its belly, he found out why. The creature’s gut was bulging.

One of the armored fiends, lying on the ground, shifted. The crogator’s attention turned to the twitching man. It opened its jaws wide, inhaling deeply. When it exhaled, thick fog ejected from its gullet, enveloping the waking man. Some of the mist passed over Gurgs, and as he inhaled, it filled his lungs with choking toxicity. His muscles convulsed, but he held back a cough, not wanting to attract the reptile.

Warmth spread from his brain, down his neck, and into his lungs. They pulsed with a cool, refreshing wave, filtering out the harmful gas.

He took another deep breath, inhaling more of the gaseous poison. It flowed through his lungs as naturally as air. He was about to say something to his brain, but he wasn’t sure if he should be talking with it. The organ was Netherbent on breaking his devotion to . . .

Gurgs’s eyes shot open.

Master.

Master!

When he last saw him, he’d been hiding. Did the fiends get him? The blue-tinged savages? Something else?

The crogator cooed, lying down on its fat belly. It started licking a Bogyn. Green vapor, still hovering in the air, was steadily evaporating. Like the apathy in Gurgs’s heart. Seeing one of his kind getting licked by a slimy carnivore tightened his nerves. His eyes turned to the creature’s fat gut. Were some of his relatives in there?

Gurgs bit down hard, his sharp teeth grinding against one another. Yet, he was smiling. Again! Just like that silvery haired weirdo. Gurgs had spent only weeks in that strange human’s company and yet, despite his overall distrust for the man, he’d picked up some of his quirks.

The crogator bit down on the saliva-slathered Bogyn.

Gurgs rolled to his hands and feet, glaring. He dashed forward, hopping over motionless bodies. The crogator spotted him, then turned to face him, opening its maw and inhaling. Gurgs jumped into the cavity, thrusting his palms into the roof of its mouth, digging his nails into the flesh. The roof pressed down on him. He pressed his feet against the wet, writhing tongue and pushed up with his hands.

“ . . . What you doing?” his brain asked.

“I break it!” Gurgs screamed, summoning his brain’s power. The stinging energy cycled through him, filling his claws. Acid poured from his nails, and the crogator’s flesh sizzled. The creature roared, ejecting another wave of green fog from its gullet. It rushed past Gurgs, and as he inhaled, the poison filled his lungs, transferring to his spirit, increasing the power of his acidic burn.

The roof of the mouth collapsed on him, jaw snapping shut, enveloping him in darkness. Forcing him against the tongue. His bones creaked as he wrapped his arms and legs around the tongue, clutching it with his sharp nails. The creature’s jaws parted and it shook its head like a crazed bull. Gurgs’s grip tightened, his skin growing warm. Green, liquid beads squeezed from his pores, hissing as they touched the crogator's pink flesh.

The crogator’s scream rent the air.

But Gurgs wasn’t here to torture the poor thing.

He was here to kill it.

Calling on the power of his brain, he cycled his energy to every square inch of his blue body. With a force of will he pushed the stinging energy from his skin. A yellowish haze radiated from him, melting the tongue and everything surrounding him. As the crogator’s scream devolved into a terror-stricken shriek, Gurgs shoved every ounce of acidic aura out. The haze expanded in a rush, consuming the reptile’s entire skull, burning it to vapor.

Gurgs dropped to the mud, veins constricting, brain tensing. Vision swimming.

He dropped in and out of consciousness.

When he blinked, he found that the lighting had changed. It was still obviously daytime, but the sun—obscured by hundreds of intertwining branches, wide leaves, and dangling ivy—had shifted to another position in the celestial expanse.

“You almost die. Again,” his brain said. “And I not just talking about from monster.”

Gurgs nodded lazily. “I know.”

“Yet here I am, saving you yet again!”

“I . . . know.”

“And you notice I never purposely say anything about Master anymore, hm?”

“Yes. I notice.”

“So, what conclusion you come to?”

Gurgs squinted, watching a colorful flock of birds fly through the air. “That my brain care for me. It want me alive.”

“I not your brain.”

“Yes . . . you are.”

“No, I not. I a gift.”

A gift. Memories fuzzed to existence. A dark finger pointing at his forehead, pressing against his blue skin. The image smeared as he blinked. “What . . . you talking about?”

“I mean,” the voice said, changing to a completely different tone, “I was given to you by someone you refuse to acknowledge.” He . . . sounded sharper. Less like Gurgs, and more like a dignified loremaster. Gurgs’s stomach rumbled, and for a moment, he thought he was hungry. When he glanced at his gut, he noticed something rising from his belly. It was a translucent, yellow-green leech. The creature’s circular mouth was closed, but its two beady eyes were open, staring straight at him.

“I am Balthazar, child of the Night, follower of the Path of Latching Horror.” He inclined his head. “Pleased to officially meet you.”

Gurgs gawked. Because it was all he could do. This wasn’t his brain. This was something else entirely. An intruder. Gurgs nearly snapped, and slapped the thing, but that phrase—child of the Night—stopped him. Freezing him in place. He knew who he was talking about . . .

His lips quivered, nearly driving him to ask the question rising in his mind.

Where is she?

But instead, he tightened his lips, sealing his mouth shut. He’d trusted in her once. Putting his life in her hands.

But it had all been an illusion.

The Queen had abandoned him, sending him off miles from his home to a place where he was alone. Without friends. For a time, at least. If Master hadn’t shown up to that burial ground all those years ago, he would have been burned to a pile of ashes.

“Oogli . . . guh . . .”

Oogliguh? Gurgs looked toward the source of brilliant nonsense, and he was greeted by a headless crogator. A cavity, leading into the depths of its bloated body, emitted groans. Was the creature coming back to life? If Gurgs had learned anything about mortal wounds, it was that they were recoverable. All of them. Even decapitation. Not that he’d experienced it himself, but hey, anything was possible.

A Bogyn stumbled from the neck hole, covered in a thin film of slime. Her eyes were bright pink, her wispy hair trailing down the rags wrapping around her gangly form. When she spotted Gurgs, she froze, eyes parting wide.

Balthazar was no longer peeking from his gut, so she wasn’t goggling at . . . whatever he was. “Brother,” she muttered, voice scratchy. “Brother!” She threw out her arms, wrapping him in an embrace, smothering him in the crogator’s bodily fluids. Gurgs remained where he was, staring at the woman with a sidelong glance. He then glanced up at the headless beast. Its gut was writhing, and more Bogyns wiggled from the bleeding cavity. As they did, they sank their sharp teeth into the reptile’s flesh, consuming it with ravening desperation.

It sickened him to see just how tight that blue skin of theirs was—they were walking skeletons! And it was all because of these fiends. He glared at the unconscious armored men. He would have torn out their throats if the crogator hadn’t broken their limbs. What happened here, anyway? Crogators lived near the heart of the Fen. Had it picked up their scent, and hunted them down? The reptiles weren’t usually this . . . proactive. But, then again, this one was a baby. And who knew? If the Bogyns were starving, he wouldn’t be surprised if most other animals were suffering the same fate.

His heart panged as he looked again at the fallen creature. He wasn’t one for killing the beasts of the swamp, but if the life of his kin were involved, it was slay or be slain. Speaking of his kin, they were eating holes through the reptile’s flesh. Some were lying off to the side, guts bulging.

His pink-eyed sister was still hugging him.

“What is thy command?”

His heart skipped. “My . . . command . . .” He frowned, thinking back to how Master was left behind. Probably taken . . .

No.

Surely taken. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind; those horrid fiends had him! His heart skipped again. “Where they take Master?” he asked in a harsh tone. Not that he meant any harm by it. It merely came out.

His sister backed up and bowed low. “They take all prisoners, all slaves, to middle of Fen first. Then they send them to bogs around swamp.”

The middle. But he wasn’t even sure if Master was there. What if the blue savages got to him?

“What about savages? Where they?”

“I . . . no know.”

Gurgs growled, spitting off to one side.

His sister trembled.

With a sigh, Gurgs grabbed her clawed hands. “No bowing. I no king. I your brother.”

She nodded, and he helped her to a squat.

“I no mad at you,” he said. “I . . .” He was trembling, the acid in his blood stinging. “We need save Master!”

His sister flinched. “But what about cousins?”

“Cousins . . .”

“They be trapped all over Fen.”

“Yes! We go and save them all!”

She nodded. “We still do what you say? Go from bog to bog, and save kin one at time?”

Gurgs nodded quickly.

“We have go fast,” she continued. “Then, we attack center of Fen, and destroy fiends!” Her eyes glinted red, making Gurgs smile. She was speaking his language, and his heart soared at the thought of liberating his kin and ridding this swamp of the fiends. But . . . “What about Master?” he whispered so soft only he could hear.

“By saving your family,” Balthazar thought, “you’d have a big enough army to liberate him, no matter who has him.”

Gurgs nodded, feeling the leech’s presence in his chest. It was still a shock and half that the spirit wasn’t his brain! And to think he believed his brain was talking to him all this time.

“. . . But they might not be enough,” Balthazar thought.

“Who?”

“Your family.”

Gurgs frowned. “They be enough.”

“The Volmorrian’s have an overwhelming presence here. I . . . haven’t seen it for myself, but I can sense it.”

Gurgs didn’t like where this was going. “My kin is enough!” As he thought that, a horrible vision opened to him. It was of him, rushing into the heart of the swamp with an army of Bogyns by his side. His kin fought like lionfish, but as the armored fiends—or Volmorrians, as his spirit called them—gathered themselves, they managed to tear through Gurgs’s ranks, slaughtering his people.

Gurgs shook the scene from his head, scratching his eyes, wailing. The cuts healed, but his heart was pained.

“You cannot do this alone.”

“Why you show that to me!”

“It is what I fear will happen if—”

“No! We fight, and we win!”

“Gurgs! You need her help!”

Her help. “She . . . no longer care. She no longer live.”

“She is still here! She—”

“Sister,” Gurgs said, cutting his spirit off. “Tell others to hurry and digest. To bring food. We be doing what we plan for earlier. We going from bog to bog, saving kin.”

A fire flickered in her eyes. “Yes, brother!” She turned, running to where everyone was lying on their backs, stomachs extended. Gurgs nodded, ignoring Balthazar’s chatter. He didn’t understand. The Queen of the Night was dead. As much as he loved to fantasize his past life, living in her care, he . . . just couldn’t anymore. There was no point to. Lael was his god now. His Master. And he needed help.

Gurgs lifted his chin and licked the air. He tasted a disturbing scent, and it didn’t take him long to realize that the stench was radiating from the fallen crogator . . . and now, his kin, and even from himself. He shrugged, flicking out his long tongue once again. After several licks, his tastebuds picked something up. He turned his head, peering east. Just to double check, he licked once again, and tasted the familiar tang of blue-fleshed Bogyns.

He crawled in that direction, knowing that his family would follow. They needed time to digest, but Gurgs didn’t have time to spare. Even if he had to liberate this next slave camp on his own, he would. For the Fen’s sake. For his family’s. For Master’s.

Chapter 13

The Clan of the Lost Saint

When Lael woke, he wasn’t sure if he was still suffering through a hellish nightmare. In it, he’d fallen down a hole, and found himself in the depths of the Nether. It was humid, and grew hotter with each passing breath. Horrid demons the size of towers found him, reaching out to seize him with bloody claws.

Lael ran away, rushing through tunnels, slipping down slimy slides until he found himself in a cave boiling with water. A hand burst from the liquid, grabbing him, and pulling him under. Startling him awake.

But . . . was he awake?

He was soaked, and the air surrounding him was a hot mess. Which led him to believe that perhaps the nightmare hadn’t been a nightmare after all. The creature that’d pulled him under the boiling lake had eaten him . . . and now, he was lying face first against the monster’s stomach lining.

Was this what it had come to?

The chosen one, falling prey to an aquatic demon?

Wasn’t he supposed to face off with the overlord? Destroy the Darkness? Save the world?

Felsacor groaned. Lael’s hearts leaped, first out of shock, then out of relief. “Felsacor?”

“ . . . Lael.”

“Felsacor!” Hope rushed through him, drowning out his bewildered state of dread.

The draca groaned. “Just . . . wanted to tell you . . .” Saints. Why did he sound so drunk? “. . . Just wanted to tell you that you are not in the stomach of a demon.”

Relief flooded Lael. “So that was all—”

“A dream, yes.” The draca shuddered. “I saw it all, and—thank all things holy—it wasn’t real.”

Lael sighed. Then cocked a brow. “Where are we, then?”

“In the mouth of our reptilian friend.”

Reptilian friend? Lael was about to ask him to speak plainly, then he remembered. Back in the village, in the hut, as he was drifting off, the house split apart. Just before his vision darkened, he caught sight of a speeding blur. If he hadn’t seen the chameleon earlier that day, he wouldn’t have known what it was.

“The chameleon has us? In his . . .”

“Mouth. He’s taking us somewhere.”

“What? Where?”

“No idea, but he’s with the natives.”

Lael had seen them too. They came as a complete shock, with their blue-tinged animal pelts and masked faces. He hadn’t expected a swamp-dwelling tribe to get involved. That had been his downfall. Really, he and his friends shouldn’t have stayed in that village. It was obvious Aziroth wanted them there, for “training” purposes, but Lael was certain the man hadn’t foreseen the coming tide of tribal warriors.

“How long have I been in here?” He turned his head, so he wasn’t talking into slick flesh.

“Long. Not sure. I blinked in and out with you.”

Lael sighed, but with Felsacor to keep him company, he felt okay. I mean, Saints, I’m still alive! That, and he was beginning to accept trouble as a way of life. Not in a gloomy manner, but in a way that enlivened him. Thus far, his training had proved that if he wanted to reach Godhood, it was going to come at a steep price. And that price was pain, discipline to train, and constant work leading to that esteemed vision.

A warm light pulsed dimly in his chest. Faint whispers trailed through his mind and, even though he didn’t understand them, they enveloped his soul like a warm blanket, helping him look forward to whatever was ahead.

If you would have put your trust in me, a fatherly voice whispered to his mind, you wouldn’t be in this mess right now.

Lael frowned. The voice brought . . . no real feeling. If anything, it was tinged with sorrow. And not the healthy kind of sorrow. This was the kind of sadness one experienced when hope was completely abandoned.

“Who . . . are you?” Lael thought.

He could feel Felsacor stir inside of his spirit. “. . . What?”

“Not you, Fels. There’s someone else inside of me.” Now that he thought about it, why couldn’t Felsacor hear the voice?

I am the Father of all, the voice whispered. King of Terra, Lord of Creation.

Lael was silent. His surroundings were bobbing up and down, and saliva started pooling around his body. He wrinkled his nose, not at the smell, but at the nastiness of it all. Strangely enough, the scent was quite pleasing. The muggy air smelled of roses . . . or some other kind of floral aroma.

Lael, the voice continued, trust me when I say you are putting your confidence in a fickle source. Even now, Jeh’va can’t speak to you as I can. Yes, he is a God, but He is slowly dying. Why put your trust in a fading deity?

The longer this stranger spoke, the higher Lael’s suspicion rose, as did an unsettling premonition. This wasn’t just a wandering spirit speaking to his mind. He’d be a fool to think as much. No, this was someone far more powerful . . .

“Darkness . . .” Lael thought.

The voice gave an easygoing chuckle. I go by many names.

“But . . . that is one of them.”

It is.

Lael’s hearts skipped. “Leave my mind. Now.”

. . . I can do that. But I’ll always be around, dear child.

“I am not your child.”

Darkness chuckled again. Yes, you are, whether you like it or not.

“I am a son of the Light!”

. . . Oh? Then where is He now?

Lael was breathing heavily. He focused on the warmth swirling between his hearts. It was so distant, so . . . insubstantial. Like a will-o-the-wisp. Had it always been that way? He was about to call on the name of the Light, but . . . what if He didn’t respond?

He huffed. “Just . . . leave me alone!” he yelled to Darkness.

Fine. He chuckled yet again, sounding so relaxed. So carefree. Like there wasn’t a worry in the world. Just think about what I told you, Lael. Be careful who you put your trust in. A shadow passed from his mind. When it was gone, Lael took a deep breath, feeling as if a weight had been taken off his soul.

“Lael?” Felsacor asked.

“I’m fine,” he panted. “He’s . . . gone.”

“You’re shivering. And your spirit . . . it’s no longer cold.”

Lael tried to reign in his quivers. “I had no idea . . .” He frowned. “You really couldn’t hear him?”

“Not a peep. It sounded like you were talking to yourself.”

Lael laughed. “Probably sounded like I was going insane.”

Felsacor was silent.

“Fels?”

“. . . Are you?”

“Fels! No, I . . .” Was he?

“I don’t doubt your honesty, but a man who hallucinates believes every minute of it.”

Despite Felsacor’s sincerity, Lael couldn’t help but feel hurt.

“But,” Felsacor said quickly, “if you claim to have heard someone, it is my duty to believe you. I’m just . . . playing Modrea’s advocate.”

Lael’s heart skipped. “What?”

“Just a saying. I—”

“Oh. No, I get it.” Lael was quiet. The draca could sense his emotions, so he tried to hide as much as he could. It wasn’t like Felsacor to doubt him like this. The dragon had been nothing but a friend up to this point . . . to a degree. Before their bond, the creature was slightly mad. A tiny, somewhat irrational fear poked Lael’s insecurities. Would Felsacor ever devolve back into that state? It wasn’t possible, right? It couldn’t be. Lael had Advanced, and therefore, the creature had too.

The mouth carrying him trembled, then went stock still. Lael stiffened, looking around, seeing nothing but humid darkness. A croak rose from deep within the creature’s throat. It was a worrisome noise. Was the reptile going to barf?

The jaw dropped like a trapdoor. Lael rolled, then hit the ground, bones jostling. He winced as saliva splattered around him, dropping on him from above. He pushed himself up with his hand and the barrel of his blaster arm, staring at the . . . packed leaves beneath him. Packed leaves? He shifted his eyes from side to side. The entire floor was covered with blue leaves.

Two icy spearheads poked at his face. Lael flinched, looking at the frosty points. His eyes scanned the shafts, then flicked to the faces of those who held them. Snarling masks covered their features, but he could see their azure eyes. Wooden armor, painted blue, covered their torsos. Blue tattoos wound along their muscled arms.

A deep voice spoke behind them. His hummed words ebbed and flowed, sounding like the gentle rush of water. When the warriors stepped aside, Lael got a good look of who had spoken . . .

A coarse beard covered half of his round, scarred face. One of his eyes was sewn shut, but the other shimmered, as if reflecting seawater on a bright sunny day. His black, braided facial hair covered most of his beastly chest. His left arm, as big as Lael was round, displayed tattoos of ocean waves crashing against his massive muscles. His other arm, the left one . . . was missing. He wore a practical, dark vest, and scuffed shorts that reached past his knees. His right leg had been replaced with a metal prosthetic. It was narrow, like a pegleg, but it bent at the knee. He was sitting on a massive, polished throne carved from a redwood, giving him a kingly air. Now all he needed was a crown to grace that bald head of his . . .

“ . . . Lael,” the man said, his deep voice heavily accented. At first, Lael wasn’t sure if he’d said his name, or another word that sounded like his name. “Lael.” His eye twitched. Lael nodded slowly, not sure if he should break eye contact and bow or keep his gaze steady. “Lael . . .” A grin spread on his bearded face. He cleared his throat. When he cleared it again, and again, and again Lael realized he wasn’t clearing his throat at all. He was laughing. It sounded painful, like he was trying to hack up a piece of meat. “What took you so long?” He stretched his arm out in greeting.

Lael opened his mouth, but all he could do was gawk. He wasn’t one for rudeness, but he wasn’t sure what to say. His chest tickled as a smile crept on his face. He forced it down, disciplining himself not to laugh. Now wasn’t the time! But with this grizzly stranger smiling down at him like a proud grandfather, he had to bite his tongue to keep from completely losing it.

He took a shuddering breath. “I . . . thank you for welcoming me here, honored leader.” Lael inclined his head, and a broad smile spread on his face. Saints, he felt like Aziroth. What would the man do in a situation like this? Unable to break his grin, he kept his head bowed, afraid to show such a goofy expression in the presence of someone this large and intimidating. “But, if I am going to be honest, I . . . wasn’t aware of your . . . expectations.”

“Expectations?”

“Yes. Uh, I didn’t know you were expecting me, is what I mean.”

The man didn’t answer. When the silence persisted, Lael’s cheeks flushed with heat. He wondered if he should lift his gaze, to see if the man was waiting for him to continue, but a sudden wave of fear washed through him, striking him with a dose of reality. This wasn’t a game. This beast of a man wasn’t Aziroth. He was a stranger. A big, big stranger. And Lael was surrounded by others who, at this king’s command, would skewer him with blades of ice.

Lael dared a peek, glancing up. The man was leaning to one side, consulting with a bubble. It hovered near his sewn eye, bobbing up and down. Wait a minute . . . He’d seen that bubble before. And, Saints, was it talking? Tiny trills, like wind chimes, echoed from the glossy orb as its surface rippled.

While they chatted, Lael tried not to feel awkward, kneeling there. He glanced to one side, spotting one of the masked men. As he examined the room, he found it rather spacious, with wooden pillars and a flat ceiling.

Hot breath brushed his neck; when he glanced back, he found the wagon-sized chameleon sniffing his back. One of its rotary eyes was staring at him, glowing light blue. The other was scanning the room, darting from one thing to another. Blue paint covered its cream-colored scales, dancing across its body in rolling loops.

“Ah . . .”

Lael quickly turned to face the massive man . . . but he wasn’t even looking at him. He was still whispering to that bubble of his, a sober expression forming on his gruff face. Lael waited, and as he did, curiosity bubbled up in his consciousness. How strong was this man, spiritually speaking? Lael could check, using his spiritual senses. But would that offend him? Scanning another’s spirit was discourteous, or so Aziroth claimed. But the beastly boss wasn’t even paying attention to him.

He blinked, accessing his spiritual senses. He was nearly overwhelmed by a brilliant blue light. His eyes stung as they adjusted, and it happened so quickly, he really didn’t have time to think about cutting off his spiritual senses.

Bright blue aura radiated from the man, shining from his soul like the rays of a blue star. Now that Lael was homed in on it, he could feel the cool, refreshing touch. Unlike mana, which buzzed against the skin and smelled of petrichor, this aura felt clean, and smelled of ocean air.

When Lael focused on the man’s spirit, he was shocked to find it disrupted. Long sinister black spikes punctured his soul. A small one poked through the back of his skull, touching his brain. Another was in his shoulder, and a third skewered his chest at an angle, its point only inches from his beating heart. Three smaller stakes rested in his soft belly, while four climbed up his leg, looking like a disturbing set of vertebrae.

“Have you finished sight-seeing?”

Lael flushed, blinking his eyes, and returning to the normal world. He quickly bowed as his eyes adjusted. “Forgive me, I—”

“Never ask an enemy for forgiveness,” he said, rising from his seat, towering over Lael. “It is unbecoming of the one chosen to slay Dharamadeva.”

Lael’s hearts skipped, and he looked up at the man.

His face was grave. Not a hint of joviality creased his features, making him look like an entirely new man. One Lael did not want to cross.

“I know all there is to know about you, boy.” He placed his hand behind his back and started walking around him in a wide circle. He limped, favoring his . . . metal prosthetic. The leg made him think of Fiora. Where was she? With Jynzo? Jrenlla?

“I talked with Aziroth long before Stormhammer spit you out.” He chuckled darkly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t believe Aziroth is who he says he is.” The man had made a circle around Lael and was now standing in front of him, a giant among men.

Lael cleared his throat. “What . . . do you mean?”

The man’s eye was twitching. “The Aziroth I know is nothing like the one I talked to.”

Lael waited, not wanting to ask the same question.

“The Aziroth I know is dark. Grim. Serious. This one couldn’t restrain his smile, and he treated our meeting like some kind of joke.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm by it,” Lael said, surprised at his confidence. He straightened his spine, feeling a quiet assurance at the center of his chest. “And I can assure you, king, that he is the Aziroth, friend of Cyra the—”

The king’s eye flashed, and he threw out a meaty hand, clutching Lael’s neck. Lael gagged, staring the man in the eye, kneeling on the leafy floor. Up this close, Lael could smell his breath. Onions, with notes of garlic. But that’s not what captured his attention. The man’s pupil was dilating. Once it expanded, it started to shrink. When it was the size of a needlepoint, it wavered, then stretched wide once again.

“Cyra,” the man said. “Did you . . . say Cyra?”

Lael tried to nod, but with the man squeezing his neck, he could barely move his head.

“Cyra . . .” He loosened his grip, and Lael took a relieved breath, lungs expanding. He was tempted to rub his sore neck, but he didn’t want to appear weak. Plus, if he did, it might aggravate the unsteady king.

The monarch was standing tall again. His eyes were darting, and he muttered to himself. The bubble bobbed near his head and, though it didn’t have any eyes, Lael got the distinct impression that the orb was watching him.

“. . . Where is he?” the man whispered, among other things. “Where!” He stomped. Blue leaves burst away as the floor shook and walls creaked. Lael, on his knees, remained balanced. His attention was still on the man’s unsettling eye. He was breathing heavily, glaring at Lael, as if daring him to say, I don’t know.

In that moment, and despite his distaste for lying, he knew the truth wouldn’t suffice.

“Agreed,” Felsacor muttered.

“Cyra,” Lael said, “is in the heart of Volmorrian territory.”

The mad monarch’s eye lit up.

“Or, near to it, at least.”

The man narrowed his eye.

“It is one of the many reasons why I must go . . . and kill Dharamadeva.”

“. . . Kill.” The man’s eye was widening. “Kill?” He smirked. “You?”

“Yes,” Lael said. “Me. I am the one Cyra saw.”

The man nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, I know. And you really mean to save him?”

“I mean to save us all, king.”

“I am no king!” he spat. Literally. The blue-tinged loogy missed Lael’s face by inches.

“Then . . . whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

The man took deep breaths. Lael’s calm demeanor seemed to diffuse his spitfire rage. “Zeredathah . . .”

Lael’s jaw dropped. Zeredathah? This was Zeredathah? Saint of Fallen Pride? His thoughts turned to the statues lining the alcoves in the Lightsworn chapel. As he recalled the statue of Zeredathah, he was shocked to remember the statuette of a trim man. It had a full set of hair, and no beard. Its muscles were just as toned, but the armor it was wearing made the actual Zeredathah look like a homeless wanderer by comparison. A terrifying homeless wanderer, mind you.

Zeredathah had already turned around. He was limping to his throne. As he sat down, the wood creaked beneath his weight. “I’ve seen enough of you.” He waved a hand. “Begone!”

Lael shook. Was he free to go? But where was Aziroth? And Elswyth?

“Take him to one of the guest chambers,” Zeredathah muttered to one of the masked guards. “Keep watch over his room as I consult with my priests.”

About what? Lael thought.

Zeredathah faced him, as if he’d heard the thought. He considered him for a moment, then a wry smile spread across his hairy face. “You’ve trespassed on my property. It is only fair that we mete out a proper punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Yes.” He sagged, eye drooping. “Now, begone!” He waved a hand, and the two masked guards grabbed Lael’s arms and yanked him to his feet. As they escorted him to the exit, Lael noticed that the chameleon had wandered off to one side of the room, munching on a pile of blue leaves. “Wait!” Zeredathah shouted, voice shaking the air. Lael winced, his ears ringing. The guards stopped, turning to face their leader. “Bring him to Kin first. Make sure he’s seen about that . . . condition of his.”

Lael’s ears were still ringing, so he barely understood the man’s words.

Both guards saluted by slapping their hands against wooden chest plates, then turned and continued escorting Lael out of the room. He was taking deep, meaningful breaths, trying to buffer the anxiety bubbling up in his chest. Phantomfire and Salvefire coursed through his channels, one scraping them raw, the other mending them back together. He felt the urge to fight back. But Zeredathah was a Saint. Or . . . was he? Saints were supposedly paragons of virtue, but if the fall of Dharamadeva proved anything, it was that they weren’t exempt from the lure of base desires.

Felsacor burned inside of him. He was flickering with black flames, the white fire shrinking before his growing rage. “We can finish him,” Felsacor grumbled. “He can’t be much stronger than Blaise, with those tartium spikes piercing his soul!”

Lael’s hearts skipped. “Tartium spikes?” He recalled the dark stakes he’d seen. “Saints. Is that what those are!” Back on Blaise’s airship, soldiers had locked his wrists in tartium. The metal disrupted his spirit, weakening his power. He couldn’t imagine being skewered with it!

“We can take him out, Lael. Right now.” Felsacor burned hot, pushing against his skin. Black sparks popped from his skin, and his drive to kill heightened. Blessedly, Salvefire was there to dampen his spike of aggression.

He took a deep breath. “Fels, no. Not now. Let them take us. We need time to plan out our next move.”

“We might not get a next move.”

“I’m not going to let them torture me. I’m going to get us out of here before . . .” Lael trailed off as he stepped out of the room, and onto a wooden deck. A tree the size of a tower stood adjacent to Lael’s perch. A walkway spiraled around its girth, descending to the depths of the swamp below. A masked woman, followed by children wearing animal pelts, walked along the looping path. They reached a doorway—a hole, carved into the side of the tree. The woman brushed leafy vines aside and entered, kids in tow.

Lael glanced from side to side and found a circle of trees of a similar height surrounding a glade. Their blue-painted leaves flapped in the wind. The tree whose wooden deck he was standing on was the sixth in the circle.

Men and women dressed in blue-tinged furs, and wearing painted masks, were sparring in the glade, which looked to have been cleared of undergrowth, and packed with soil, as if to keep water from pooling there. Off to another side, younger folk were being instructed by a muscle-packed warrior. He swung his spear, speaking to his students as he demonstrated some technique. Wide tents, with spirally blue patterns, lined the periphery of the glade.

Lael was lurched from his moment of awe as one of the guards yanked him aside, guiding him to the beginning of a spiraling path. As he stared down the wooden decline, he marveled at the beauty of the stairs. They were handcrafted, pulled as if from the tree itself. Motifs lined the handrails—waves, crashing over the ocean.

But as he descended, his wonder faded, forming into dread. The reality of the situation was catching up to him. He wasn’t free to go about as he pleased. He was a prisoner here. A quick scan revealed that those on his left and right were Tungsten, with aspects of force and ice aura swimming through their channels.

Once they deposited him in whatever dungeon they’d managed to craft here, he would fulfill his promise to Felsacor, and together, they’d plan their escape. That plan would, of course, include finding Aziroth and Elswyth . . .

He might need to wait for the darkness of night to enact the plan, so while he waited, he’d continue cycling the liquid weight. It’d nearly cleared his chest, and he assumed that once he cycled the spiritually nutritious metal to the tips of his toes, he’d reach Tungsten . . . That’s what Aziroth made it sound like, at least. Saints, why hadn’t he clarified that with the man?

A sudden urgency lit up his insides.

He needed to find his mentor. But how was he going to do that with so many trees, and countless doors? It could take him days to find Aziroth, and by that time, the entire tribe would be alarmed!

Saints . . .

This was going to be a lot harder than he assumed.

* * *

“Ah, Lael!” someone said. “How good it is to see you!”

Lael stumbled into the room, nearly dropping to the leafy floor. He looked up to find Aziroth sitting in a rocking chair, sipping a steaming cup of tea.

“I was just talking about you with my dear, dear friend.” He nodded toward a man hunched with age, gnarled like an ancient tree. Lael blinked, glancing over his shoulder. The guard that’d shoved him stepped up beside him. His eyes—the only thing visible upon his masked face—darted from Aziroth to the hunched man, then back again.

“What you doing here?”

“Keeping this old man company,” Aziroth said, placing his tea on a nightstand then lacing his fingers behind his head. “Did you know that he hasn’t had a visitor in over a year. Can you believe that?”

The tribesman looked uncertain. Then he shook his head and used the back of his hand to tap Lael’s head. “This one need treating. Orders from the Saint.” He nodded toward the aged stranger. “Make it quick.”

“Healing takes time,” the old man croaked, eyeing Lael with large yellow eyes.

The masked man didn’t respond. He was already heading out of the room . . .

Lael looked around. Sap dangled from the wooden ceiling, frozen in the act of dripping. Shelves lined the walls. Bottles of all shapes and sizes, bearing liquids of every imaginable color, sat upon the shelves. Some were labeled, most were not. There was a crude doorway on his right; haze trailed from the opening, evaporating before it traveled too far.

“Welcome,” the elderly man creaked, rising to his feet. “I’ve heard much about you, Lael.” He started toward him, hands behind his back. Details of the man were lost in the dimness, but as he drew close, Lael could see what he previously could not.

His leathery skin was a pale green; black, bulging veins crawled along his arms, neck, and face. His beard was braided with ivy, his tired eyes glinting, seeming to glow.

Lael leaned back as the man walked right up to him, staring down into his eyes.

“Lael . . .” he whispered fondly, stroking his beard. “. . . the boy Cyra prophesied would save us all.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s really you . . .”

Lael nodded, taking a step back.

The man took a step forward, eyes unblinking.

“Lael,” Aziroth said, standing. “This is—”

“Call me Kin,” the man said. “Kin—”

“Kinboa!” Lael said.

Kin smirked, then gave a nod. He still hadn’t backed away, and Lael was beginning to wonder if Fontinovans knew the term personal space. “Aziroth tells me your bones are shattered.”

“Yeah, they’re—”

He jabbed a finger into Lael’s ribs.

“Ow!” Lael flinched, taking a step back. The man crouched, flicking Lael’s shin. Lael took another step back, bones shuddering. Kin seized his foot, and grabbed one of his toes, shaking it. “OW! Stop—”

“Let him,” Aziroth said. “He’s not even a Brass, so he cannot see the damage with his own eyes.”

Kin shot up and grabbed Lael’s face, squeezing it. He turned it one way, then another. The swift motion snapped one of his vertebrae. Stabbing pain blinded him.

As he blinked back stars, he found himself on the ground, looking up at Aziroth and Kin. They were chatting silently to one another. “. . . lucky the Saint commissioned this,” Kin was saying. “If you’d have come to me under different circumstances, I’d have asked for the life of your firstborn son.”

“Then it’s a good thing I never married,” Aziroth said, smiling down at Lael, platinum hair cascading off his shoulders. “Lael. How do you feel?”

He tried to speak, but he was certain his jaw was broken.

“Ah,” Aziroth held up a hand. “No need to talk. That look says it all.” He turned to Kin. “You do have everything for the tonic, yes?”

“Yes . . .” He shrugged. “Kind of. I am missing a few ingredients,” he croaked, one of his fish-like eyes straining at an odd angle, watching Lael while the other stared at Aziroth. “But . . . they’re not vital ingredients. Substitutes should work.” He grinned, revealing toothless gums.

“Excellent!” Aziroth clapped. He crouched by Lael, then nodded toward the doorway billowing with steam. “When I arrived earlier today and told him about your situation, he got things started, but wouldn’t follow through until he examined you himself. So, hang tight, and continue cycling to Advance.”

Lael tried nodding, but his cracked bones prevented him from doing so. He took a deep breath, and cycled Salvefire to his neck and face. It soothed his channels, filling his muscles, tissues, and bones. When the flames grew hot, his bones creaked, then snapped back into place, refusing to seal together.

“Gah!” Lael spat. He took a shuddering breath. “Whew.” He swallowed. “Do you . . . know how long this potion will take to make?”

Aziroth shrugged, then looked toward Kin. The man disappeared into the other room, humming a tune. “When will it be done, Kin?”

“Depends!” he yelled back. “About a week, maybe less.”

“A week!” With a groan, Lael looked to Aziroth. “We don’t have that long. The Saint threatened to torture me.”

Aziroth’s cocked a brow, then a grin spread across his face.

“What?”

“He threatened me, too. Even showed me the instruments he plans to use.”

“But why! Is he . . .” Lael looked toward the curtain of vines covering the exit. “Is he insane?”

“Yes. But aren’t we all?” Aziroth’s smile broadened. “And don’t worry. I think you’ll find his . . . torture far more appealing than you might imagine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before I answer that”—he raised a finger—“aren’t you . . . forgetting about something?”

Lael narrowed his eyes.

“Er, well. Not something. Someone.”

Lael shot up, shocking pain cracking his bones. “Elswyth!”

“Ha!” Aziroth clapped him on the shoulder, snapping his collarbone.

“Gah!” Lael bit down hard.

Aziroth winced. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Oh . . . and there’s no need to worry about Elswyth. I checked on her an hour ago, and she is being treated like the guest of honor!”

“. . . Really?”

“Of course!”

* * *

Elswyth was hogtied, dangling from a rope fastened to a stake her captors had jabbed into the ceiling. Fresh sap seeped from the piercing, dripping onto her face, and she was stone certain they’d carved this room out just for her . . .

And where was she, inside of a tree? The sap, and the looping woodgrain, told her as much. Scat, and why were all these people staring at her? Men and women, wearing animal pelts and wooden masks, had gathered around her. They were keeping their distance, muttering to one another, as if unsure whether to eat her raw, or boil her to the bone.

“Hey!” she shouted at a woman with a bow, wearing wooden armor. “If you’re going to talk, why not speak a language I understand? Hm?”

The woman stepped back, pulling an arrow back on her bowstring.

“I dare you to shoot me! Spear me through like the coward you are!” She bit her lip, trying not to think of when one of those arrows tore through Aziroth’s leg.

Was he all right? Scat, how did it come to this?

Here she was, hanging in a tree like a sack of meat, surrounded by tribal freaks. At least the sap crystals were glowing, radiating a warm, pretty amber light. She would have appreciated them more had she not been a prisoner of this place.

Her arms tingled, more especially her right arm. What surprised her was the discipline of her Scythe shadow. Usually, the creature went berserk when she was in danger. In a way, she hoped it would . . . but that might be the end of her. It was pushing against her skin, seeming hesitant, yet eager.

“No,” she thought, holding it back by the sheer power of her will. Which usually was a chore. She no longer wore a tartium band on her right arm, which meant both of her arms were free of spiritual restraint. Shouldn’t it be harder to keep her . . . Scythe in check? She almost said her mother but that sounded so wrong. Although she and the Scythe were one, Elswyth had to constantly remind herself that it was the shadow influencing her loved one, not the other way around. Yet, when Elswyth cycled the Scythe’s essence into her channels, that gave her mom power over the fiend.

That thought brought warmth to Elswyth’s otherwise cold soul. It still hadn’t completely sunk in, the fact that Reanna was a part of her life now. Whenever the woman spoke to her, it just felt natural, like sitting by the hearth back home. Her voice grounded her. Guided her.

So why not ask for some guidance now?

Although it was a risk to cycle the Scythe’s essence into the channels of her arms, there was really nothing she could lose . . .

The rate of her heart sped up.

She couldn’t think like that. Lael wasn’t gone. That lizard thing couldn’t have swallowed him! But even if it had, Lael had the power to burn his way out of anything! He had to be alive! He had to be around. She had to find him . . .

But . . . what if he was dead? A sudden dread spread through her chest, overwhelming her. It pained her senses to imagine life without him.

“Be calm, my lady,” Danbala whispered to her mind.

Elswyth took deep breaths. As she did, the fear slowly subsided. She was doing much better emotionally than she had been earlier. She and Danbala had talked about her rashness, and the two of them agreed that it had to do with her fatigue. She’d stayed up with Lael all night, cycling to Advance.

“I need to get out of here,” she thought to Danbala, eyeing the savages . . . No. Savages was too strong a word for them. They were dressed in clothes Elswyth had once worn, so in a way, it felt like she was surrounded by distant relatives. A few leaned against spears tipped with ice, chatting to one another in low tones. Most kept their distance, watching her, as if waiting for something to happen.

“It would be best if we waited for these to leave,” Danbala thought. “And . . . I would suggest you keep your mother from showing, my lady.”

“Why?”

“I . . . don’t think they like the spirit.”

Before Elswyth could continue the conversation, a figure strode into the room. Tribespeople moved out of her way, bowing in respect. The hem of her white dress skirted the floor as she approached. She stopped a few feet from where Elswyth was hanging, leaning against a staff topped with a frozen flower. Her slitted pupils dilated. Cat ears were poking from her white hair, fur tinged blue. Her lips were a deep blue, matching the paint on her eyelids.

Her intense eyes searched Elswyth’s face. When her pupils shimmered, Elswyth’s spirit shuddered, her skin prickling. What . . . was this awful sensation?

“She’s scanning your spirit,” Danbala whispered, writhing uncomfortably in her heart.

“But Aziroth used his spiritual senses to scan me before, and it never felt like . . .” She squirmed. “. . . this!”

“That’s because he merely looked. This woman is searching.”

Had Elswyth been in her exhausted, irritable state of mind, she would have spit at the woman’s face. But she restrained herself, knowing that nothing bad could come from a mere scan. No matter how uncomfortable it felt.

Elswyth glared at the lady. As she hung there, the seedlings of a brilliant plan formed in her mind. Without consulting her draca, she blinked, accessing her spiritual vision. She beheld the woman as a figure of blue, and green. She tried searching for a symbol of her rank, but she had a difficult time locating it. Weren’t there usually scales behind a person’s neck? Where were they? Light-blue aura enveloped most of the lady’s spirit, and she watched as a fish swam through her soul, dipping in and out of her aura, as if gliding through water. The creature pushed from her shoulder, turning to face Elswyth, hovering.

“How long have you had that parasite living inside of you?” the woman asked, words like smooth silk

Elswyth glared, still searching for her rank. Why was it so difficult to—

Slam! A masked tribesman had slammed the butt of his spear against the floor. “Answer the priestess when she—”

The woman held up a hand, quieting the man. Elswyth blinked out of her spiritual senses, viewing the woman through her normal vision. Her eyes flicked to the man who’d yelled. He was pushing his spear against the floor.

A figure—roughly humanoid, and made of ice—sat upon the top of his mask, angular legs dangling over the edge. Its two, glowing eyes watched Elswyth with an aura of hostility.

“How long have you carried this burden?” the priestess whispered, gesturing toward Elswyth.

“. . . Burden?”

“Yes. The shadow.”

“I’ve had it for . . . weeks. Maybe a month.”

The woman grimaced. “I’m . . . sorry to hear that.”

Elswyth blinked, surprised at the woman’s sincerity. She almost spoke, but what was there to say?

“Please . . . forgive me for the precautions my people took,” she said, gesturing to the rope holding Elswyth in the air. “We rarely deal with people in your condition.”

“Condition?” Elswyth frowned. “Thanks for the sympathy, but I’m fine.”

The priestess nodded, as if this is what she expected. “Call me Shaisha, priestess of the clan of Zeredathah, Saint of Fallen Pride. His Greatness wishes to try the strength of the Chosen, but before he does, he wants to have you and Aziroth brought before him. I’m here to make sure you are purged before the—”

“Purged?” Her Scythe, and even Danbala, shuddered at the sound of that.

“Yes. For your sake, and his.”

“Whose?”

“Zeredathah’s.”

Elswyth huffed. “Listen, I don’t need any purging. I’m fine! I mean, look at me.” She tried her best smile. Her stomach sickened, and she dropped the expression, feeling too much like Aziroth.

The faint hint of a grin teased the woman’s richly colored lips. “Your healing begins within the hour.” She glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Young women, all dressed in white robes, entered the room. Their faces were painted with two streaks of blue, their hair held back with golden clasps. Tiny, light blue fish swam around their shoulders, dancing as if to some unheard song. “My maidens will prepare you,” Shaisha continued. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she inclined her head, “I have a meeting to attend. Once I am finished, I will return, and we will rid you of this curse.”

Elswyth felt her insides sinking. For the second time that day, she was grateful for her stable thinking. Had she been in her rash state of mind, she would have screamed at the woman, trying to convince her that she wasn’t possessed by some otherworldly foe. But Elswyth had interacted with people like this before. The woman’s mind was made up, and no matter what argument Elswyth made, it wouldn’t change anyone’s opinion. To them, she was a sorry victim who didn’t know what was good for her.

If that’s how they saw her, then why not play to that? If she was going to get the scatting Nether out of here, she would need to do it in a way that didn’t arouse alarm.

Elswyth took a deep breath, nodding as Shaisha turned and gracefully glided out of the room. “Thank you . . .” she whispered, trying her best to sound defeated.

Shaisha stopped. Glancing over her shoulder, she cast a grin in Elswyth’s direction, then continued through the exit.

The robed girls stood beneath Elswyth in a circle, chanting, waving their hands up and down. Their fingers started glowing light blue, streaked with dazzling lines of green. As one, they jabbed their hands into the wooden floor. It cracked. Small shimmering fissures crawled toward the center of their circle, right beneath Elswyth.

A large, crystalline flower bud broke through the fissure they’d created. As its icy petals parted, Elswyth’s Scythe shuddered, and Danbala shook. “Time to go!”

That snapped Elswyth’s trance.

What was she doing, gawking?! Danbala was right, she needed to get out of here. As the majestic flower opened, the female acolytes concentrated on cycling their spiritual energy through the wood. They were distracted, but the spearmen, and those bowwomen, were watching Elswyth with intense concentration.

“Danbala,” she thought. “I’m going to summon my mom. As soon as I do, I want you to distract those women while I take care of the men.” There were seven in total; four men, three women. “As long as I don’t have any arrows flying at me, I think I can take them.”

“Don’t kill them, my lady.”

“I won’t!” Although, part of her hungered to rip out their hearts. Was that the Scythe talking? “. . . I won’t. I’ll break their arms, or blind them, or something. I just need to cripple them enough to keep them from coming after me.”

“What then?”

“Don’t know. Let’s just focus on getting out of here.” Elswyth took a deep breath, focusing on her Scythe. It shivered in response, seeming excited. As she willed it up the length of her arms, enveloping them spiritually, her soul shuddered. Keeping the Scythe in her arms was burning mana, but she had enough of the energy to keep things running.

With another deep breath, she cycled the shadowy essence through her veins. Slimy ink squeezed from her pores, saturating her arms and hands. As red blades sprang from her fingers, people cried out, and she pulled at her restraints.

The rope tore apart, which shocked her.

She didn’t give her Steel Advancement enough credit.

As she was falling, Danbala soared from her spirit, roaring like a lion, spitting out flaming lasers. The blasts knocked liquid arrows aside and bows from shocked hands. Women cried out, stumbling back.

Elswyth hit the crystalline flower bud, then bounced toward her opponents. She landed in a crouch, both palms pressed against the wood grain.

The masked spearmen were already upon her, lifting frost-tipped weapons. One thrust out his spear. Elswyth shifted right, grasping the haft, and yanking. But she didn’t have time to attack—two more spearheads were striking, aimed at her shoulders. Elswyth dropped to her back then, recalling a technique from earlier, she punched toward her attackers’ heads. Her black arms stretched, and her fists smashed against two fat noses, snapping them. As her arms snapped back into place, the remaining spearmen cried out for fear, stumbling back, holding their spears in front of them.

As Elswyth jumped to her feet, she spotted Danbala soaring around the room. Liquid arrows shot through the air, missing her by inches. The draca took a deep breath, then exhaled. A long flaming laser blasted from her mouth, knocking a bowwoman to the ground. Others were huddling in the exit, pulling bowstrings back. When they did, liquid arrows formed, undulating as if blown by wind.

Elswyth glared at the men before her, raising shadowy hands. Her eyes were growing warm, and she knew they were bloodred, her irises pitch black. When she exhaled, dark mist trailed past her lips, and she smiled, relishing in the horrified expressions of her enemies. Not only were the spearmen gawking, but the women were too. And although their faces were masked, their bulging eyes depicted fear.

“Elswyth!” Reanna shouted. “It’s spreading. Keep it under control!”

Her mother’s voice was a sweet, refreshing breeze. More like a gust of wind, with her yelling and all. But what was she talking about? The Scythe was disciplined. Obedient. More than it ever had been! When Elswyth took a step forward, she felt a sudden chill in her chest. She looked down, and gasped. Blackness was diffusing from her shoulders, across her tunic. “No!” She shouted, spiritually grasping at the spreading darkness. “Stop!”

Stop, it whispered in a mocking tone.

Elswyth growled, but before she could try anything, a heavy weight slammed against her back, knocking her to the wood-grain floor. She caught herself, then rolled to her back, claws raised.

A flower with icy petals arched over her. It opened what looked like a mouth, revealing jagged icicles. Its frosty stem stretched from where the robed females had cracked the floor. The acolytes were chanting softly, waving their glowing hands up and down. One pointed at Elswyth, and the flower lunged.

Elswyth yelped, rolling to one side, dodging the carnivorous plant. It smashed its face into the floor, cracking wood. Scat, these people weren’t trying to purge her. They were trying to kill her.

Elswyth quickly glanced back, to make sure no spearmen were sneaking up on her. Danbala was blasting them with her lasers, though part of her torso was frozen solid. A liquid arrow tore through her wing, and Elswyth screamed, sensing her pain. Luckily, the wicked projectile had torn right through, else it would have tortured her, like it’d done to Aziroth.

The draca flashed into crimson flames, then shot toward Elswyth, flowing into her soul.

The plant monster reared its ugly head, opening its chilly maw. But this time, instead of lunging, it vomited a spray of mist. Elswyth rolled to one side then leapt to her feet, but the chilly smog enveloped her. In an instant, she was freezing. Then, completely frozen. She tried to move her arms, and her legs, but a frigid layer of ice prevented her from shifting. She screamed, but all that sounded was a muffled cry. She cycled Surgefire from her heart—the flames zipped through her channels, enveloping her soul in a cage of interweaving lasers.

Her skin grew hot, and the ice steamed. Pushing flames out from everywhere on her body would speed up the melting process, but it would also drain her fast. She was also running out of air—breaking out of this icy prison would do her no good if she passed out.

She cycled Surgefire to her throat, and it zipped up her gullet, but before it could blast through her mouth, another wave of fog enveloped her.

A second layer of ice covered the first.

Elswyth shifted her eyes, glancing up, glaring at the carnivorous plant. Its mouth was gaping, as if it were taking a deep breath.

With a flare of her spirit, Elswyth shoved a renewed wave of Surgefire from her mouth. The flaming laser broke through the icy layers in front of her face, and zipped toward the flower. When it collided with the plant, it ripped right through its stem, exploding against the far wall.

Elswyth grew lightheaded. She hacked, calling off the flames, smacking her lips, a strange metal tang on her tongue.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. When she shifted her eyes, she saw masked men pointing spearheads toward her neck. None of them dared stand in front of her. She looked to see the bowwomen standing behind her.

More movement caught her attention, and she turned her gaze toward the plant. Its stem was writhing like a tortured snake. The acolytes, standing off to the side, were still waving their glowing hands up and down. Mist—light blue and streaked with green—flowed toward the monster.

Elswyth’s pounding heart quickened, and she nearly screamed again at the unfairness of it all! “Mom! Danbala! Help me.”

Her mom spoke incoherently, and Danbala groaned. Now that Elswyth was homed in on the draca, she could sense pain pulsing through the creature.

“Is your wing okay!”

“Yea. ‘Tis but a flesh wound.”

“What?”

“A piece of it is torn, my lady. But it’ll heal, as long as I’m inside your soul.”

Elswyth noticed another sensation. Her mana—coursing through her channels like blood—was cycling to her draca. It flowed into the creature, nourishing it, healing it. Was this what pregnancy felt like?

“You’re surrounded,” Danbala continued.

“. . . Yes. Yes, I am.”

“And yet, not one dares attack you.”

Elswyth narrowed her eyes. She glanced around again. People were watching her, but Danbala was right. They kept their distance, as if scared they’d catch a disease. The plant monster was rising again, icy petals flapping.

“In a way, I’m happy you’re in this situation,” Danbala continued.

Elswyth chattered. “Happy?” She was no longer cycling Surgefire through her spirit and, therefore, no longer keeping the ice from numbing up her flesh.

“Yes. It finally gives me a chance to speak to you, without your shadow butting in.”

Elswyth lifted her brows. Er, well, at least she tried to. It was difficult for them to move, being frozen and all. “I . . .” Elswyth cleared her throat. “I didn’t realize . . .” Was Danbala jealous because of all the attention she was giving her mother? “I’m sorry.”

The icy plant fiend rose high, shifting its jaw. Shaking its head. Snowflakes drifted from its icy petals.

“I need you, Danbala!” Elswyth thought. “Help me. Teach me!”

“I will.” Danbala took a deep breath. “Here.”

A flash of insight snapped into Elswyth’s consciousness. It was so sudden, she was momentarily stunned. She quickly pulled herself together, focusing on the fresh thought.

It was an image of her.

Lasers flashed from her skin, wrapping her figure in a complex mantle of Surgefire. Was this a flaming cloak? She’d never tried it before, not with her new Path.

With a deep breath she again cycled Surgefire from her heart. It enveloped her soul in an instant, caging it as if with bars of fire. She shoved it from her skin, and it pushed against her icy prison. It melted in an instant. Lasers zipped from her pores, blasting against tribal masks and wooden armor. Men and women cried out, shielding their faces.

“Rein it in!” Danbala shouted. “You can manipulate the flames.”

Elswyth dropped to her knees, trying to focus on the lasers zipping from her flesh. But there were too many! It felt like she’d sprung a thousand leaks, and she was now trying to focus on each one at once.

“View them as one great whole.” Danbala was speaking earnestly. “They are individual entities, yes, but together, they are one.”

Again, as the draca spoke, Elswyth’s mind was enlightened. The thousands of lasers blasting from her pores no longer overwhelmed her. They seemed to meld, becoming one. As they did, she tried focusing her intent, which was to manipulate them in a way to match the vision Danbala was showing her.

But as she tried, her brain was struck with a sudden spike of pain. “Augh!” Her heart clenched, and she gasped, clutching her chest as flaming lasers evaporated. Her heart . . . was void of Surgefire. Her channels tightened, and she realized just how low she was on mana. Scat, she was so close to . . .

To . . .

She saw double vision.

As she dropped to her back, her eyesight blurred. Smeared figures stood over her, looking like messy paintings. One stood out above them all. A flower, with icy petals. As Elswyth’s consciousness dimmed, the creature lowered its head, opening its maw to consume her whole.

Chapter 14

Life Aura

Vaaloo sat in a meditative pose, breathing in a rich mix of life aura. Plants of every kind and variety surrounded him; blue roses dripping with dew—tulips weeping honey—clover rimsuckles, their spirally fronds slowly shifting from green to blue.

. . . But, why?

Why put a prisoner in a garden?

Was he a prisoner?

Earlier, when he’d tried leaving through the door, a guard politely asked him to return to his room. When Vaaloo pressed the man, asking him why he wasn’t allowed to leave, the guard grew uncomfortable, pleading for him to go back. He promised that when the sun fell their leader, Saint Zeredathah, would summon him.

That nearly knocked Vaaloo flat. Saint Zeredathah? Here? He almost didn’t believe the man. Saints were things of legend! He might as well have said that the moons were dropping by for a visit.

Vaaloo took a deep, deep breath. A pleasing blend of aromas danced through his senses, making him feel giddy, then somber, and a little sleepy. When he exhaled, the emotions left him. Another inhale, and he cycled life aura from the crown of his head to the rest of his short body. It danced in loops around his chest, spreading to every corner of his spirit. When it completely enveloped him, his eyes shone green.

On his right was a withered plant. He reached out a gloved hand, touching its crusted stem. He cycled life aura along his arm, then through his fingertip, and into the dying plant. It shivered, shifting from a deathly brown to a lively green. A bud developed from its tip, growing quickly, blossoming into a golden daisy.

Several dozen tinkling chimes rang. Vaaloo smiled, shifting his gaze to one of the potted flowers. A green-tinged spirit peeked from behind a plant, using one of its fingerless hands to push a large leaf aside. He stared at Vaaloo, watching him with a featureless face. It was blank, save for a blue spiral twirling on its forehead.

As Vaaloo glanced around, he saw another such spirit, resting within a cup-shaped orchid. Two more peeked from a pile of soil, while others rested on petals, or danced among a rose garden. Vaaloo had never seen spirits such as these. What interested him further were the spirals on their faces. They radiated sea aura, while their bodies were full of life. The life aura slowly seeped from their feet, and as they ambled across the soil, saplings grew in their wakes. That was a marvelous sight, but it was that spiral that got him.

How did they maintain that kind of aura, out here in a swamp of all places? It wasn’t till he reached out with his spiritual senses that he understood. Off in one direction was an overwhelming presence of a water aura. The spirits surrounding him constantly soaked up the energy. Without it, they would wither and die . . .

And it was growing steadily closer.

Vaaloo’s spine slowly straightened as a mounting sense of curiosity wrestled inside of him. As he took another breath, a refreshing wash of water aura saturated his channels. His eyes grew blue as his spirit expanded. He couldn’t hold this much aura so he vented it from everywhere—water gushed from his body, soaking everything from his wide-brimmed hat to his boots.

The spiral-faced spirits chimed in glee, jumping from their plants to play in the pool Vaaloo was forming.

A giant hand brushed ivy curtains aside, and in came a massive man. His left eye was sewn shut, while the other shimmered like the surface of a lake. A lopsided smile formed on his bearded face, making him seem embarrassed.

“My apologies,” he grumbled, voice like the shaking of the earth. He veiled the power of his spirit, toning down on his radiant aura. Vaaloo no longer spewed water, but he was filled to the brim. “Vaaloo, is it?”

He dropped to the floor, sitting with a boom. The room trembled. He held out his one and only hand. Hundreds of spiral-faced spirits jumped from hiding, racing toward him, chiming in delight. Most of them climbed up his massive beard, while others hopped up to his muscled arm. The stranger chuckled, looking down at the little spirits.

One dangled from his ear, swinging back and forth.

“Precious, aren’t they?”

Vaaloo gave a hesitant nod. He wanted to speak but sitting before a Saint was more intimidating than he’d imagined.

“How are your people doing, Vaaloo?” Zeredathah asked.

My people? he thought. Why was he speaking to him like they were old friends? And why did he even care to ask about his . . . people. Vaaloo’s chest clenched up. How were they doing? He no longer had the means to communicate with them. Were they all right? Surviving? Alive?

Zeredathah watched him, his gentle grin fading. His eye twitched, and he tapped his knee. As the silence persisted, Vaaloo bowed his head, staring at the puddle he’d managed to make. It was steadily sinking into the soil, feeding the surrounding plant life.

Zeredathah sighed. “You are but a shadow of what you could be, Elder.”

Vaaloo looked up sharply.

The man’s somber expression remained. The spiral-faced spirits continued playing around him, climbing up his muscled biceps as if he were a mountain. One dove from his shoulder. It splattered against the ground, becoming a green puddle of water. That puddle swirled with circular motions, then formed back into its vague humanoid form.

“Centuries ago,” Zeredathah rumbled, “I was betrayed by one of my closest friends. We fought, and he nearly killed me, but I managed to escape. I found respite in a forest, where I dropped off into a fitful state of oblivion.” His lopsided grin returned. “Imagine my surprise when I woke, surrounded by mages. They used their magic to restore what was left of me. I lived with them for a time, during which they nursed me back to health . . .” His gaze was on the far wall. He stared, as if in another time and place. Slowly, and to Vaaloo’s alarm, the man’s face grew dark. “Then . . . one evening, my friend caught up. In an act of rage, he tried to destroy me . . .” Zeredathah bowed his head, eye dropping to one of the spiral-faced spirits. It was sitting cross-legged, listening with the eagerness of a child. “I managed to escape, but his attack obliterated the woods . . . and everyone in it.”

Vaaloo couldn’t help but shake. He tried to hide it, but as he listened to the story, his own thoughts turned to the ones he loved, way up north. He shut his eyes as the screams of children, priestesses and elders rang through his head. Emotions he’d numbed himself to crept through his core, casting a heavy weight. His shoulders slumped, and his head bowed.

His cloak was stained with the blood of his people. Lunar Scythes had suffered, back in Akkesai, but he’d barely managed to keep himself alive, let alone save the lives of his desert cousins.

“Throughout history, your kind has suffered, Elder,” Zeredathah whispered. “You’ve been pushed around, only because you refuse to cultivate your souls beyond the third drahn. But imagine if you did. Imagine if you put off your passive ways, increased in power, and fought back.”

Vaaloo was staring at the Saint now. His core pulsed rapidly, water aura coursing through his spirit. Although aggression wasn’t the way of the magehood, he couldn’t help but feel stirred by the words.

“Even if you didn’t fight,” Zeredathah continued, “imagine what you could do for the Chosen if you Advanced? Tungsten isn’t the limit, boy. You could reach much, much higher. And not only would your kind benefit from it. The entire world would.”

Vaaloo was nodding now, rising to his feet. Fists clenched. “I want that,” he whispered.

Zeredathah’s grin widened, though his eye twitched in a disconcerting manner. “The entire tribe is gathering to the glade below. You are welcome to join us.” He took a deep breath, then bounced. When he landed on his feet, the room wobbled. Vaaloo threw out his arms, to maintain balance. “But if you’d rather stay up here, you may.” He turned, heading toward the exit. “You might want to come, though. Tonight, the council is going to decide the fate of the Chosen. And seeing that you’ve taken a liking to the boy, you probably don’t want to miss—”

“Fate?” Vaaloo said. “You’re going to decide the fate? Of . . . Lael? What do you mean?”

Zeredathah looked over his shoulder, a crazed look in his one eye. His beard, along with all the scars and stitches on his face, made him look like a maniac. “If Cyra prophesied that the boy would take out Dharamadeva, it would only make sense to prepare him. Would it not?”

Vaaloo hesitated, then gave a cautious nod.

“The overlord is the most dangerous person besides Modrea, wouldn’t you agree?”

Again, Vaaloo nodded. He’d known nothing about an overlord, thanks to his isolated life, but from the conversations he’d eavesdropped on, he put the pieces together. As for Modrea, everyone knew about that monster.

“Good . . .” Zeredathah’s grin broadened, lips parting, revealing silver teeth. “Then you wouldn’t mind if we forced the boy through hell, now, would you?”

. . . What could he say to that?

Zeredathah didn’t remove his foreign gaze.

Who was this man?

Just when Vaaloo thought he could feel comfortable in his presence, his entire persona had . . . shifted.

“Tell me, mage, what made you follow him?” Zeredathah whispered. “Your kind are naturally shy and skittish, so I was shocked to find you a part of his company.”

Vaaloo lowered his gaze, eyes falling on the spiral-faced spirits near the giant Saint’s hairy feet. They watched Vaaloo, their own feet forming small puddles. He searched his soul for an answer, but he didn’t have to go far. He was just . . . uncomfortable saying it. He didn’t want to say it. But with the Saint staring him down, the answer happened to slip from his lips. “He . . . ” Vaaloo whispered, head bowed. “Feels different . . . I don’t know how to explain it and I don’t completely understand it myself. But I’m . . . drawn to him.” Even more so now, considering he was Chosen. This whole prophecy thing was new to him, but it only excited him, helping to validate everything he was feeling about the human.

“. . . Good.”

When Vaaloo looked back up, Zeredathah was exiting the room, leaving him to ponder the man’s words . . .

Imagine if you put off your passive ways, increased in power, and fought back . . .

Vaaloo stared at his hands, clenching them. He looked toward the ivy curtaining the doorway, trembling. With a deep breath, he started toward the exit. It wouldn’t be wise to leave Lael unattended. He would make sure everything turned out well in this meeting.

Then, he’d take up the Saint on his offer.

It was time he broke through to Quartz.

Chapter 15

Torture

He is mine, a calm voice whispered, sounding as if it were on the other side of the room. Isn’t that right, Lael? Everything was dark. Lael was closing his eyes, but when he tried to open them, he found that he couldn’t.

I have chosen him, a resonant voice responded with a strength that sent a chill up Lael’s spine. He shivered, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Yes, the other voice responded, but has he chosen you?

Of course he had. Yet when the Light’s response came as a weak, indistinguishable whisper, Lael’s hearts skipped. The God was speaking, but . . . why was it so hard to hear Him? Why was he struggling to speak?

You see, Lael, the calm, fatherly voice said. He can’t even finish a conversation. How do you expect Him to finish what He is making of you?

A hand grabbed Lael’s arm, shaking it. He gasped, eyes fluttering. Aziroth was staring down at him, smiling. He raised a hand, and white fire materialized above his cupped palm, lighting up his features.

“Good early morning,” Aziroth whispered.

Lael, hearts pounding, took deep deliberate breaths. His eyes shifted around, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on the floor . . . in the dim abode of Kin Kinboa. The sweet, pungent scent of herbs permeated the air. He focused on that strange odor, taking another deep inhalation, slowing his pulse down.

“My . . . apologies,” Aziroth whispered, sounding genuinely pained. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lael breathed deeply. “You’re fine.” He exhaled. “It . . . wasn’t you. Not completely.”

Aziroth nodded. “Speaking in riddles now, are we?”

Lael frowned, eyes closed. No one knew about the voices. Not even Felsacor. Part of him didn’t believe that Darkness was speaking to him. If he was, how was he doing it? He was imprisoned, not to mention countless leagues away.

But, in a way, so was the Light. And He, though in the same vicinity as Modrea, still managed to communicate with Lael. It was growing less and less frequent, though. Lael tried not to let that bother him.

“What’s on your mind?” Aziroth said, sitting back. With him out of the way, Lael could now see the ceiling. It was covered by a rolling blanket of smoke and steam. The vapors trailed out the ivy-curtained doorway. Soft, blue moonlight filtered in, intermingling with notes of pink. “Of course, if you’d rather I try and solve the riddle, I can do that. Just know that our time is limited, so you might want to—”

“I’m hearing voices.”

Aziroth’s mouth was open. He pursed his lips, expression growing serious. “Voices?”

Lael glanced around the room. Grunts and curses sounded from the neighboring room. Steam and smoke poured from that doorway, rising to the ceiling, joining the cloud hovering over Lael.

“Kin Kinboa’s almost finished with the tonic,” Aziroth said.

“Really?”

“No.”

Lael sank.

“Just kidding, yes. This is one of the many reasons why I woke you. But before we go any further, tell me about these voices.” The gravity of his tone startled Lael. Aziroth could be serious, he knew, but when the man actually was serious, it unsettled him.

Lael took a deep breath. He started from the beginning, telling him of the many instances in which the Light and Darkness had spoken to his mind. He blushed more than once, feeling silly saying it out loud. It made him sound like a psychopath.

Aziroth stroked his chin, staring thoughtfully off to one side. “. . . Thank you for entrusting me with this information,” he whispered. “To be honest, this is the first time I’ve encountered something of this nature.”

Lael watched Aziroth, the knots in his chest slowly untangling. He didn’t realize how much of a relief it would be, getting this out. Especially to someone he trusted. Why hadn’t he brought this up sooner? Saints, why hadn’t he shared this with his mom?

“I’m not sure what to tell you, Lael, other than what you already know. Be careful.”

The fist in his chest clenched slightly. “Be careful?”

“The Darkness is a cunning little snake. He wants nothing but the destruction of your soul. No matter what he promises, you must send him away. Understand?”

Lael nodded vigorously. Felsacor stirred inside of him, as if in a fitful dream.

“Good.” Aziroth placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, nodding toward Kin’s room. “Kin wants to see you.”

“. . . Right now?”

“Yes.”

Kin had said the potion might take a week to make. It had only been two days since that prediction. Or had it been three? Lael was about to ask but Aziroth was already helping him to his feet, guiding him across the room. His bones creaked with each step, sending spikes of pain up his legs. Why were they so tender? Had Kin been messing with him while he slept? He could imagine the old codger leaning over his body, poking his legs. The thought made him shiver.

“Kin!” Aziroth said, stepping up to the doorway. “Can we—”

“Come in!” Kin coughed. “Come!”

Aziroth gestured for Lael to enter. With a deep breath, he stepped into a wall of vapor. The fumes raced through his nose, clearing up his sinuses. He coughed, the action jostling his ribs, knocking several out of place. “Gah!” He grabbed his chest, but that only made it worse. He dropped to his knees, and his entire skeletal system shook.

Lael leaned over, tears streaming down his face. He had to bite his tongue to keep from coughing. Saints! Why did Aziroth bring him in here? This was suicide!

As he adapted to the pain, his ears perked at a gravelly chuckle. Lael looked to find Kin Kinboa leaning against a cement counter . . . laughing. His fisheyes were squinted slivers, tears like sap lazily sliding down his face, trailing along the green strands of his ivy-twined beard.

Lael frowned. Was the potion master that cruel? Did he want Lael to walk into this fume-infested room just to see him suffer?

Speaking of fumes, Lael was shocked to see where they were coming from.

At the center of the room was a square depression. There were vents on the floor on either side of it. Smoke trailed from the vents, while steam rose from the square depression. Inside of the square was a roiling pool of cream. At least, it looked like cream. The way those bubbles expanded, then popped lethargically, showed how viscous the substance was.

Now that he thought about it, how was this not burning the tree down? As he examined the room, he found that it was made entirely of cement, and as plain as could be. Bottles and bags of ingredients rested on a solitary counter.

“Welcome to my temporary apothecary.” Kin Kinboa opened his lanky arms wide. His green flesh seemed . . . oranger than it had been before, but Lael quickly realized why. A steady radiance, emanating from an amber crystal dangling from the man’s necklace, lit up the vicinity. “What do you think?”

Lael coughed. “How do you breathe in here?”

Kin waved a hand. “You get used to it.”

“Plus,” Aziroth added, “you had to breathe the fumes for a reason.”

Kin nodded. “. . . How do you feel?”

How did he feel? Lael focused on his body, his emotions, his mind. He didn’t feel any different. Kin hobbled around the bubbling pool, hands behind his back. For how old the man was, it was amazing just how mobile he was. Hadn’t he been limping earlier? Now he was—

Kin thrust out two fingers, jabbing Lael’s shoulder.

“Ow!” he shouted, grabbing his shoulder. “What was . . .” He rubbed his shoulder. The bones had shifted, some cracking, but the pain was nonexistent. He glanced up at Kin with a raised brow.

“The potion I am about to give you will mend your bones.” He raised a long finger. “But . . . I had to substitute a variety of ingredients to get this finished in a timely manner. Thus, it’s going to be . . . uh . . .” He scratched the back of his head, looking at Aziroth. “How would you say it?”

“An absolute torture going down your throat.” Aziroth smiled. “And that’s only the beginning!”

“As it saturates your bones,” Kin continued, “you will most likely scream. You might even spit up some blood.”

“What?!” Lael stared in horror at the boiling pool of slime. What had he gotten himself into?

“I don’t say this to discourage, but to encourage. The fumes of the room are designed to mitigate the pain, so you’ll only feel a fraction of the anguish.” Kin unclipped a wooden spoon from his belt. He crouched before the roiling pool, stirring it. With his other hand, he unclipped a large glass bottle. Carefully, he scooped up the substance. He lifted the spoon and poured the syrupy liquid into the container. After filling it up, he moved to crouch in front of Lael. With a smile, he held out the bottle. “Drink up.”

Lael eyed it skeptically. He glanced in Aziroth’s direction. The man was sitting casually off to one side, looking comfortable, as if on vacation. He gave Lael an encouraging nod.

Well . . . Lael eyed the tonic. He sniffed it. No scent. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, raising it to his lips. To his delight, the syrup tasted slightly sweet. It traveled down his throat at a snail’s pace, making him gag, but he kept it down, swallowing as much spit as he could muster.

As he continued drinking, he felt the first globs of slime splatter against the bottom of his stomach. It sat there for a time, shivering, as if cold. How long would it take for his bones to heal? From what it sounded like, the tonic should have started working as soon as it—

The slime inside of his gut exploded. Lael cried out, spitting up some of his tonic as a vapor diffused throughout his entire body.

“Keep drinking!” Aziroth said, near Lael’s side now, hand on his back. “This is a part of the process.”

Lael scowled as he continued gulping down the syrup. The constant stream gliding down his gullet caused his stomach some serious discomfort. Slime detonated in his belly, bloating his guts, and making him burp and fart at the same time.

Then his bones started crackling. It sounded like ice splitting beneath the weight of an elephant. At once, every bone in his body shattered. His muscles convulsed and he screamed out of sheer horror. Dropping to the ground, he ebbed in and out of consciousness. A sharp ring deafened his ears, but he could have sworn he heard Aziroth’s voice, loud and alarmed.

As his bones sealed together, his vision blanked.

* * *

Aziroth’s nerves twisted as he watched Lael thrash. He held the boy down with as much gentle force as he could muster, but this was almost too much for him. Cyra had died in much the same way; muscles spasming, mouth foaming, eyes rolled back. Aziroth should have been able to save him. Was Lael dying now, too? Had the potion worked? Was it killing him!

“What did you feed him, you idiot!” Aziroth shouted, pallid face growing red. “He shouldn’t be having a seizure like this!”

“He’s fine!” Kin Kinboa shot back, standing over the boy, grabbing glistening dust from a burlap pouch strapped to his waist. He sprinkled it over the boy. “His bones.” He gestured to his arms. “Look . . .”

Aziroth, sweat sliding down his forehead, cast his eyes on the boy’s arms. The skin was rippling like a storm-tossed sea. Yet, as Aziroth held them down, he could feel the bones sealing together, forming into what felt like iron bars. Aziroth gasped, shocked at how cold they were. He held on, waiting for Lael’s seizures to pass, but the longer he clutched the boy’s reforged forearms, the colder his palms grew. It reached a point where his skin was stinging. He cycled Salvefire to his palm, burning up mana to keep his skin from freezing.

At last, Lael grew still, froth dripping from his lips. Aziroth breathed a sigh of relief, feeling lightheaded. He . . . hadn’t expected that to be so traumatic.

Olhatha cleared his throat. Which still didn’t make sense to Aziroth. The spirit didn’t have one. Did he merely pick that up from his previous bonds? “Are you . . . all right, sir?” he asked, speaking inside of his skull. He always wondered what that sounded like to anyone standing outside of him.

Aziroth wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Yes.” He panted slightly. “Yes, I am.” At least, he pretended to be. Lael’s unconsciousness was a blessing indeed. If the boy had seen him lose it, it would have frightened him, leaving an unseemly imprint in his mind for years to come.

Aziroth was a leader. If he lost his nerve, then the others would too. And he couldn’t have that happening.

Taking a deep breath, he wiped his palms on the fabric of his outer robe. Clearing his throat, he brushed platinum strands away from his face, glancing up at Kin. The man gawked at Lael with obvious awe, his large eyes like massive saucers. A grin spread across his hairy face, revealing his toothless gums. He chuckled, laying a hand on Lael’s forehead. He pulled back instantly.

“Why is he so cold?” Aziroth asked, speaking with a reasonable tone, trying to keep his voice from quivering.

Kin only wiggled his brow line, fingers dancing with anticipation.

“Kin!” Aziroth enforced the word with a burning flash of mana.

It startled the man. He shook his head, as if coming out of a trance.

“Why is the boy freezing?”

Kin chuckled, his gaping grin broadening. He gestured to Lael’s draconic cannon arm. Aziroth scanned the weapon. He was pleased to see that the fissures had sealed together . . .

No, wait . . .

He leaned in closer. They were sealed, but the hairline cracks looked as if they were filled with metal caulking. It blended seamlessly with the bone so that the cannon was riddled with iron veins. The metal diffused across the cannon, slowly transforming the material.

Aziroth’s breathing was coming fast. He blinked into his spiritual senses, observing the state of Lael’s spirit. Not only could he see the boy’s soul, but his bones were also visible to his Quartz-enhanced sight.

His bones . . .

They were whole.

And made of metal.

Aziroth calmed his breathing. He didn’t know whether to feel betrayed, or absolutely delighted. “You . . . didn’t just fix his bones,” Aziroth whispered.

Kin nodded eagerly, trembling with delight. “I enhanced them.”

Men wearing wooden masks peeked into the room. One entered, pointing a spear in Kin’s direction. He said something in Fontinovish, gesturing toward Lael and Aziroth. Kin nodded vigorously, then turned to Aziroth.

“You’re being summoned.”

This wasn’t a surprise. Earlier, while Lael was sleeping, Aziroth had sent Olhatha to spy around the camp. When he noticed people gathering to the glade below, he knew something was up. “And they want . . . Lael too?”

Kin nodded.

Aziroth slipped his hand beneath Lael’s body, then lifted. Aziroth’s arm quivered beneath the boy’s new weight. He was burning mana, cradling him like a baby. Had he been anything less than a Quartz, he wouldn’t have been able to carry the poor kid.

As he followed the tribal warriors out of the room, he glanced over his shoulder. Kin was watching Lael with a wild, eager expression. Was he anticipating something? If so, what? Was Lael’s transformation incomplete? Was his skin going to harden? His hair? His eyes? What had this maniac given him?

Why couldn’t there have been another way to heal the boy! Well, there had been, but with the overlord growing stronger, and with Modrea nigh unto breaking free, he couldn’t afford another way. At least, not a timely one.

Aziroth exited through an ivy curtain, walking out onto a deck overlooking the civilization. A massive group had gathered to the glade below, surrounding a blue bonfire.

He followed the soldiers across the boardwalk, looking down at Lael’s face. It was twisted in pain. The sight of it clenched his heart. Why was the road to Godhood paved with so much pain? Was it worth it, putting the boy through this kind of anguish? If he had never found Lael, the boy would have never had to go through this . . .

“Then again,” Olhatha whispered to his mind. “If you’d never found him, he and the whole world would have suffered eventually.”

Aziroth sighed. Without the Chosen intervening, Dharamadeva would rise in power, eventually conquering all of Wyvden. Or, if Dharamadeva failed, Modrea would eventually break through, covering the world in darkness.

How strange . . .

Here Aziroth was, holding the hope of the planet in his arms. He cradled him close, feeling like an overprotective father. Everything the boy went through up to this point was nothing compared to the suffering ahead. All of this was laying the foundation for his future Advancement, preparing him to face his destiny. He would be tried harder in these next six months than he ever thought possible . . .

And Aziroth would be there to suffer with him, every step of the way.

He’d promised Cyra that he would fulfill the prophecy, and he would make good on that promise. Or die trying.

Chapter 16

Sentenced to Suffer

Lael woke to the steady beat of pounding drums. His hearts thrummed in rhythm with the tune, so much so that he thought they were causing the noise. But as he came to, he realized that the music was sounding outside of him, in every direction.

His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself lying on the ground, staring up at hundreds of distant branches. They blocked out most of the starry expanse, but they weren’t so obtrusive as to congest the air.

“The Chosen has awakened!” someone yelled as another cried out in a foreign tongue. A loud boom sounded from all the drums at once. As the noise trailed off, silence followed. Only a crackle with an occasional snap filled the void.

As Lael took a deep breath, he tried sitting up. He struggled against some unseen weight. Did they strap him to the ground? He glanced at his arms and legs but saw no rope. Just a metal cannon. He gasped, staring at his draconic blaster. It was still the color of bone, but it had taken on a metallic sheen. Or were his eyes playing tricks on him? As he tried lifting the cannon, his arm shook. Why couldn’t he move it!

Hushed whispers uttered all around him. He flushed, remembering the drums. Music meant people, and people meant . . .

He glanced around. He was surrounded by forty or so drummers. They stood behind large, wooden drums, dressed in reptilian skin. Behind them was a crowd of seated men and women. Some wore animal pelts with blue-tinged fur, while others sported wooden armor. Twirling blue motifs prettied up their chest plates, while smaller symbols dazzled their masks.

“Chosen,” a resonant voice intoned.

Lael turned his head.

Zeredathah stood in front of a massive bonfire. The flames were blue, and they reflected off the Saint’s bald head. He stroked his long, coarse beard with his one, giant hand. His single eye penetrated Lael to the soul.

White-robed men and women stood beside him, four on one side, and four on the other. Part of their faces were painted blue, and all of them had a spiral on their forehead. All, but one woman. Her pupils were vertical, like a reptile’s. Her lips were a rich blue. Cat ears poked from her thick, white hair. Lael wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been covered in fur, but she wasn’t. Her skin was pale.

Zeredathah raised a hand, and the hushed whispering disappeared. “Rebels of the Fen!” His voice boomed, echoing all around. “I present to you Lael, Chosen of the Light, slayer of Dharamadeva, the tyrant of Wyvden!”

Delighted shouts and a tide of clapping rose from the crowd. The drummers pounded their large drums. When Zeredathah raised his hand again, the celebration ceased. He waited a moment, letting the silence sink in.

“But . . . does he have what it takes?”

Lael swallowed dryly, glancing around at the silent observers. A few whispered to their neighbors, but other than that, they were watching him with curious eyes. Saints, how in the name of the Light did he get here? As much as his insides screamed to run and hide, he forced himself to look strong. Confident. Sure.

But it was hard to present that while he was leaning back. He still hadn’t sat up all the way, thanks to the inner weight fighting against him. Was the liquid metal doing this to him? He felt with his spiritual senses, but found the liquid where he’d left it before, enveloping his spirit.

As he continued sitting up, trembling against the forces of gravity, he winced in preparation for the jostling of his bones. As his back straightened, sweat sliding down his neck, his eyes fluttered. Not one inch of his skeleton shuddered. In fact, it was solid. It felt as if his insides were made of iron!

Then it hit him.

He glanced at his bone cannon. The draconic face seemed to glare, as if to say, You’re not far from the truth.

“Kin healed you,” Felsacor grumbled to his mind.

Lael couldn’t suppress a smile, and a tinge of worry. “Then my bones . . . They’re actually made of—”

“A type of metal. I’m not sure what it is exactly, but your bones are still bones, only tougher than anything I’ve ever seen in a human body.”

“Lael,” Zeredathah said, grabbing his attention. He sat up as straight as he could, despite the unfamiliar heaviness. “We have brought you here today, before the entire clan, to sentence you to suffer.” His eye twitched, and a broad smile formed beneath his hairy whiskers. “There is a trial only the greatest among us are permitted to go through. Only I, and a few of our greatest warriors, have passed the test. And even they didn’t come out unscathed.”

“Where are they now?” Lael found himself asking.

Zeredathah grimaced. “Dead.”

The golden sphere inside Lael’s chest pulsed distantly. It was then that he realized that his confidence was stemming from the Light’s orb, though he wondered why it felt so far away. Was the God almost dead? Saints, he didn’t have time for whatever Zeredathah had in store for him! He needed to Advance, then head for Jeh’va’s temple. But before he could say as much, the Saint continued.

“Every warrior is given four weeks to prepare for the Trial of the Black Deep. I would have given you more, Chosen, but it would break tradition.”

Lael opened his mouth, to make a reply, but the beastly man continued.

“But I have great hopes for you. And we are going to train you unlike any of our past heroes.”

“Thank you,” Lael said, quick on his feet. “But I need no training.”

People gasped, and the Saint smirked. The bonfire behind him crackled and popped, throwing up blue sparks. The flames shifted, and it was then that he realized something. The flames weren’t burning a pile of wood. They were enveloping a massive lizard!

Stormhammer! The chameleon seemed to be resting in that blue inferno.

“You . . . need no training?” Zeredathah said, sounding amused.

“Yes.” Lael had no intention of going through with this ridiculous trial. But if the Saint sent him and his friends to face this test, he could pretend to make his way to wherever it was, then, when he was far enough away, he’d make a run for it, heading in the direction of the temple. His bones were healed now! . . . Not in the way he’d expected, but still. They were whole, and now all he had to do was Advance, and find the Light! Just as He’d commissioned him to do, back in Hidden Valley.

“You need training, Chosen,” Zeredathah muttered. “I’ve seen how you fight . . . if you could even call it that. Your skills are . . . lacking. As a matter of fact, you’re probably one of the worst I’ve seen.”

Lael bowed lightly. “Thank you for putting it bluntly.”

“What good would lying do?” The Saint started toward him, his footsteps shaking the ground. It was subtle, but impossible to miss. “No matter how high you Advanced—even if you reached the peak of Godhood—you’d die in a fight against the tyrant. Spiritual growth alone doesn’t guarantee your success.”

Zeredathah towered over him, like a massive statue carved of flesh. His one eye, flickering like sunlit water, watched him. There was a lucidity to that gaze. One that seemed to come and go as it pleased.

But not right now.

Right now, it remained, revealing a depth of intelligence.

This was Lael’s chance. He needed to seize the moment! Zeredathah was a Saint, and therefore loyal to Jeh’va. If he explained the situation, surely the man would understand.

“Time is running out,” Lael started, matching the Saints gaze, back straight. Standing tall was tiring, thanks to his new set of bones, but his Steel-enhanced soul made it bearable. “The Light Himself has summoned me to his holy house.” Audible gasps, and murmurs, rose among the crowd. “This is where my friends and I were headed, once my . . . condition was taken care of.” He dipped his head toward the Saint, who was stiff as a board. “Your servant Kin mended my bones with unexpected speed. He deserves a raise, if you give—”

Zeredathah snored.

Lael’s eyes fluttered. What the Saints? The man was sleeping?

“Zeredathah?” Lael asked.

The man’s eye flashed open. His pupil was dilating. “Your training begins tonight.”

“Bu—”

“You have four weeks to prepare for the Trial of the Black Deep.”

“Zere—”

“If you pass the trial, you are free to go. Fail, and you die.”

“Zeredathah!” Lael yelled.

A hush fell over the audience. Zeredathah grinned, revealing steel teeth. That caught Lael off guard. Did his own teeth look like that? He glanced down at his bone-colored cannon.

No . . .

He shook his head, matching the Saint’s gaze. “I have my own tutor. Thank you for offering to train me, but I need to get to the Temple of Light.” He was breathing deeply, hearts pounding. That look in the Saint’s eye was growing less and less stable. “The Light has called me to reach His home! I need to go.” In that moment, he remembered Aziroth and Elswyth. “We need to go.” His hand was trembling, so he tightened his fist, to stop it from quaking.

It didn’t work.

Zeredathah stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He looked past Lael and nodded.

Lael glanced over his shoulder.

The crowd was parting for a couple of wheeled cages. The bars were constructed of angular bones, painted blue. As robed women wheeled the cars forward, Lael caught eyes with the first prisoner. The man smiled, and Lael’s stomach dropped. “Aziroth?!”

Aziroth gave a sweeping bow. “In the flesh.”

“What are you doing!”

“Well, my friends here asked if I wanted my own personal tour of this wonderful civilization. I couldn’t pass up so great an opportunity, so I said yes.” He put his hands behind his back, a broad smile on his face. “There are dangers, of course, like falling off the side of a tree, so my guides here were kind enough to provide protection for me.” He raised a fist, tapping on a bony bar with his knuckles. Runes lit up, glowing bright blue.

Lael looked at the other cage. In it lay a large, brilliant bud with glistening, icy petals.

“That’s a monster,” Aziroth said, examining his fingernails. “And it has Elswyth in its mouth.”

“What?!”

One of the robed girls stepped forward. A green crystalline rose was tucked behind her left ear. As she held out her hands, Lael noticed that her fingernails were made of ice. “Saint Zeredathah. Lady Shaisha. Priests and Priestesses.” She bowed before gesturing to the caged carts. “I present to you our prisoners.”

The woman with cat ears stepped up beside Zeredathah. She scrutinized Elswyth’s cart with the intense eyes of a predatory tiger. They were a contrast to the rest of her regal features. “Have you purged her of the shadow?”

Lael’s hearts skipped. Purged?

“Forgiveness, Lady Shaisha, but we were . . . unable to perform the task.”

“And you brought her out here, putting the entire clan at risk?” Her words were cutting, yet cool. The men and women in the audience were carefully shuffling back, most eyeing Elswyth’s prison with obvious discomfort.

The robed girl was on her knees, bowing low. “Forgiveness, my Lady, but Saint Zeredathah ordered it so.”

Shaisha turned to the Saint, who was watching Lael with an intense gaze. This startled Lael. How long had he been staring at him? Lael’s pulse was rising high. His cheeks were flushing, and Phantomfire leaked from his left heart, sliding through his channels, burning the lining.

“We should have attacked him earlier,” Felsacor thought. “Now he has an army surrounding us.”

“Chosen,” Zeredathah said, seemingly oblivious to what was happening around him. “You will stay and practice for four weeks. During that time, you will become a better fighter and you will enter the Trial of the Black Deep. It is the only way to prepare to fight him.”

“It’s not the only way!” Lael said, trying to control his temper. Phantomfire made it hard. “It’s not!” His eyes grew inky black, the irises growing red hot. He took deep, shaky breaths, but that did nothing to help. “You’re not listening. This isn’t where the Light wants me to be! I need—”

“This is where you need to be!” Zeredathah yelled. Lael stumbled back, and everyone dropped to the ground, as if hit by a great gust of wind. “And your training starts now.”

Lael, trembling with suppressed anger, stood tall. “Fine!” Tendrils of smoke trailed from his lips. “Who do I get to fight first then?”

Zeredathah’s wide eye expanded even further. His grin broadened, shifting his coarse whiskers. “Your choice.” He gestured his one arm to the entire audience. Lael glanced around. He even looked to the six great trees surrounding them, tall as towers. Glowing lanterns, flickering blue, lit the walkways spiraling up the trunks. To his surprise, he saw women holding cradled babies, and teenagers leaning against wooden railing, watching with rapt interest.

Lael bowed his head, thoughts spinning around his throbbing mind.

“Fight the Saint,” Felsacor said, his deep voice scraping his throat.

Lael’s hearts skipped before beating fast. His entire spirit was pulsing with black Soulfire. Sparks popped from his skin, floating upward.

If he did face off with the Saint, and somehow managed to cripple him as he did Blaise, then he’d be free to leave. Lael glanced down at his draconic cannon. Could he do that to a Saint though.

“He is not truly a Saint,” Felsacor rumbled, his voice resonantly rich. “Do you not remember the tartium sticking through his body?”

Lael recalled the stakes piercing the man’s flesh. They were like slivers of the void to his spiritual sight, sucking away spiritual power. Which meant he was probably functioning at several levels beneath the rank of Saint.

Which meant Lael had a chance.

He opened his right heart, and started cycling Salvefire to his cannon. As a river of white flames trailed through his chest, his right eye shimmered white, the iris going heavenly blue. The soothing flame chipped the edge off his rising anger, diffusing it somewhat.

His eyes locked with Aziroth’s, and he found the man clutching the bars of his cage, watching him with an unsettling expression of anxiety. Lael’s breath caught. The man didn’t even try to hide his worry with a smile. He just . . . watched.

“Whom do you choose, Chosen?”

His left heart pulsed with another dose of Phantomfire. His skin grew hot and sweaty as he glanced over at the other cage. Elswyth was in that icy bud. “They’re going to purge her, Lael,” Felsacor muttered. “It’ll most likely kill her. Reanna is already beginning the process of integrating with her soul, although she’s far from succeeding. Still, if it doesn’t destroy Elswyth, it would surely end Reanna’s life.”

That would devastate Elswyth!

“It would.”

A prickly sensation crawled along his spine, and he flushed with another wave of heat, sweat sliding down his skin, and he had the sudden urge to crush something.

“WHOM do you choose!” Zeredathah yelled, stinging Lael’s ears. Spiking his rage.

“YOU!” He spun and chucked a black fireball at the Saint’s ugly face. It flew so fast, it exploded only seconds after leaving his hand. Lael roared, Felsacor’s draconic bellow harmonizing with his own cry. It was deep. Sinister.

People cried out, jumping to their feet, and backing away. Women and some men pulled bows from off their backs, pulling strings taut, summoning liquid arrows. Others unfastened spears, tips flashing with ice as frozen spirits with sharp, angular features rose from their shoulders.

Lael saw all of this in his peripheral vision, for he was focused on the Saint he was running toward. His speed was slowed dramatically, thanks to his new set of bones, but that didn’t matter. He was already forming a new fireball.

Zeredathah moved with lightning speed. Before Lael could react, a fist collided with his chest. Pain shocked through him as he rocketed through the air. He flew past the prison carts, over tribesmen and women, then slammed into the massive trunk of a towering tree. Bark cracked. Lael dropped, pieces of the tree falling alongside him. He hit the ground, the world around him growing dim.

Breathe. He needed to breathe!

He cycled Salvefire to his . . . damaged ribs? No. They were still intact. Then why couldn’t he take a—

He gasped, sucking in air.

Panting.

His entire chest throbbed with anguish. Saints! His bones should have shattered to a million pieces! Lights above, but his chest. It felt like a hole had been torn through it. That’s where he needed the white Soulfire! He cycled it there, and his upper torso caught fire. It eased the pain, but it didn’t take it away.

He glanced over, watching the Saint stroll in his direction. The large man’s eye flashed a deep blue, trailing liquid flames. He clenched his one and only fist, muscles flexing, veins bulging. His other shoulder, the one missing an arm, radiated heat haze. Blue fire exploded where his arm should have been. It expanded, writhing like a tortured snake. It morphed into a replica of his other muscular appendage. Liquid flames rippled from the blue arm, the hand squeezing into a tight fist, morphing into a spiked mace.

“Lael!” Felsacor shouted in a familiar, gravelly tone. “What are you doing?”He sounded genuinely confused. That threw Lael’s balance off, but he quickly rose to his feet, focusing on his enemy.

“First rule of war,” Zeredathah said, fire trailing from his lips, the air trembling at his words. “Never challenge a warrior four drahns above your own!” He thrust his mace at Lael. It shot off like a cannonball. Lael had anticipated this, jumping off to the right, thrusting Soulfire from his soles. He flew through the air as the mace exploded behind him in a hot flash of blue. When he landed, a hand smacked him from behind. He stumbled forward, then slammed against the ground, rolling.

“Let me handle this.” The thought came from Felsacor—his tone deep and rich once again, sounding almost . . . fatherly. “He is superior to you in every way.”

Lael recognized the voice, and his stomach sank. “Modrea.” He gritted his teeth, shaking his head. “Leave!”

The Darkness chuckled. The vibration of his little laugh emanated a hybrid of negative emotions: hatred, rage, spite. “You’re going to need my help eventually, Chosen. I—”

“Leave!”

The unholy presence drifted from his soul, and Felsacor gasped. “What happened? Where am I? Lael, are you—” A shadow passed over Lael, and the draca gasped. Zeredathah glared down at him, a look of disappointment on his face.

He placed the sole of his hairy foot on Lael’s chest. Resting his muscled arm on his knee, he leaned down. The pressure should have crushed his ribs. They would have, had Kin not given him a new set. “You’ve proved me wrong, Chosen. My estimate of your skill was way off.” His scarred face was so close to Lael’s, his coarse beard tickling his nose. “You are far, far weaker than I presumed.”

He grabbed him by the collar, then lifted him to his feet. With a shove, he pushed him to the center of the glade. Lael brushed dirt from his chest and glanced around. Masked men leaned against spears, watching him from the periphery of the arena. Women gawked too, some holding bows at the ready.

Where were Aziroth and Elswyth?

“You will get your friends back if you complete the Trial of the Black Deep.” Zeredathah’s booming steps shook Lael. When the man towered over him, he glanced off to one side. “For now, you must practice.” He raised his blue, fiery arm. Calling out in a foreign tongue, he gestured for people to approach. A man built like a grizzly—though puny compared to Zeredathah—hustled over. He wore the pelt of a sabretooth, its hood bearing the animal’s fanged snout.

A woman ran alongside him. Her eyes were pitch black, matching the color of her bristly hair. The strands twisted and writhed, like the legs of a dying insect. Part of her face was painted blue. The other was stark white, striped with horizontal streaks of black. She wore leather clothing layered with overlapping v-shaped flaps. Two short spears were strapped to her sides.

“These will be your instructors,” Zeredathah said. “Listen to them, and you might have a chance at success.” He turned, facing the largest of the six trees.

Lael wanted to stop him. Wanted to yell at him for forcing him into this. But his muscles ached, and his strength slackened. As the man strolled away, Lael dropped to his knees, watching him leave.

“Stand,” the bear of a man said. “Four weeks might seem like long time, but it nothing. Not when you going to face Trial of Black Deep.” He seized Lael, pulling him to his feet. He could barely stand, his eyes still on the retreating Saint. The surrounding crowd followed him along the winding boardwalk of the tree. His flaming arm evaporated, and the sudden change snapped Lael back to reality . . .

But he couldn’t get the memory of their swift fight out of his mind. The power of this man was unmistakable. A hunger welled up inside of him. It was the same sensation he’d experienced when he fought Blaise for the first time. He needed that power. With it, he could stop jerks like this Saint from picking on the weak. And with it, he could put an end to Dharamadeva, the biggest jerk of them all.

He took a deep breath.

Zeredathah wasn’t going to let him go. But it wasn’t like he wanted him locked up. He wanted to prepare him for whatever this Trial of the Black Deep was. As much as Lael wanted to get the scat out of this swamp, he couldn’t. Not with the Saint here.

A cold mist climbed up his spine. When it tickled his mind, he heard Aziroth clear his throat. “I say humor the old fellow.”

Lael, stone-faced, nodded. He wished he could smile, but after experiencing so much rage, he felt emotionally drained. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“I see this as a good thing. Not much different than what I had planned for you.”

Lael nodded, but when he remembered that his mentor couldn’t see him, he grunted.

“Go through with the training. As for this Trial of the Black Deep, I’ll look into it for you. Not sure what it’s all about, but I’m sure it’s deadlier than anything we can imagine.” He could almost feel Aziroth’s smile. “So you better train till your hands are nothing but bloody stubs! If you fail the test, I will be ashamed to show my face in public.”

“But what about the Light?”

“The Light can wait. You’re not even a Tungsten yet. But by the end of all this, I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”

Lael’s hearts buzzed. The hint of a smirk teased the corner of his lips. He still felt little to nothing, but the prospect of breaking through to the third drahn was an exciting thought.

This entire situation wasn’t what Lael expected, but he would make the most of it.

“Chosen . . .” the man wearing the sabretooth pelt said.

Lael turned to face him, a head taller than the muscly beast.

“Are you ready?”

Lael focused on the liquid weight. It enveloped his spirit. As he cycled it through the crown of his head, down his neck, and into his torso, it slipped through his channels with ease. But as it hit his lower torso, it slowed to a crawl. It burned his spirit, exhausting it, but he kept at it. Taking a deep breath, he nodded toward the man, then the woman. “No. But teach me anyway.”

Chapter 17

The Clown in the Dungeon

Kiyish placed her palms on the dusty dungeon floor, then kicked her feet off the ground, performing a handstand for a crowd of rats. They applauded, cheering with high-pitched squeaks. She smiled at them. With her head upside down, they looked as if they were hanging from a dirty ceiling. They sat just beyond rune-enhanced bars made of narrow bones, chewing on what looked like corn, watching her with bulging eyes, eagerly awaiting the next act.

They were the perfect audience.

If only the ghosts that haunted this place would leave, Kiyish would feel perfectly content. She could see only one from where she “stood.” Its body glowed a faint green, and its features were vaguely humanoid. Its face was blank except for a swirling spiral of blue light on its forehead. It cocked its head, as if trying to figure out what Kiyish was doing. It tapped its chin, then cocked its head the other way, reminding her of a child.

Its innocence made her think of her daughter, and her niece. The thought pained her. The longer she remained in this prison cell, the worse off they’d be; particularly her daughter. The overlord’s treasurer wrote regularly to Kiyish, and the other Volmorrian Generals. If they heard back from her, they sent her monthly stipend to her crippled husband. If not, the money was delayed. Let that happen too long and her family would be expelled from the safety of their home, forced to live in some remote city far from the capitol.

She took a deep breath, then dropped to a seated position. Her vibrant, multicolored coat shimmered in the darkness, as did her rainbow skirt. The brilliant hues matched the flowers garnishing her blonde hair, contrasting with her ever-changing skin. One minute it was black, another, it was purple.

It was all an illusion, crafted to cover up her drab prison garb, and to impress the furry crowd. Subtle footfall echoed down the hall, startling the creatures. The steps were muffled on the dirt-packed floor.

Kiyish smiled, calling off the illusion. Her false clothing swirled to vapor, leaving her with nothing but a gray top, brown pants, black hair, pink skin, and the sour taste of disappointment. Not that she hated her heritage. Fontinovan’s were beautiful in their own right. It’s just that humans were far more appealing, with their various shades of tan, elegant eyes, lithe frames. It was still amazing that she somehow convinced one to marry her.

The footfalls were drawing near.

“Keaton,” she thought.

Her bonded spirit danced inside of her, eager to enact their plan.

Kiyish lifted her right hand, cycling dream essence through her channels. As it passed through her palm, she formed the image of a glittering star. The rats had already fled, so her only audience was the spiral-faced spirit on the other side of the hall. It stared at the glittering ball with rapt interest, taking a step forward. Its feet dripped with water as it took another step, cooing like a dove.

Keaton slid through her other arm, gathering dream aura around his spirit, crafting an illusion that shrouded him in an invisible cloak of mist. When he passed from her hand, even she couldn’t see him.

A soldier stepped into view. His wooden mask was tall, with eye slits revealing blue irises. The mask resembled a snarling monster, with blue paint marking its cheeks. A swirling design, much like the blue swirl on the green spirit’s face, marked the forehead.

The man carried a steaming, wooden bowl, and a cup.

As he crouched, he touched two runes at the base of two different bars. The bones creaked, sliding apart as the man pushed the bowl through. At the same time, Kiyish sensed Keaton slip passed the bars undetected.

After the man finished sliding a wooden cup next to the bowl, he pressed the runes. They shimmered, and the bars inched closer together. He glanced at the star hovering above her hand, giving it a tired, no-nonsense look. Without so much as a shrug, he shuffled off.

When his footfalls disappeared, Kiyish snapped her fingers. The star—already growing faint under her waning stream of dream essence—vanished. The green spirit, now standing in front of the bars, flinched. The swirl on his face tightened, then expanded as he looked from her right hand to her other left hand, as if expecting more. If the being could, it probably would have stepped right in front of her, placing its hands on her knees, and looking up into her face like a child begging for more.

But it couldn’t.

The runes enhancing the bars prevented any sort of spiritual magic from passing through, and that included spiritual beings.

Of course, when they were turned off, anything could pass by undetected.

Like Keaton.

He was free now, hurrying with all due speed to the center of the swamp. He would inform the generals about this place, and they would surely come and attack these rebels. They had all sorts of camps, but this one held the one being she and her equals had been trying to eliminate for years.

Saint Zeredathah.

And soon, when all her Quartz companions gathered to this stronghold, he would regret the day he imprisoned Kiyish the magnificent.

Chapter 18

Portals

Felicity had no idea where she was. Her only guides were a couple of dracas: Najala and Zarra. They directed her through the muggy swamp, soaring over branches, bypassing bubbling bogs and snoozing wolves with crimson fur. Light dappled the ground, having been filtered through the knitted branches overhead. The deeper she got into the Fen, the muggier it grew. Heat haze shimmered from muddy holes, belching clouds of sweltering fog.

Arms open wide, she breezed right through, gliding like a falcon. As a spirit, she felt no mortal discomfort. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken her long to adapt to this ghostly form. Having previously died, she was used to the freedom that came with being a spirit.

But . . . was it freedom?

Every other spirit would attest to the opposite. She was one of the lucky ones . . .

She passed through a thicket of tall mushrooms. In her peripheral, she watched the dark forms stalking her. They were wise to keep their distance, but still, they watched.

When she glanced at one of the hooded Reapers, it vanished.

Wise indeed.

If even a speck of her Goldfire licked one of the phantom’s sleeves, it would writhe in anguish, and maybe even die. An odd concept, considering that the being was a ghost. Could ghosts die? She shuddered, keeping her shimmering flames alive. They radiated from her transparent skin, casting shadows aside.

“Almost there,” Zarra whispered, voice so soft Felicity almost mistook it for a breath.

The serpentine draca undulated through the air, looking like a golden banner. Whiskers trailed from his snout, and two horns poked from the back of his skull. He zipped off to one side, dropping to the ground. As Felicity continued forward, she looked over her shoulder and watched as Zarra blinked a golden teardrop from his all-white eye. It splashed against the mud, trailing luminescent mist.

When the draca finished, it zipped back to Felicity’s side, sticking close. That was the seventh time she’d seen the creature do that. She’d assumed that he was crying. Spirits had feelings too. But after the third drop, she was beginning to have her suspicions. Now, after seven drops, she was insatiably curious.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked.

Zarra hovered along in silence. Together, they passed through the trunk of a tree. Felicity gasped, but she pushed forward. She hadn’t noticed it, else she would have gone around. It was unsettling, being able to travel through the innards of a living thing.

When she passed through the other side, she found herself skimming the surface of a boiling lake. Najala was a good twenty feet ahead of her, gliding just inches above the water. Her passing disturbed the liquid and scared off toads with bulging eyes.

Felicity glanced around, looking for Zarra.

“Right here.”

She touched her neck. The dragon had wrapped himself around it, dangling like a scarf. “What are you doing?” Felicity asked out loud. Sometimes it was just easier to talk.

“Resting.” Zarra apparently thought it easier to think. Not once since bonding with the spirit had she heard it speak. “Why are you dropping tears all over the swamp?”

“Way points.”

“. . . What?”

“When we are through here, we can jump to each of the tears.”

“Jump back? You mean . . . we can teleport?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously!”

Zarra hesitated. “Seriously.”

Felicity pulled the draca from her neck and kissed it. He yelped, coiling like a snake. Felicity laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do this!”

“You never asked.”

“But you could have told me!”

“That’s not how I work. I only give what I am asked to give. Otherwise, my gifts are unappreciated.”

“Hm. Good point.” She glanced over her shoulder. The massive tree now blocked her view of the shimmering tear stain, but she didn’t need to see it. Now that she was focusing on it, she could feel it. At least, she thought she could.

“Can you teach me how to do that?”

“How to what?” Zarra uncoiled and undulated to her neck, wrapping around it. “Weep golden tears?”

“No. Although, that would be cool. But let’s save that for another time. Teach me how to teleport.”

“To the way points?”

“Can I teleport elsewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The way points are merely channels we can tap into. They are checkpoints, leading back the way we—”

Felicity collided with someone. Zarra yelped, clinging to her neck as she tumbled through the air. When she righted herself, she turned, hands flickering with golden fire, to face the perpetrator. Najala was hovering in place, great wings flapping. The creature—about the size of a pony—tensed its face in a conflicted expression.

“What’s wrong?” Felicity brushed her hands against her silken dress, flattening out her ruffled fabric.

“You must continue on your own.” Najala’s soothing feminine voice echoed in Felicity’s mind. “My master has been calling out to me for some time now. I didn’t want to leave you till I knew we were on the right path.” She nodded forward, her pearly scales glistening despite the lack of sunlight. “Continue in that direction, and you’ll reach the center of the swamp.” Najala nodded again. Without a word, she burst into white flames, then shot off to one side, zipping through the air, as if magnetized to some distant object.

Zarra slid off Felicity’s neck, undulating off to one side. He sniffed the air, then shivered. Before Felicity could ask what the matter was, she heard a distant hum. It was distinct enough that it pierced through the myriad of chirps, clicks, squawks and hoots.

To her discomfort, everything steadily grew darker. Was that even possible? Blessedly, her gold light fought back the gloom. Trees trembled and branches snapped as the humming drew near.

When Felicity cast her gaze heavenward, she gasped. The belly of a great ship tore through the upper part of the swamp, skimming the stops of trees, snapping branches like twigs, shoving trunks with ease. It continued on, holding a steady course, struggling to rise above the towering trees. A Flaming Nimbus, in the form of a translucent flame enveloping the vessel, kept the vehicle airborne. Just like Blaise’s ship . . .

Sweet mercy above! Was that monster of a man back, coming to exact his revenge on her son? Grabbing Zarra, Felicity zipped in the direction Najala had indicated. Incidentally, that was exactly where the flying ship was headed.

Aziroth had commissioned her to reach the Volmorrians’ main camp days ago. If she had known it would take this long, would she have gone? She huffed. Of course! She needed to know where the potion master was, and this seemed like the only logical way of finding out. It was either that, or searching the entire swamp for Kin.

“Uh . . .” Zarra whispered. “Hm . . .” He cleared his throat.

“What?” As she passed beneath hanging ivy, and over a large pond in the shape of a reptilian foot, she waited for an answer. Casting her eyes skyward, she watched as the bow of the vessel ripped through wood, gliding across the tops of trees like a seafaring vessel. And still, Zarra didn’t speak. Felicity sighed. He wouldn’t continue, he couldn’t continue, unless Felicity asked.

“There’s something you want to say.” She nodded. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“While we progress, I could teach you the basics of opening a portal.”

Felicity nearly tripped on air. “Yes! Of course.” She shook her head, chuckling despite the mix of complex feelings vying for her heart. “Why keep this from me till now?”

“You never asked.”

Felicity smirked, trying not to feel irked as she committed to inquire more of her draca. She turned her gaze forward, and her breath caught. Past droves of interweaving roots and branches were flickering lights. They looked to her like an army of fireflies, but as she drew closer, she realized what they were. Torches. Thousands of them!

She picked up the pace, willing herself to fly at the speed of a fired cannonball. This was her chance to snoop. Even if she failed to find out anything about Kin, she was determined to discover something useful. Easy, right? No one could see her, so . . .

Wait.

She glanced to one side.

Reapers.

There had to be fifty, maybe more. Why so many? Were they planning to ambush her? Could they overwhelm her with the sheer force of their numbers? She sighed, grumbling quietly.

“Keep an eye on them,” she whispered.

“I’ll keep two on them.” Her draca coiled on her scalp, watching the phantoms. “Now, I think a lesson in the art of transportation will be of value to you.”

“Agreed,” Felicity said, flying through trunks, bushes, and mushrooms. “Teach me.”

For the first time in their relationship, she sensed the draca smile. “I will.”

Chapter 19

Crimson Sand

Hushed chants, like cultists uttering incantations, eased Victoria from her unconscious state. She blinked, staring into the navy face of the Queen herself. A shockwave of panic ripped through her spirit. “Stay back!” she screamed, scooting away. When she blinked again, her eyes focused. Billions of twinkling eyes glared, and that nearly sent her into a frenzy. As she squirmed back, raising a hand to ward off the goddess, her eyelids fluttered.

The infinite expanse of the night sky congealed before her eyes. She gasped, sweat trailing down her face despite the cool wind rustling her liquid hair. She took several shaky breaths, trembling.

“Hishshar?” an airy voice asked. Hishshar. The word meant mother or life-giver in the old Volmorrian tongue.

Victoria turned to find one of her blood-forged offspring. Blood dripped from the strands of her crimson hair, sliding down a featureless face. She had a fanged mouth, the corners of which nearly touched where the creature’s ears should have been. Red armor, covering its entire body like the shell of a crab, glistened beneath the light of both moons.

“Hishshar?” another asked as others gathered around. Victoria was surrounded by twenty of her blood-forged children. Their lips stretched into menacing grins, despite the concern she felt from their voices.

She reached out to one of the warriors, still trembling. As her children helped her sit up, she glanced at the night sky again. It was shocking just how much it resembled the Queen. That menace. The goddess was supposedly dead, or close to it. Her father had taken care of the woman decades ago.

As her children stepped back, one of them raised a hand and pointed toward a pile of dark rocks. They were everywhere, scattered all around the desert sand. Victoria was lost, to say the least. Desert sand? She looked from her right to her left, scanning the scene.

An imposing wall, with a horizontal line painted near the top, was on her left. Remembrance flooded back into her. Akkesai. She’d been hovering above Akkesai, in her ship the Bleeding Harpy. Where was it now . . .

Her heart skipped.

The dark rocks.

As she stared at them, realization dawned on her. Those weren’t rocks. That one, straight ahead, pointing up toward the starlit sky was the bow of her vessel. And what were those lumps, scattered alongside the debris of her ship?

“Bodies,” her parasite hissed.

Bodies. There were hundreds of them. Their blood stained the sand for miles all around.

“We awakened you . . .” one of her bloody offspring whispered, “because . . .” The creature raised a maroon finger, gesturing toward the horizon. “. . . someone approaches . . .” Three airborne vessels hovered in their direction. Their Flaming Nimbuses, translucent bonfires flickering around the ships’ bellies, burned bright in the evening gloom.

Victoria took a step back, spirit shivering in anticipation. Were these imperial vessels? Had Uunoa escaped?

She is gone, Modrea whispered to her mind. Examine the blood on your hands.

Victoria held out her hands. Her arms were covered in gore. To her surprise, it was still wet. Even more shocking, her dented armor was smothered in the stuff. But this could be anyone’s blood.

Her eyes rolled back, seeing nothing but darkness. The veins in her sclerae pulsed, and her vision changed. She saw the blood saturating her hands, but instead of it being red, it radiated with a blue-white brilliance.

Symbol of an Archdiamond’s lifeforce.

Her blood forged children—standing around her in a wide circle, leaning in—radiated a deep blue.

Victoria’s own body glowed with a similar color, thanks to her Sapphire soul. She could barely see it, because of Uunoa’s blood. With a small exertion of will, she absorbed the blood into her spirit. Her parasite writhed excitedly, stretching out its tendrils to feed. As it absorbed Uunoa’s lifeforce, Victoria’s spirit rippled and began to expand. She was on the verge of breaking through to the Lowdiamond—soaking up an Archdiamond’s essence would bring her that much closer to Advancing.

“They approach,” one of her children muttered, watching the oncoming ships. Victoria stared at her blood-forged . . . child. When had she started thinking of them as children? These were her doppelgangers. Her soldiers. Not her offspring!

Yet, as the creature turned its red face to regard her, Victoria’s heart tugged with an unmistakable pulse of pity. She found herself reaching out, clasping the clone’s cheek in her hand. It flinched, then went stock still. Her rolled-back eyes turned and scanned the others’ faces. They leaned back, as if expecting her to lash out. They were right in assuming so. There was more than one occasion when she’d used one of her blood-forged soldiers as a target for her rage.

Her soul sank at the thought. How had she been so merciless to these, her children? They belonged to her, each one a sliver of the essence of who she was, made from her very own lifeforce.

The hum vibrating from the airborne vessels grew unbearably loud. Victoria glared at the three of them, blood pressure rising. But instead of holding her attention, she was distracted by the blood-stained sand. The stains were a variety of shades, each proclaiming the drahn of its source. Steel-colored splats were the essence of her lesser soldiers. Tungsten, her high officers. Sapphire, her blood-forged children. Large swathes of desert were covered in the deep-blue radiance. Her heart slammed against her chest, blood boiling. Her parasite hissed, and crimson drops oozed from her skin, seeping from the chinks in her battered armor. The tail of a scorpion rose from her back, arching over her head. The tip dripped with poison; it splashed against her helmet, hissing with each plop.

She hustled toward the oncoming ships, and her children followed, imitating her confident stride. As she increased the pace, she crouched, preparing to lunge. The nearest vessel was a mile or two away, but that was nothing. Her fists tightened, bending her metal gauntlets, and she yearned to crush whomever was onboard. It was probably Kyiin, or Jiuul.

Both Archdiamonds.

Her gauntlets—now crippled clumps of metal—no longer served her. She ripped them off, tossing them with the flick of a wrist. As she shook out her hands, throwing specks of blood across the sand, her black veins bulged.

Victoria flinched but continued her stride.

Black veins?

Although her arms were plated with armor, she could sense icy vessels spiraling along her forearms, all the way to her pounding heart. A dark presence spiraled within the hammering organ.

You’re in luck, Modrea whispered.

Her body flushed with heat, her skin prickling. “What do you mean?”

The ships. What colors do they fly?

Victoria glanced upward, looking toward one of the crow’s nests. Maroon flags—bearing a white, curled scorpion tail—flapped in the wind. Relief flowed through her as a burden, like the great weight of an anvil, dropped from her shoulders. She slowed to a stop, as did her small platoon of armed offspring. Now that she knew she was safe, she could relax. Maybe sit down and rest. Her knees buckled, and she dropped. Two of her kids reached out, grabbing her before she faceplanted in the sand. They held her as she bowed her head. Liquid hair hung from her cracked helmet, draping over her eyes.

Her legs . . . they were freezing, too.

How had she been walking? How was she even conscious? The last time she’d given Modrea full reign of her soul, she’d been out for weeks; purging the Darkness had taken even longer. If the oncoming ships hadn’t been her own, she would have been doomed. A spirit could only handle so much Godlike power . . .

The three airborne vessels hovered around her in a circle as they descended. When they touched the sand, their Flaming Nimbuses burst and dissipated, wind ruffling Victoria’s hair.

Her eyes were still on the sand, blood dripping from her faceplate. She heard metal scraping metal, and as she turned her gaze, she watched as a gangplank slid from a deck. It hit the sand, forming a pathway from the ship to the desert below.

Soldiers wearing dark armor, with maroon cloaks billowing from their shoulders, rushed down to meet her. Victoria’s brows creased as her heart darkened. What were they doing here? They were supposed to be hunting for Aziroth. For the chosen one!

She planted her feet in the sand. With an excruciating effort, she rose to her feet and shook off the bloody hands supporting her. “Why are you here!” she shouted, limping toward them. She straightened her back, trying to hide the limp, but that caused her muscles to lock up. She bit down hard, pretending that she meant to stop so abruptly.

As the group of soldiers knelt before her, the foremost spoke. “Lady Victoria,” she said, panting. “We bear urgent news—”

“The chosen one,” another cut in. “He’s in the Fen of Fontinova!”

Victoria’s spine straightened. “How do you know this?” She spoke with a slur, but if any of her women had the audacity to mock her, they would regret it.

“All we have are the words of witnesses.”

“Volmorrian soldiers!” another soldier said. “Runaways, from the swamp. They claimed to have seen the chosen one there!”

Victoria stared at the soldiers with an expressionless gaze. “Where are these men?”

“Locked away.” The soldier nodded toward their ship.

Good . . .

She’d need to speak to them. A couple of runaways couldn’t be trusted. Not completely. She knew from experience that people had a tendency of telling you what you wanted to hear . . . But she had ways of pulling the truth out.

Terrible ways.

Bloody ways.

But these weren’t the first ones to have shared information about Lael . . .

Before her fight with Uunoa, one of her soldiers had informed her of a mass interrogation. The people who’d been interrogated had witnessed Blaise’s fall, and followed Lael for a time, traveling in a northern direction.

“One of your ships is flying over the Fen now,” a soldier said. “They’re traveling to speak with the leaders of the swamp, to ask if they caught wind of the chosen one.”

“Do you really think they’d give up that information?” Victoria asked.

“Uh . . .”

“Aziroth and the chosen one are two of the most wanted men in all of Wyvden. Turning them in will earn any man or woman a fortune that would last them for generations.” She waved toward the vessels. “Prepare for liftoff. We leave immediately.”

“Y-yes!” The soldier rose, as did the others. They turned, and hurriedly marched back up the gangplank. Victoria followed them with stiff legs, her children following close by. She could sense them watching her, ready to reach out and catch her at a moment’s notice.

Soldiers on the ship cried to one another, asking where to set sail. People shouted, “The Fen!” That word echoed from person to person, then from ship to ship. And they weren’t wrong. That was exactly where Victoria meant to go. There was too much proof pointing to the swamp. But it was vast. Aziroth and his little crony could be anywhere beneath the canopy of those massive trees.

Well, better to have a general idea than none at all.

Still, she had to make sure she was heading in the right direction . . .

As she set foot on the deck, she headed toward the door attached to the quarterdeck. The dungeon was at the base of the ship. She meant to pay the Volmorrian runaways a visit. Red tendrils extended from her fingers, swaying in anticipation, hungry for blood . . .

She passed soldiers running to-and-fro, pulling ropes, and extending sails. There were seven standing completely still, turning to regard her. They were her blood-red counterparts—children she’d left aboard this vessel to keep an eye on her women. Their grins widened, revealing curved fangs.

They joined her as she marched forth. Was it wise to have so many clustered around her? She almost commanded them to spread out, on this ship and the others, but her parasite writhed, stretching out its tendrils and shocking her spirit. She gasped, but kept herself walking, refusing to stumble and appear weak. She could feel the eyes of her soldiers watching her. She didn’t have to look to see the discomfort on their faces.

“Keep your children close,” her parasite whispered. “I need their aura . . .”

Victoria shifted to her spiritual sight. Red light radiated from her children, and into the tendrils stretching from her parasite. It flowed into her spirit, entering the creature’s mouth. She’d only seen the ghost a handful of times, so she could imagine its fanged jaws gaping, inhaling the crimson energy. The aura pulsed through her soul, keeping her upright. Nourishing her spiritually, and bodily. She hadn’t eaten for days. Weeks, maybe. Or months. The parasite provided all she needed.

Most of the time.

She entered a doorway, and started downstairs, heading for the prisoners at the base of the ship. When her women could no longer see her, she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Wet hands grasped hers, while others gripped her arms. The muscles in her legs went rigid. When she tried bending them, they ached in response. Without missing a beat, her children picked her up and carried her. Her anger flared, and she nearly snapped at them, telling them to put her down. She wasn’t an impotent! She could walk herself.

She bit her tongue so hard it drew blood. It was the only thing keeping her from lashing out. It was pointless, punishing her children. But she needed to lash out! An unsettling rage was boiling up inside of her, and if she didn’t hurt somebody soon, she was going to pop. Good thing she was heading to the dungeon . . . She’d have plenty of opportunity to vent her frustration when she tortured her prisoners for the truth.

If they were lying about Lael’s location, she would find out soon.

Until then, they’d head toward the Fen.

And although the swamp was a maze of trees, she would find the boy. Her children had a knack for tracking, so it was only a matter of time before the chosen one was in Modrea’s grasp . . .

Taking him one step closer to shrouding the world in darkness.

Chapter 20

Bogyn to Bogyn

Gurgs peeked over a mound of dung, spying on a deep pool of water. It was surprisingly clear, and even from where he snooped, he could see down into its crystalline depths. Bogyns both young and old were swimming down to the bottom, collecting aquatic plants.

Gurgs shifted his gaze. There was a pile of the purple kelp on the other side of the pool. There, black-armored guards counted the plants one by one, tossing them into a handcart. There were five men . . .

Easy pickings.

He and his followers had already liberated four slave sites in just three days.

He now had thirty followers. They were huddled behind him, a few peeking over his shoulder, spying on the guards. Others were munching on the dung. Gurgs scooped up a piece himself, licking it with his tongue. It was salty. A little sweet. And terribly familiar . . .

He recognized the flavor instantly.

This belonged to a full grown crogator. Ever since his run-in with the baby, he’d kept his senses sharp and alert. The little guy’s scent wouldn’t leave his skin—same with his kin. They reeked of reptilian filth, and that could only get them in trouble. The scent would eventually wear off, but until then, they needed to keep moving. If they stayed in one place too long, an overprotective crogator parent might catch wind of them, and charge over. No sense in attracting the wrath of the baby’s momma.

“What we do?” Gurgs’s sister, Agrolia, whispered. She glared with red-glinting eyes at the soldiers, her long wispy hair rustling in a pleasant muggy breeze.

“You stay. I attack,” Gurgs started crawling forward, but his sister and six other hands clutched the back of his fish-scale tunic. He looked over his shoulder, face twisting in confusion. “What?”

“You no go alone,” a young teenager, Gorlon, hissed. He had yet to grow fangs. “We go with you.”

“You stay here.”

“You die if you go alone,” Agrolia whispered. “We fight with you.”

Gurgs’s eyes flicked from her to the Bogyns he’d first liberated. It’d been a few days since their liberation, and they were already beginning to gain weight, looking mighty healthy. Their skin was no longer squeezing their bones.

They could fight, though he did wish they’d hold off, and wait a couple more days. That would give them time to thicken their muscles, but who was he to keep his kin from helping?

They would eventually raid the center of the swamp, where those armored monsters were probably keeping Master. Even if he wasn’t there, breaking down the Volmorrians’ biggest stronghold would give his kin and the Fontinovans a big advantage. That, and he’d liberate even more of his cousins! Then, if Master was nowhere to be found, he’d have an even bigger search party . . .

The core of his chest ached. He clutched the clothing covering his chest, squeezing it in a fistful of anguish. The longer he and Master were apart, the weaker he was getting. Master was his rising sun. Without his brilliant rays, he’d eventually wither and die.

“. . . You okay?” Agrolia asked.

Gurgs was panting, his tongue hanging from his mouth. He waved a hand, turning to peek over the dung pile once more. Why had he brought up Master? He’d been fine not thinking about him till now! But how could he not think of him?

“Gurgs?” Balthazar’s posh voice entered his mind. “I . . . am not going to lecture you or anything. I feel like I’ve done enough of that already. But you have to know that you can survive without Master.”

Gurgs was shaking his head, though he slowly stopped, his clenched fist relaxing. What was this feeling? It had entered his heart the moment Balthazar started speaking. It warmed his chest, filling his soul with what felt like light.

“There was one you worshiped, long before you even knew Master existed. You know her. You once loved her, as you do Master.”

Gurgs was nodding. “The Queen . . .” he whispered, and his spirit shivered with warmth.

Balthazar nodded inside of him.

“NO!” Agrolia hissed, teeth bared as she looked out toward the pool. “They going to kill her!

That knocked Gurgs from his musings. Near the pile of kelp, one of the soldiers was beating a Bogyn. She was curled into a tight ball, her bones protruding from her sickly blue flesh. Acid boiled Gurgs’s flesh and he slammed his palms into the pile of dung, sinking his nails into the reeking feces. He nearly charged, but it seemed as if a force within held him back. He remembered what happened last time when he rushed into battle. Death had nearly claimed him. If it wasn’t for his brain—er, Balthazar—he would have died.

“Help me,” he whispered to the spirit.

“I will,” he replied. “Hurry, go! Before your cousin dies!”

Gurgs screeched as he lunged over the apex of the poop hill and raced down the other side. His shrill cry was accompanied by thirty other gurgled shrieks following behind him. Their collective cries seemingly tore the air apart. Volmorrian soldiers were crying out, slamming their hands against their ears.

Gurgs lunged into the pool between him and his enemies. He darted through the water, swimming at a pace that surprised even him. Time seemed to slow as the water around him darkened, enfolding him in an aquatic embrace. Everything stood still, and it was as though he heard a far off whisper. A familiar warmth spread across his spirit. One he wanted to lean into, and never leave again.

The cry of his kin shocked him back to reality.

He lunged from the pool, arcing through the air like an orca. Heading straight for the man who’d beaten his cousin. He collided with the soldier, expecting to knock the man off his feet and to his back. Instead, it felt like he smashed into a brick wall.

Stars bloomed in his vision as he dropped to mud, falling to his back. The man reared his stone fist, and Gurgs rolled to the right. But instead of punching at Gurgs, the man stomped his foot, and punched skyward.

Stone spires equal to the man’s height materialized around him. They spun around his body, forming a spinning shield. Gurgs looked over his shoulder, to check on his healthy kin. They were grabbing Volmorrians, pulling at their armor, tearing it off their bodies.

Gurgs quickly turned his attention back to the stone-covered soldier. Not an inch of dark armor was showing. His entire body was enveloped in black stone, and now, there were seven spires whirling around him, spinning faster, and faster.

The man punched one, and it rocketed toward Gurgs.

He didn’t even have time to think.

It tore into his chest, throwing him back. Balthazar screamed something, but Gurgs heard nothing. Felt nothing. The spirit flowed toward the wound as Gurgs rolled to his feet, facing his enemy. The man punched another spire.

Gurgs lunged to the right, dodging the spike.

The man was approaching. A stone dragon perched on his shoulder, emitting a low, menacing grumble.

On instinct, Gurgs enveloped himself in a haze of burning acid.

“Hurry!” Balthazar shouted. “Burn those spires to mist!” In the blink of an eye, his spirited friend impressed upon him the meaning of those words.

Gurgs cycled acid through his channels, up his throat, and to his mouth. He spewed out a stream of steaming acid right as his opponent spun and kicked another spire. The acid collided with the spire, pushing against it in a stream of burning fury. The stone spike seemed to push with equal fervor. Gurgs contorted his face, pushing back by vomiting a larger column of acid. His red eyes flicked up to the soldier.

The man seemed to be concentrating, holding out his hands toward Gurgs as he stood in a sideways crouch. His gauntleted hands trembled, as did the armor on his body.

Suddenly, Gurgs’s vision changed.

He now saw the man as a figure of color, the majority of which was a deep earthen green. The hue rushed from his hands, flowing into the miniature spires. Again, Gurgs sensed Balthazar wordlessly enlightening his mind.

Earth aura was flowing from the man. And those metal scales on the back of his neck symbolized the strength of his spirit. He was a Tungsten. And for the first time, Gurgs discovered something about himself.

He was a Steel.

One rank below this monster.

The black spire broke through, zipping toward Gurgs’s face. He ducked just in time, calling off his acid, and blinking to return to normal vision. The man was running toward him. Gurgs screamed and charged him, too.

A strong yearning for Master gripped his heart. If he were here, what would he do? If he was here, Gurgs wouldn’t have to face this task alone! Yes, his kin were here, but they were looking to him to lead.

Whispers trailed through his mind, and at first, he thought it was Balthazar. But it couldn’t be. These whispers belonged to a woman. She seemed to warn him, telling him of some unseen danger. He shook off the whispers, mind returning to Master, and the way he—

A rock hit his head and exploded.

He tripped and tumbled, blinded by pain. Balthazar’s healing presence rushed to his skull, alleviating the anguish almost instantly. As he opened his eyes, a boot came down on his face. He raised his hands, but he was too late.

It collided with his chin. He momentarily blacked out, but as he came to, he found himself in the grasp of the Tungsten. The man chucked him. He splashed into the pool, face toward the interweaving branches, and the distant sky. Despite Balthazar’s greatest efforts to heal him, Gurgs began to sink into oblivion.

The last thing he heard was the laughter of his enemies, and the horrified screams of his family.

Chapter 21

Pathless

Briar leaned to the right, dodging a flaming laser. It ripped through a boulder, blowing it to smithereens. He dove forward, somersaulting across sand in anticipation of what came next. He felt the whoosh of a blade pass over him. As he jumped to his feet, sediment sticking to his sweaty skin, he unsheathed his sword and slashed while turning

His blade collided with the edge of another sword with a clang that reverberated through the cave. Sweat slid into Briar’s golden eyes, stinging them as he glared into menacing flickers of red light. Tiny flames danced within the eye sockets of his skeletal foe, and they expanded as it pushed its blade against Briar’s.

“Die, demon!” Briar stomped on the skeleton’s foot, cracking its toes. The runes on his metal boots shimmered as he pushed hard, cycling mana to the symbols. He didn’t have much, but over these past few weeks, his training had expanded his threshold. With a thrust of his boot, the creature’s foot snapped, knocking it off balance. Briar thrust his sword forward, knocking the skeleton to its back. The sound of charging Soulfire whirred far behind him. He dropped to the ground as a flaming laser shot over him, exploding against the sand, throwing sediment in a thousand directions.

Briar shielded his eyes, protecting them from the sandy explosion. As he lowered his gauntleted hand, he briefly wished he was better equipped. Only his hands and feet were armored. Elavendhan had given him the armor because he passed the last four trials. He was allowed to get the next set if he passed his current test. One he had failed at least twenty times.

But the battles were repetitious, and he was beginning to memorize the patterns in this one. And about right now, a two headed skeleton should be—

A skeletal hand shot from the sand, grasping Briar’s leg. He cried out, punching the bony fingers as they locked around his ankle. This hadn’t happened before! The hand tugged and he slid across the gritty surface, leaving a trail in his wake. He reared his fist, cycling mana to the rune carved on the palm of his gauntlet. It burned brightly, casting light through the slits between his tightly closed fingers. As he yelled, he hammered the enemy’s hand.

“Let go!” Briar yelled, punching again and again. The skeletal hand cracked as it descended beneath the sand, pulling him under. His heart lunged into his throat as his skin flushed with a panicked heat. “No!” He slapped his hands against the sand, using brute strength to keep himself from going under.

What was this hellion doing, dragging him to depths of the Nether?!

Briar’s stomach fluttered as it sank in despair. Without the Light’s forgiveness, this was his destiny. And without Saint Elavendhan’s intervention, he would have died back in the desert. The Saint could have left him to perish . . . but he hadn’t. He still had a chance to redeem his blighted soul!

Only when Briar passed all ten of the Saint’s tests would he be allowed to seek out the Light. But until then, Briar was stuck in this hole, fighting against hordes of demons and a host of other unspeakable fiends.

Muscles aching, Briar screamed in anguish as he cycled the last of his mana to his metal gloves. The runes burned bright, and his gloves grew tense, acting as an extra pair of muscles. They relieved his hands, but his forearms and biceps were left to quake with overexertion.

The skeleton’s cracked hand slipped from Briar’s ankle, latching on to his metal boot. With a harsh tug the creature yanked the shoe loose, pulling Briar down, leaving him to crawl out of the hole, puffing great huffs of air. He turned around, watching the sand in case the skeleton decided to rise again. Despite his trembling muscles, he scrambled back. Then bumped against bony legs.

“Whoa!” He rolled to the side as a bony fist came crashing down. Briar jumped to his feet and watched as the two-headed skeleton rose from his punch. One of its heads shifted on its neck and gave him an open grin. A blue flame danced within its left eye socket.

As the skeleton rose to its full height, the other head turned, frowning deeply. A red flame danced within its right eye socket. Briar shifted his arms, holding up his . . . sword? Where was his sword! He backed away from the approaching skeleton as he scanned the sand. Before he looked too far, he tripped over a rock, landing on his hindquarters. “Gah!” He scrambled back, looking at the . . . rock?

No! Not a rock. A skull

Another skeleton was rising from the sand. When Briar scrambled to his feet, he turned to flee, but stopped short. Three other skeletons were climbing from the sand, eager expressions on their cracked faces. One blindsided him, wrapping its arms and legs around him. Biting his neck.

Briar screamed a curse as another reached out, grabbing his ankle. He tripped, faceplanting into the sand. “No!” His voice was muffled. He rolled to his back, punching the skeleton biting his neck. Drawing blood. The adrenaline rushing through his veins kept the pain at bay.

The seven other skeletons grabbed his arms and legs, and held him down, chattering with excitement as the two-headed grunt tromped over. “Let go of me, you—” A skeletal foot kicked his face, breaking his jaw. They all cackled as Two-head stood over him, holding out his hand. The jovial face laughed maniacally as the serious head stared with a sober expression, the red light flickering in its eye socket expanding. It grew bright red as its hand caught on fire, flickering with menacing flames. In a blink, it slashed its sharp fingers at Briar’s shoulder, slicing off his arm. Briar screamed, blood spurting from his dismembered appendage.

As the two-headed monster reared up its flaming arm, pressing its sharp fingers together, it aimed at Briar’s heart. He was losing so much blood so fast that the corners of his vision darkened.

The sharp, skeletal fingers came down.

They ripped through his leather shirt, tore flesh, and snapped ribs, and Briar silently accepted his twenty-first death. When the tips of the bladed fingers pierced his heart, time slowed to a halt. The fire coming off the fiend’s hand froze, and Briar’s pain ceased. The blood pouring from his open wound stopped its motion, making it look like an arching fountain of motionless wine.

Briar’s eyes flicked to the far wall.

Elavendhan perched on an outcropping near a cracked, earthen ceiling. Light streamed in from tiny fissures at several different angles, echoing the luminescent tattoos on the Saint’s dark face. Elavendhan waved a hand, and it trailed glowing mist.

The skeletons surrounding Briar convulsed. One by one, they exploded into steam. When they were gone, blood flowed back into Briar’s wound. His shoulder slapped against the hole and his bone and tissue mended back together. The injury on his neck, and his bleeding chest, healed at the same time.

As time returned to its normal speed, Briar took a deep breath. Pain no longer plagued him. In fact, he felt as if he’d had a full night’s rest. As he sat up, he looked toward Elavendhan. The Saint was standing. He was no longer wrapped in the coarse hair of his pelt. Pants of a similar material reached down to his knees.

Chains snaked in and out of the tattooed flesh of his chiseled torso, wrapping around his back and thick chest, coiling along his muscled arms. His body tattoos were shining brightly, and Briar watched with discomfort as his skin rippled like the surface of a lake. The chains sank deeper into his flesh. When his tattoos dimmed, the rippling ended, and the chains stopped sinking.

The Saint crouched, then lunged through the air, shattering his perch. The cavern walls trembled, and when he landed, sand burst from the impact, flying in every direction. Briar blocked his eyes before a wave of sediment crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Eyes and mouth closed, he shook his head, ridding his hair of sand as he sat up. He was covered in a blanket of it.

Elavendhan stood over him, staring down at him with those all-white eyes. “You failed.” His voice seemed to vibrate all around him.

Briar chuckled darkly, nodding as he rose to his feet. “I did . . .”

“Why?”

Because, Briar thought, you threw a blasted surprise at me! “I . . . didn’t expect a hand to reach out and try to pull me under.”

“And because of that . . .” Elavendhan said, opening his hand. Mist radiated from his palm. A sword shot up from the sand, and he caught it by the hilt. “. . . you lost your sword.” He tossed it to Briar, who caught it, lowering his gaze.

“Look at me.”

Briar straightened his back, meeting the man’s eyes. He trembled, but he tried to hide it. With one thought, this man could crush him. Saints were said to be second only to Gods. Briar glanced down at the chains wrapping around the man’s body. Why wear them . . . ?

“It is the curse I carry,” Elavendhan said. “I am no Saint, Briar Lightsworn. These bands restrict my power, making me into something much less.” He inhaled deeply through his nose. “But I can access the power I once held. The more I do, the tighter these chains get, and the closer I come to dying.”

Briar nodded, his stomach knotting. Was the man reading his mind? How many questions had he inwardly asked over these past couple of weeks? The man must have heard them all. Why answer them now?

“Because you’ve earned my trust, Lightsworn.” The man gestured to a rock. “Sit.” Briar cocked a brow, leaning in to examine it. After he made sure it wasn’t the skull of a predatory demon, he sat upon it. “Before I answer your questions, answer me this. Why did you fail?”

“The test?” Briar’s heart skipped. “Like I said, I didn’t expect to get grabbed! Why change it up on me after the twentieth try?”

Elavendhan held out hand, palm down. Red mist flowed from his hand. “Your enemies won’t be predictable.” A metal boot popped from the sand, slapping against the Saint’s palm. “Once I was certain you’d pass, I threw in one unexpected step.” He handed him his boot.

Briar accepted it, nodding. After setting his sword aside, he slipped on the shoe. “You wanted to see how I’d adapt?”

Elavendhan gave one nod, his long, white hair undulating slightly.

Briar looked to where he’d nearly been dragged to his death. To his credit, he did a pretty good job handling that twist. His only downfall was when he lost his sword. With that, he would have had at least a fighting chance.

“Now,” Elavendhan sat on a cloud of mist. “What do you want to know?”

A dozen questions popped up at once, but only one managed to escape his lips. “Why can’t you help me? Why not leave the desert? I know you can’t, but why?”

The Saint nodded, as if he’d expected the question. “The more you Advance, the more reliant you are on the spirits you bond with. Most of the Saints died because Dharamadeva managed to slay their dracas . . .”

Briar leaned in, hands on his knees. He knew what the man was talking about. Over the course of his training, he’d slipped in tidbits here and there. In only a matter of weeks, he knew all he needed to know about drahns, dracas, and the state of the world—which was much bigger than he’d previously imagined.

Elavendhan shook the chains fused to his flesh. “This is made of a metal that restricts spiritual potency. It’s how the tyrant managed to kill the rest of us. And it’s why I’ll never stand a chance against him.”

Briar sputtered. “You can’t say that! I mean, look at what you did to me!” He rolled his arm, gesturing to it. “That skeleton sliced off my arm. You stopped time and mended it back together. Over twenty times!”

“And each time . . .” Elavendhan stared, expressionless. “I draw closer to my doom.”

Briar’s heart clenched. “No . . .”

“Yes . . .” Mist continued flowing off his skin, his long white hair undulating. “It is why I’m tutoring you, passing on my legacy.”

“But time is running out!” Briar jumped to his feet. “I can’t keep failing like this. We’re two weeks in, and I’m still on the fifth phase.”

Elavendhan cocked a brow. “Two weeks?”

“I think. It’s been at least that long.”

Elavendhan smirked.

“Three?”

“Days.”

Briar nearly dropped to the sand. “Days? Three days?”

“In the world outside of my domain, yes. In here, it has been three weeks.”

Briar slapped his forehead. Of course! If the man could stop time, then it would only make sense for him to be able to slow it down. “But isn’t that . . .” Briar winced, looking down at the man’s muscled body. His tattoos were shimmering softly. “. . . slowly killing you.”

“Each day brings me closer to a death I am willing to accept.” Elavendhan’s mist evaporated, and he dropped to his feet. The ground trembled. “But I am unwilling to go until I’ve taught you everything I know.”

Briar swallowed, but there was a lump in his throat. He wanted to speak, but instead, he bowed his head, clenching his fists. Why did the Saint have so much trust in him? If this world was made up of powerful Soul artists, then why pick him? Briar barely had enough mana to sustain his armor!

“’I choose the weak things of this world to thresh the nations of the mighty . . .’”

Briar’s chest warmed. He recognized the scripture. It came straight from The Book of Holiness and Light, the sacred text of the Lightsworn.

“The Light wants you, Briar. He can use you, just as you are.”

“How . . . ?” He didn’t have the power to stand up against an overlord. Nether, he didn’t even know if he would receive the Light’s forgiveness for what he’d done. Annec’s murder still haunted him to this day.

“You may be surprised to find,” Elavendhan said, “that the Light is far more forgiving than you or your priestly father ever made him out to be.”

Briar swallowed as he looked off to one side. An antsy, tingling sensation crawled along his spine—he needed to change the subject now. “So . . .” He cleared his throat. “You can’t leave the desert because . . . ?”

“My draca is stuck here,” Elavendhan said. “Deep within the earth.” He waved a hand. “But that is a story for another time.” He stared into Briar’s eyes for a time, then nodded toward a circular opening on the far wall. “You are tired. Leave this place and rest. When you return, your training will continue.” Elavendhan turned to leave.

“Wait!” Briar held out a hand.

Elavendhan looked over his shoulder, the tips of his long white hair skirting his calves.

“Even if you trained me for five hundred years how could I, a Pathless, stand any chance of reaching the Light, let alone help Lael destroy the overlord?”

Elavendhan narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but he cocked his head instead. He locked those all-white eyes with Briar’s golden gems. Despite the hardness of his features, and those unnatural eyes, he somehow radiated a softness, one tinged with pity. “Rest. I’ve given you all your mind can handle. Answers will come with time.” He turned and lunged through the air, toward where his perch used to be. Mist trailed his body, making him look like a shooting star. Before reaching the wall, the stones rose from the sand, and clicked back into place, sticking as if slathered with tar.

Elavendhan landed on top of the reformed perch. The rocks trembled, but held. With a flash of red-tinged white light, he vanished. Briar was left to think of their swift conversation. In all the weeks—or days—he’d been with the Saint, never had the man said so much in so short a time. As Briar trudged to the open door to find his sleeping quarters, he let the Saint’s words sink into his mind . . .

Elavendhan was right.

Answers would come with time, something he had a lot of down here. Until then, he would practice. He may be Pathless, but that wouldn’t stop him from becoming the best swordsman in all of Wyvden.

Chapter 22

Knocked Down Seven, Stand Up Eight

The butt of a spear slammed into the space between Lael’s eyes. His head jerked back as he stumbled, but the translucent scales covering his skin buffered the pain. When a frosty spearhead stabbed at him, he shifted to the left while lifting his cannon arm and bringing it down on the weapon’s haft.

Crack!

The spear splintered. The man holding it—face painted blue—dropped what remained of the weapon and stumbled back, holding his fists in front of his face, squatting into a fighting stance. The hood of his hairy pelt was down, revealing a head marked with scars. As the brute took a deep breath, his fists frosted over. He exhaled, vapor puffing from his nostrils.

Lael shuffled to one side, his left-hand flickering with black Soulfire.

The bear of a man copied him. A short, icy figure with angular appendages sat on his shoulder, glowing eyes upon its sharp face. Seeing the bonded spirit made Lael’s heart ache. It’d been a week since his fight with Saint Zeredathah—since then, Felsacor had remained unusually silent. At first, Lael thought he’d died. But then he felt the spirit stir in his soul. He tried speaking to him, but the draca never responded.

Had Modrea messed him up? Lael shivered, goosebumps rising on his skin. How had the Darkness possessed Felsacor? Had he possessed him? Or had the dark being merely inspired his draca to speak the way he did? It still disturbed him, and Felsacor’s silence only prolonged the fear he felt.

As he circled the clearing across from his opponent, his hearts pounded fast. He only had three weeks left to prepare for the Trial of the Black Deep. Kodia and Lyreen—his mentors in the art of mortal combat—had packed weeks of training into these past several days. As much as Lael loved learning how to fight, he was beginning to feel overwhelmed with all the information.

Kodia—the man with the icy fists—shot forward, striking with a punch. Lael raised his cannon arm, blocking the blow while punching with his own flaming fist. The man caught it with his other frozen hand, holding it in place. Lael glared into the man’s icy gaze as the two of them struggled to shove each other over. Just last week, Lael would have tumbled to the dirt. Kodia was much stronger, but Lael’s body weighed much more than his. He wasn’t sure why, but the tonic Kin Kinboa had given him turned his bones into metal ivory. His cannon still looked like bone, but when light caught it, the surface shimmered like a polished blade.

The chattering, clashing, and yells of the people surrounding Lael dropped off. It had been white noise, but now, with it gone, the air felt empty. Lael quickly glanced left, looking toward the masked men and blue-face women. They’d stopped training, faces turned to regard Lael and Kodia. Six massive trees, like great living towers, surrounded the vast glade. Their branches, though interwoven, allowed rays of light to break through.

Kodia pulled back—Lael backed off at the same time. He panted, wiping sweat from his brow. He’d been at this for the greater part of the morning. When was the last time he’d eaten? The last time he had a drink?

He crouched into frog stance, a base position Kodia had insisted he perfect. It favored swift evasions. He tried taking a step back but he had difficulty lifting his leg. When he focused in on the mana flowing through his channels, he found it waning. Since waking this morning, he’d reinforced his muscles with the spiritual energy. Aziroth—through Olhatha—had prompted him to do so. Without the spiritual reinforcement, he felt the full brunt of the weight. Even with his Steel-enhanced soul, his skeleton was a burden, to say the least.

“Come on!” Kodia yelled, stomping his foot. “Attack!” He kicked up a rock. It froze on the way up. Kodia spun and whacked the rock. It zipped toward Lael, who ducked. When he tried rising again, the metal inside weighed him down. As his mana dwindled, stars interrupted his vision. When he blinked, he found Kodia charging, his arms enveloped in ice, and icicles jutting from his upper back.

Lael tried a quick evasive maneuver, leaping off to one side. Instead of flying through the air, he stumbled, feeling as if his insides were packed with cement. As Kodia’s fist came down, Lael burned the last of his mana to swing his draconic cannon. It collided with the man’s frozen fist, and it should have shattered the ice, but the man was a Tungsten. There were very few physical attacks that could break someone one drahn above his station.

While Lael was distracted with that fist, another came in and pounded his gut. Bile rose from his stomach as he stumbled back and landed hard. He expected air to rush from his lungs, but his metal ribcage protected them. Instead, ice crystalized across his chest.

Kodia stared at Lael with glowing pupils. With the shake of his head, and the wave of his hand, he dismissed him, turning to walk away. The spectators, each with varying looks of pity, returned to their training.

Lael took a deep breath, allowing his mana to slowly recharge. When he had enough to burn, he used it to fortify his soul, giving him the strength to sit up. That little act burned his spiritual energy to vapor, leaving him to pant. Droplets of sweat continued sliding down his face, soaking the collar of his tunic.

Waiting there, he sensed movement in the core of his spirit. “. . . Felsacor?” he whispered. It had been at least a day since he’d tried talking with the draca.

To his dismay, the creature went still.

He waited a moment longer, but when he got no response, he rose to his feet. Kodia stood by a group of several wrestling tribesmen. There were two that were frozen, and others with frosty appendages.

Lyreen approached the bear of a man, arms folded. The scales of her armor, looking like the flesh of a reptile, reflected sunlight as she gestured pointedly in Lael’s direction, speaking in a loud, angry voice.

Lael winced, looking away. This had been his fifth fight this morning. His fifth. In, what, six hours? Not bad . . . if he was trying to earn a reward for outlasting his opponents. It seemed that was his specialty. Lyreen had started most of their fights, but when she ran out of mana, Kodia took her place.

He sighed, shaking his head. They were trying to turn him into a deadly fighter, but was hand-to-hand combat the only way to achieve that?

Thoughts for another time, he thought. Time to refresh. He turned and headed toward the healer’s tent. Wide and made of leopard hide, it stood at the base of one of the massive trees. Inside were Priestess Shaisha’s acolytes, women on the Path of the Frozen Bud—a hybrid of both ice and life. It was strange, seeing others with mixed Paths. His own spirit was a mixture of destruction, and spiritual healing. One was the Path of Dharamadeva, the other, the Path of Ashish, Saint of Mercy. But . . . which Path was his fused Soulfire?

He threw the flap aside, entering the spacious tent. As he sniffed, a pungent earthy odor soared through his nostrils. It was tinged with a hint of citrus, the scent making his eyes water. He shivered as he glanced around, eyes adjusting.

Women wearing robes stood over patients lying in beds. The robed ladies, each of them quite young, held glowing hands above bleeding legs, or the chests of coughing children. Their bonded spirits—light-blue fish with flowering tailfins trailing petals—flowed up and down, swimming around their shoulders.

One of the acolytes noticed him, perking up. She barreled over, charging like a bull, going so fast he worried she’d knock him over. “Honored guest.” She bowed, then grabbed his hand and tried pulling him over to his official section of the tent. When he didn’t budge, she gave him a startled expression. “Welcome back. I am Marshee. Anolia is out for the rest of the day, attending to . . . other matters.” She cleared her throat, looking him up and down. “When she said you were heavy, I didn’t expect to see someone so . . . thin.” She shook her head. A frozen rose, tucked behind her ear, shimmered as light caught it. “Well then,” she said. “Shall we see to your healing?” She pulled at his hand, and Lael tromped in the direction she was guiding him.

He squinted his eyes, staring at the back of Marshee’s head as she walked him through a maze of beds and groaning patients. She was the only acolyte with black hair. And his last nurse, Anolia, had been a completely different race. Why was there such a mix of people here?

He glanced around, looking at the other acolytes. Most of the girls were thin with blonde hair varying from strawberry to platinum. Others were taller, or broad, with chocolate locks. A few even had cat ears peeking from their hair, like Shaisha.

Marshee sat him down on a bed in the far corner of the room. He had, by far, the biggest one. There was plenty of space between his and the neighboring beds, all of which were empty. It seemed that the people here deliberately placed him as far away from his fellow patrons as possible.

“I was told to give you this.” She held up a strip of purple kelp. “There’s a pile right there.” She jabbed a shaky finger toward the foot of his bed. “Eat as much as you like. Rest, recharge, and I’ll be back within the hour.” She hurried off, accidently bumping against the corner of a bed, knocking it askew.

Lael sat there. Blinking. His previous healer was nothing like this woman. Anolia had taken the time to listen, to ask questions, to talk. Yet, she had trembled in his presence, much like this girl. Were they afraid of him? Did they know of his Phantomfire? What Path he was on? He was certain that if anyone knew about the overlord’s Path, they’d be hesitant to trust someone with a similar power.

He put the kelp in his mouth, allowing it to stick to his tongue. He grimaced, chewing the dry morsel. It tasted of fish. Blessedly, it evaporated on its way down, energy flowing into his channels, restoring his mana in increments.

After picking up the stack of purple kelp, he laid down, eyes on the spotted pattern of the slanted ceiling above. Saints, had they killed an entire pack of leopards just to make this tent? This, and other random thoughts danced through his taxed mind.

What am I doing wasting time? He could be Advancing right now!

He homed in on the liquid weight enveloping his spirit. Over the past week, he’d managed to cycle the liquid past his hips, and down his thighs. Now all he needed to do was push it through his lower legs and into his feet.

Then he’d be done.

What would his Advancement into Tungsten feel like? Aziroth had mentioned that the transformation would be imperceptible, but he had a hard time believing that. His previous Advancements were rather . . . violent. As he thought on this, he cycled the liquid weight through his already strengthened channels. When it reached his knees, excruciating pain—like the burning of overly taxed muscles—seized his spirit.

Eventually his thoughts turned to Elswyth, and the rest of his friends. Where was she now? Olhatha updated him daily, and last he heard, they had her confined in a room somewhere beneath the earth. They weren’t hurting her, which was good news, but still they were treating her like an animal! If anyone touched her, he would surely go on a rampage. Saints, he almost did go on a rampage. Just last night he asked one of the guards if he could visit her, but the man forbade it. If it wasn’t for Olhatha calming him down, he might have punched the man’s masked face. Speaking of the ghost, where was he? He hadn’t visited him in over a day, which was unlike him . . .

Movement flickered in Lael’s vision. He looked to his right, and toward the bottom corner of the tent. An arm reached under the flap, flailing. Lael flinched, brows rising. He glanced to his left, checking to see if anyone else was seeing this.

The robed women were attending to the injured and the ill. No one glanced his way.

When he looked back at the unexpected arm, he found it swaying like a reed in the wind. It was clothed in a hairy pelt, the hand painted blue.

“Uh . . .” Lael cleared his throat. “Hello?”

The hand when rigid, fingers splayed. It relaxed, then pointed at him. The finger curled several times, gesturing for him to approach as it slipped away.

“Sorry,” Lael whispered. “But I’m not about to trust a strange hand.”

“But what if that hand was attached to . . .” The hand grabbed the bottom of the tent then pulled it up a bit, revealing a painted face. “ . . . me.”

Lael squinted. Then his eyes fluttered. “Aziroth?”

The man winked, then let the flap fall.

Lael cast a furtive glance in the acolytes’ direction. There were only a few now, sitting in chairs and chatting with the patrons. Lael inched toward the edge of his bed, scooting toward the bottom flap of the tent. He moved at a snail’s pace, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention.

When his back pressed against the floor he noticed, for the first time, that the furry rug on the floor was actually bear skin. More dead animals. Nice.

Before Lael could lift the flap, a hand shoved it upward while another shot through, clutching his shoulder, yanking him out. He slid against dirt, then came to a speedy halt, looking up at . . . Aziroth.

He was clothed like the tribesmen, wearing the furry pelt of a . . . beaver? A flat tail extended from his hindquarters, while furry trousers and a hairy tunic clothed the rest of his body. His platinum hair was tied up in a bun, powdered in dirt. As he placed a wooden mask on his face, it completed the picture, concealing his identity.

“Well,” Aziroth said, voice slightly muffled behind his mask. He opened his arms wide. “What do you think?”

Lael couldn’t suppress a smile. It’d been over a week since he’d seen the man.

A week too long.

“Well?”

“I . . . think it suits you.”

Aziroth clapped. “Excellent! Now, come along.” He waved him along, walking toward an arching root. Lael glanced back at the wide tent. It concealed them from onlookers, and for that he was grateful. As he scrambled to his feet, he trudged after Aziroth, walking as if he wore iron boots. “This past week,” Aziroth said, shooting a glance over his shoulder as he continued walking, “I’ve had too much time to think.”

“Okay.” Lael followed him under the arching root, and together they rounded the girth of the tree. The sound of shouts and clashes continued from beyond the tent.

“When I really thought about it,” Aziroth continued, “I realized just how lacking I’ve been as a friend!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve spent little to no time getting to know you, Lael. What kind of person am I?”

“A good one.” Lael saw no faults in the man. Ever since Aziroth came into his life, everything he believed about . . . everything flipped on its head. He wouldn’t be where he was today if it weren’t for this man. “You’re a good mentor. And a good friend.”

“No.” Aziroth pointed at Lael. “I’ve treated you like a project, not a friend.” He slowed his pace and threw an arm around Lael’s shoulder. A nasty odor trailed up from his pit. “I think it’s time we really had a heart to heart, you and me, speaking not as teacher and student, but as brothers, equal partners. What do you say?”

“Is this why you escaped prison?” Lael asked. “Just to develop our bond?”

“Yes! And to help you with”—he prodded Lael’s metal sternum—“this.”

“My new set of bones?”

“Precisely.” He led Lael through another arching root, and to the back of the tree. The area was surrounded by interweaving branches, giving it an air of privacy. There was a shallow pool of still, glasslike water; reeds and cattails poked from it. Rainbow dragonflies, iridescent beetles, and glittering gnats skirted the surface.

Lael took another step toward the pool, transfixed by the light glittering off its placid surface. Aziroth grabbed his shoulder, holding him back and gesturing toward the forest of tall reeds. Five short figures, about the height of chipmunks, were dancing near the middle. They were green, trailing ghostly wisps with their fluid twirls.

Vaaloo sat at the center of it all, water up to his chest. His head was bowed, face shaded by the brim of his hat. Circular eyes glowed within the shadow, one veridian, the other royal blue. As he took a deep breath, mist trailed from the dancing spirits, flowing into his face. His eyes shimmered brightly, casting light across his long-sleeved overcoat, leather gloves, buckled belt, striped trousers and big boots.

“I promised not to disturb him,” Aziroth whispered. “But I also promised him that I’d bring you here.”

“Vaaloo wanted me here?”

“Yes. And so do I. But we’ll have to be quick. Don’t want them”—he nodded back the way they came—“to find you missing.”

Lael eyed the mysterious Vaaloo. “Who is he?”

“A mage.” Aziroth picked his ear, then flicked some earwax. “Or, in other words, an advanced spirit. There are clans scattered all across Wyvden.” He gestured toward Vaaloo. “This one seems to have been . . . misplaced.”

Lael recalled the burlap sack Yingana had carried around, back in Hidden Valley. Vaaloo had been inside of it. If it weren’t for Elswyth, he would have still been trapped within the confines of that nasty bag. “Why is he following us, then?”

“I . . . don’t know much. He’s rather introverted, but I managed to get a few words out of him.” Aziroth cleared his throat. “He means to go home, but something is drawing him to you. He doesn’t completely understand it, but, in time, he will.” Aziroth’s grin broadened.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“True . . .”

Aziroth stroked his chin. “But you’re right. This smile is different.”

“In what way?”

The man held up six fingers. “Six!”

Lael’s eyes fluttered. He waited for more, but when the man didn’t explain, he cocked a brow. “Six?”

“We have six now, Lael. Six!”

“Six what?”

“Knights!”

“Ooh.” Lael nodded softly, glancing at Vaaloo. Water rippled around him, disturbing the rest of the pond. “And how many do we need?”

Aziroth held up eight fingers.

“Hm. Not bad,” Lael said. “But, wait, are you counting my mom?”

“Of course.”

“Spirits are allowed to become Knights?”

“I don’t see why not. Even if she needs a body, I’m sure the Light can arrange something.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. “A new body?”

Aziroth shook his head. “No, a stand-in.” He clapped his hands. “Now! Shall we practice?” Aziroth threw off his mask and unsheathed his sword, pointing it at Lael while dropping into a sideways stance. Lael held up his arm and his cannon, but the weight of his bones burned his muscles, so he let them drop. When he sensed a burning in his knees, he remembered something. The liquid weight. He was still cycling it down his legs—the pain of it ached his spirit.

Aziroth cocked a brow, then blinked his eyes. When his pupils shimmered, he glanced down at Lael’s knees. He gave an encouraging nod. “Good.” He blinked away the light in his eyes. “Very good. You’re close to Advancing.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. “When do you think I’ll break through?”

“Within a week. Maybe two.”

“Hopefully not three,” Lael muttered. He didn’t want to be at the Steel stage when he was forced through the Trial of the Black Deep. Something he absolutely did not want to suffer through. Lael looked left, and then right before leaning in conspiratorially. “Can you . . . break us out of here?” he whispered, glancing toward the wall of roots. If they slipped between two of those roots, they could run off.

“There are scouts stationed for miles around this territory,” Aziroth said, standing straight while holding his blade close to his face, admiring his reflection. “Plus, we’d have to go through the hassle of breaking Elswyth from her prison. Fiora as well.”

“Fiora!” Saints, where was she? His hearts started pounding.

Aziroth was nodding. “Scouts found her lurking a mile or two from this place. The fact that she managed to get that far without getting spotted is remarkable.” He grinned, and Lael smirked, watching him stare at his reflection in the blade. Was the man that obsessed with his good looks? “I stick with my prior position.” He lowered his weapon, locking his eyes with Lael’s. “Go through with the Trial. I know little to nothing about the test, but if it puts you through hell, then it's worth it.” Aziroth smiled.

But was it? Lael fingered the hem of his tunic, lowering his gaze. It wasn’t that he wanted to shirk a challenge. If anything, he was eager to challenge himself! It was just that, once he reached Tungsten, he would be ready to travel to the Light’s stronghold, and bond with the God. Staying here almost felt like a waste, especially if the overlord’s strength was growing.

“You are . . . hesitant,” Aziroth said, leaning on his sword. “Why?”

“It’s a waste.”

“Going through with the Trial?”

Lael nodded. “Once I reach Tungsten, we need to head for the Light’s fortress.”

“Fortress?”

“Temple, I mean.”

Aziroth pursed his lips, and his eyes traveled upward, as if he were looking for an answer from the heavens.

“Zeredathah’s not going to let you go,” came a wispy voice.

Lael looked to find Vaaloo standing. His clothing was saturated, his gloves dripping wet. The spirits with the spirally faces hid behind him, peeking out from behind his legs.

“I’ve talked with him about it on multiple occasions.”

This was the most Lael had ever heard the mage talk. And with such confidence, too. “Are you friends with the Saint?” Now that he thought about it, why wasn’t the mage imprisoned?

“No,” Vaaloo replied. “But he favors my people. Even so, he won’t allow even me to challenge the Black Deep with you.”

“Do you,” Lael took a step toward the mage, “know what it is?”

“To a small degree.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Vaaloo hesitated, glancing down at his spirit friends. They nodded avidly, like children giving him the okay to tell one of their darkest secrets. “The Trial of the Black Deep,” he said, facing Lael, “tests not only your physical prowess, but your spiritual stamina, and your moral will.”

“Moral will?”

“It’s near a shrine . . . dedicated to Darkness.” Vaaloo hesitated before continuing. “His influence is strong there. Most can’t resist the pull . . .”

Lael was nodding, a solemn expression on his face, but his hearts were pounding. Felsacor stirred in his gut, and he wondered if the creature would finally speak. If he did, Lael was ready to discern whether his voice belonged to him, or Modrea.

As he waited, he took Vaaloo’s words into account. If he really was going to have to face off with Modrea’s temptations, he’d be ready. The Darkness had already tried sweet-talking him for over a week now.

That had ended back when he faced off with Zeredathah, turning Felsacor into a mute . . .

Lael gave his mentor a sidelong glance. “Aziroth?”

“Yes?”’

“Has your draca ever stopped talking?”

“Najala never talks. She speaks with her mind.”

“I know, but has she ever just stopped.”

His lips stretched to a line and his gaze grew distant. He slowly shook his head. “Can’t say she ever has. Why?”

“Felsacor hasn’t talked for a week.”

“Really?”

“And . . .” He gave Vaaloo a quick glance before continuing in a whisper. “. . . Modrea used him like a puppet, speaking through him.”

The sword Aziroth was leaning against slipped, and he nearly faceplanted into the moist earth. As he wiped his hands against his furry pelt, he gave Lael a startled stare. “Why am I just hearing this?”

“It’s been a week since I’ve seen you!”

“But Olhatha. Why didn’t you tell Olhatha?”

“I never thought to.”

Aziroth picked up his sword, his platinum brows knitted together. That look didn’t suit him. Lael hated whenever the man’s usual cheer faded away. When Aziroth’s eyes flicked up to Lael’s face, his brows lifted. With a smile, he straightened his back and waved a hand. “There’s no need to be alarmed. Just . . . keep an eye on Fels. If he doesn’t perk up in a day or two, let me know.” His smile broadened, but the corners of his lips twitched slightly. “Now! On to bigger and better things. Like your training.”

“What about getting to know me better?”

“Yes, well, I’m still going to do that.” Aziroth turned sideways, lifting his sword, and pointing it at Lael once more. “But, seeing that our time together is short, why not kill two stones with one bird? We’ll chat as we practice. Now! Assume your position.”

Lael wasn’t sure what position to assume, so he picked the one Kodia had pounded into him. Squatting low, he placed his one hand on his knee, and the mouth of his cannon on the other.

“What is that?” Aziroth asked, chuckling.

“Frog stance.”

“I assume the savages taught it to you?”

Lael nodded, feeling slightly self-conscious by his mentor’s reaction. Vaaloo—still standing at the center of the shallow pond—was watching him. His little spirit friends were sitting on his hat, legs dangling over the brim, feets dripping with water.

“It’s good for evasions, but if you’re going to want to deal some real damage, you’ll need to assume the stance of the rushing boar.” He spun and faced Lael, leaning on the balls of his feet, squaring his shoulders.

Lael copied the stance.

“Good!” Aziroth said. “Now. Punch me.”

“What?” Lael shook his head. “Wait, what about my techniques?”

“Techniques?”

“What good is fighting if I’m not allowed to practice using my Soulfire?”

“What good is Soulfire if you don’t even know how to fight?”

Lael raised a finger, mouth open, but he had nothing. That irked him. What good was learning how to fight if he was going to be facing a deadly trial in three weeks? No sane person could learn the art of mortal combat in so short a time. Why not play to his strengths—his Soulfire and his cannon and his . . .

He tapped his metal ribcage.

“Our enemies are only growing stronger. Knowing how to fight, and coupling that with your Soulfire techniques, will make you a deadly warrior. Your cannon, and those metal bones of yours, are only going to add to your power.”

Metal bones. Saints, he was still getting used to the fact that he had metal bones. “How am I going to be able to fight with these?” He gestured down as his metal bone cannon. “As long as I have mana running through my veins, I’m good! But it eats up the energy fast.”

“Advancing will do the trick. But for now, stuff that kelp into your mouth and prepare to fight.”

Lael had forgotten all about the kelp. He stuffed it into his mouth and chomped it down with enthusiasm. The disgusting fishy crap evaporated on its way down, flooding his channels with spiritual energy. He began burning it immediately, fortifying his muscles. Aches from the weight of his bones vanished.

“For the first part of your training,” Aziroth said, stepping into a thrust. Lael whacked it aside as he took a step back. “You’re going to fight me. I want to see where you’re lacking.”

“But you have a sword.”

“And you have a cannon for an arm.”

Lael smirked.

“What I’m saying . . .” the man continued, shifting left and slashing vertically. Lael caught the blow on his cannon arm, and it knocked him off balance. He quickly reverted to the stance of the charging boar, grounding himself. “. . . is that you’re not always going to have a fair fight. Learning to adapt to a well-favored opponent will do you more good than a cave full of mana.”

“What about my training with the clan?” Lael tried his own attack, thrusting the mouth of his draconic cannon at Aziroth’s painted face. The man leaned back, allowing the cannon to glaze his nose. Aziroth lifted his leg, then thrust it out toward Lael’s belly. Wind exploded from Lael’s lips as he stumbled back, tripping on a small root, landing on his rear.

“You’ll continue training with them. You should have the basics down and most intermediary skills before your time is up.” Aziroth sauntered over, then reached out a hand, helping Lael up. When he pulled the boy to his feet, he continued. “But as our dear mage has informed us, the Trial will consist of more than just physical tests. Your will and your spirit will also be tried, and it is my hope to make your life so miserable that you will plead with Zeredathah to thrust you through the Trial just to get away from me.” His smile broadened. “How’s that sound?”

Before Lael could reply to that delightful sentiment, light flickered in the upper right corner of his vision. He turned his head and lifted his gaze. High up, near the wooden railing of a pathway spiraling up the trunk of a neighboring tree, was a floating bubble.

“What?” Aziroth asked, following his gaze.

As they watched the floating ball, Lael got the distinct impression that it was watching them, even from that great distance. It bobbed up and down, then hovered away until he could no longer see it.

“Hm.” Aziroth folded his arms.

“That’s Zeredathah’s bubble.”

“Then we don’t have much time left, do we?”

“Saints.” Lael spat to one side, facing his trainer. “Let’s get to it then, before we have a real scatting fight.”

“Great!” Aziroth shoved him back. “Let’s do it!”

Lael regained his footing, then dropped back into the stance of the charging boar.

“And for the record, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.”

“What?

“Scat.”

Lael snorted.

“You’re beginning to sound like Elswyth.”

Lael’s hearts skipped. Elswyth. As Aziroth’s sword came down, Lael slid back, evading the strike. The man kept up a barrage of attacks, but now, Lael was distracted. Elswyth had been mentioned earlier, but right now, he couldn’t help but worry about her.

I hope she’s all right, he thought, swinging his cannon and knocking Aziroth’s fist off course.

Chapter 23

Purging

Elswyth was thoroughly enjoying her exorcism, all the way up to when the acolytes started screaming. Her ears stung, and she gritted her teeth, bowing her head. Why the sudden shift! They’d been singing and praying for the past . . . forever.

“L-look at your a-arms,” Reanna muttered.

Tiny black tendrils, like worms burrowing through her flesh, wiggled from her pores. They covered the entirety of her skin, making her look like a writhing monster. Her entire upper body tingled—it was a strange contrast to her lower body. The tartium bands squeezing her thighs burned with a frigid heat, holding her Scythe at bay.

She had a sudden unbearable itch and wanted to scratch everywhere at once. She tried lifting her arms, but they were tied to the wooden floor. It was circular, with hundreds of rings, looking like the bisected trunk of a tree.

She tried shifting her legs, but there was a knot keeping them in place. She glared at the rope before glancing up at her captors. Two young women wearing white robes—each with a frozen flower tucked behind her ear—trembled, their backs pressed against a dirt wall. Crystalized amber poked from the walls, shimmering with warmth.

The exact opposite of what Elswyth felt.

“Look what your praying did to me!” She raked her eyes across every girl in the room. There were eight in total, all standing around her in a circle, each one trembling. “Let me go, and I’ll spare your—”

“N-no,” Reanna hissed. “Let them continue.”

Elswyth bit her lip. For the past however-long she’d been down here, the girls had done nothing but help her. Their aura, filled with life, nourished her body. And, because of their persistence, not only had her body benefitted, but her spirit too. She’d cycled the Scythe’s essence through most of her soul, tearing up its fibers. Without the acolytes’ healing “exorcism,” she wouldn’t have made it this far in so short a time!

Now, all she had to do was get rid of these scatting bands around her legs and cycle her shadow to the tips of her toes. Once done, she’d Advance! Just like that. Right? She nodded. Right. Aziroth told her so. Though he’d told her lots of things, most of which was just a bunch of horse scrap.

“Break off the ch-chains.” Cold tendrils reached to push against the tartium bands around her thighs. She couldn’t see the bands, because of the pants she was wearing, but she felt them. When the Scythe’s tendrils touched the manacles, they shivered. “Break them.”

That didn’t sound like her mother any longer. The voice was deep and guttural, speaking as if with a throat filled with phlegm.

“Where is Reanna?” Elswyth whispered, gritting her teeth.

“Break . . .”

Elswyth glanced around. The girl’s breathed deeply, some with hands over their hearts, others clenching their fists. One ran out of the room, darting along a tunnel that looked to have been burrowed by one of those fat rats from Hidden Valley.

Hidden Valley.

Her heart throbbed with pain. That scatting thought made her think of her time there, with Lael. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Scat, weeks? A month? Longer? How was he? Olhatha had come to her, what, a week ago? The news he bore caused a writhing yarn of worry to tangle up inside of her. Lael was training to enter some test of sorts. But when? And who was going with him? She grumbled. How was she supposed to help if no one told her anything!

She spat to one side, then bared her teeth. It was time to leave. She cycled as far as she could possibly cycle, under the circumstances she found herself in. If she broke out of this torture chamber, she’d surely cause a stir, so was it worth it?

To see Lael?

Nether, yes.

It was torture seeing nothing but girls. Her eyes yearned for the face of a boy. Even an ugly one! But, she was in luck, because Lael’s face was anything but—

She stopped herself.

“. . . You like him,” Reanna whispered, tone soft. Elswyth let out a sigh of relief. That sounded more like her. “Don’t you?”

Elswyth’s ears were growing warm. “How are you talking now?”

“You’re cycling.”

Right. Whenever she cycled the Scythe, her mom regained lucidity for some reason.

“You can’t avoid my question.”

“What question?”

“Lael. You like him?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“You should probably talk in your head.”

“Why?”

The tendrils wiggling from her pores pointed at one of the acolytes. She wore spectacles, and though she shivered, she held a ledger clipped with stacks of paper. Using a quill, she scrawled feverishly, taking account of Elswyth’s every word and action.

Elswyth sighed. “They already think I’m crazy.”

Reanna chuckled.

“Tell me, what do you think of my plan?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“You’re being nosy.”

“I’m part of you now. Nosiness is just a fact of my existence.”

She huffed. “Okay, we’ll talk about Lael in a minute. Can you please just—”

“I think it’s a great plan. With Lael as their guest, they wouldn’t dare h-harm you.” Reanna cleared her throat. It sounded like she was trying to get rid of some phlegm. “Try it. It’ll be a nice change.”

“What do you think about . . .” She glanced down at her legs. The bands formed in indent in her trousers. “. . . ripping those apart?”

“Do it!” her mother and the guttural voice of the Scythe shouted.

Elswyth flinched. Why was the Scythe so eager for the bands to go away? She had control of him in her arms and upper body. So long as she tore off the bands one by one, she should achieve the same results, right?

It was only logical to assume so.

“Queen above,” one of the acolytes whispered. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun; a frozen hibiscus held the bun in place. “Woman of the Light, Mother of life, bless this tortured soul . . .”

Elswyth snorted. These women were wasting their time.

No, not their time.

Hers.

“It’s time to go.” She would break out, find a place to hide. There, she could snap off her bands, cycle the rest of her Scythe, then break through to the third drahn.

Tungsten.

Only then would she feel comfortable enough finding Lael. She just hoped she wouldn’t be too late. What if he’d already left for the test thing? She’d never know till she got out of here.

Elswyth took a deep, deep breath. The tendrils wiggling from her pores shrank. As she homed in on the blanket of slime enveloping her upper spirit, she exhaled. With an exertion of will, she cycled the shadowy essence to her arms. Essence like ink seeped from her skin, enveloping her arms. Her fingers shimmered as bloodred claws extended from them.

Acolytes cried out; three fled from the room while the bespectacled one gasped in astonishment, her quill a flurry of motion. Elswyth grinned, but before she turned her claw to slice the ropes binding her wrists, she felt an unusual sensation.

Bits of essence trailed up her neck, enveloping the backs of her eyes.

Elswyth chuckled to herself. What was there to worry about? She’d experienced this before. As her irises shifted from their usual brown to pitch black, her sclerae glimmered blood-red.

The cold, tingling sensation expanded.

It seemed to reach out with tiny feelers, rubbing against the inside of her face. She kept her awareness on it for a time, mentally grasping at the tendrils. Her grasp slipped, so she tried again, but failed to catch hold of the oddities.

She spat to one side. Whatever.

Reaching with one of her claws, she poked the bands holding her wrists in place. The tip of her blazing nail sliced through the rope with a flick.

Shaky chants filled the room.

The acolytes raised glowing palms. They shimmered light blue, flecks of green dancing from the mist.

“Go!” Reanna shouted.

Elswyth lunged forward, racing on all fours toward the tunnel. All four acolytes jabbed the wooden floor. Ice spread across the floor, snaking toward the exit. It reached the opening before Elswyth did. Frozen vines broke through the floor, coiling like a family of snakes.

Elswyth slammed against the barricade, shattering it. Thorns ejected from the vines, stabbing into Elswyth’s torso. She screamed, stumbling back. Frost spread across her tunic, and her mind spiked with a rising sense of alarm.

“Kill the acolytes!” the Scythe shadow hissed.

Elswyth spun and found the remaining four women standing in a line. They waved their glowing palms in wide circles, forming a floating barricade of ice. Elswyth reared her hand back, preparing to thrust it at the bespectacled girl’s neck.

“No!” Reanna screamed.

Elswyth shuddered, then shook her head. What was she thinking? Killing one of these girls would get her executed! She spun around to face the icy vines. The cracks she’d formed earlier were closing back up.

Stretching her fist back, she cycled mana up her arm. The Scythe’s essence absorbed the energy with ferocious greed. The slime enveloping her arms boiled and expanded while her claws brightened.

With a cry, she punched the icy vines. Her fist broke through the plants, shattering them to a hundred pieces. A wave of exhaustion swept over her as she stumbled into the tunnel.

“You used too much!” her mother said, worry in her tone.

Elswyth shook her head, teetering to one side before lunging forward, racing along the tunnel like a drunken tiger. She passed glowing amber oozing from the curved walls, lighting her path. She reached a fork, and on a whim, she went right.

This tunnel was lit by yellow crystals growing from the ceiling. Tiny roots wrapped around them while others dangled, their shadows looking like hundreds of reaching hands.

Hands reaching for her.

Heart pounding in her ears, she scurried like a scared rabbit, outracing those reaching to bind her down. A slight brain freeze developed in her skull. She shook her head, trying to keep her mind from going numb, but it only got worse.

She ran on, but there seemed to be no end to the tunnel. It was veering slightly left, so she had to come to an end eventually. Or was it veering right? Why did it keep changing? And who was screaming? It sounded distant, yet so close.

Were the acolytes on her tail?

By the Nether, if they didn’t leave her alone, she was going to lacerate their faces. Why did they want her, anyway? Why did they think she needed healing? She needed no healing! She was perfectly sane!

She was!

A something burst from the ground in front of her. She slammed into it, then fell back. After blinking back a flurry of stars, she looked up to find an old nemesis.

A bud, closed tight with frozen petals, arching over her. As the flower opened, revealing its icy face, a mouth parted, lined with hundreds of sharp teeth.

“Kill it!” the Scythe shouted.

Elswyth screamed, doing a backwards somersault as the monster came down. It missed her, smashing its face into the dirt. Last time, the creature had caught her unawares with its misty breath, freezing her stiff. This time, she was prepared to make sure that did not happen.

Elswyth lunged at the flower as it rose from the floor. She landed on the back of its head, sinking her flaming nails into its frigid flesh. It let out a hoarse squeal, sounding like a tortured pig as it whipped its head back and forth. Elswyth flapped to one side, then the other, riding the beast like she would a wild bull rat. To secure herself even further, she cycled Surgefire to her toes and shoved them into the monster’s hide. It wailed, vomiting frosty fumes. As the mist filled the air, she crawled down the back of the creature’s head, trying to get away. Her feet stung as they passed through part of the vapor, and she bit down hard, reaching for the thing’s neck.

But it was too far away.

The world around her spun wildly, and in a matter of seconds, she grew nauseous. The plant leaned to one side, forcing her through a cloud of chilly fog. A layer of ice enveloped her, the chill biting her flesh. She shivered like a maniac, and her jitters alone cracked the ice.

Enforcing her shadow arm with mana, she reached out again. It stretched, but as the plant swayed through another fog bank, she froze over. As the monster thrashed like a tortured hound, darkness began to encroach on Elswyth’s vision. Bile burst from her blue lips, the acidic vomit burning the inner lining of her throat and mouth.

Her mind was an icy tundra. A web of interconnecting knots seemed to spread through her gray matter, reaching deep to the core of her brain. Hissed whispers seeped from the slimy web, speaking to her in a language she didn’t understand.

“Elswyth!” a distant voice echoed.

Was that her mom? No. It couldn’t be. The voice sounded too sophisticated. But, if it wasn’t her, then who . . .

“Lady Elswyth!” the voice called again.

Elswyth’s eyes widened. Danbala? Danbala! Her draca! “Danbala!” she thought, mind growing dim, world a spinning vortex.

“Soulfire, Elswyth! Use more Soulfire!”

Soulfire. She tried lifting her arms, but they were frozen solid. Her legs, too. Even her eyes! She struggled to get them to move, but they were locked on to the neck of the plant.

“Heel. Heel!” a muffled, female voice demanded.

The plant slowed to a stop, though Elswyth’s world continued to spin.

“You’re eyes, my lady.” Danbala’s presence moved through her spirit, touching her heart. “Use your eyes!” Elswyth opened her heart, and Surgefire shot through her channels. Her soul grew warm, fighting back the biting cold. She cycled the flames to her eyes.

The back of her orbs grew warm as her irises changed from black to blood-red. Screaming, she forced the power from her eyes. Thick lasers shot from her pupils, tearing through the icy neck of the plant. With a moan, the head dropped off its “shoulders,” landing upon a now-frozen floor. It shattered against the ice as its stalk-body slammed next to it, writhing like a dying snake.

Elswyth blinked, her eyes burning, her vision blurred. As she stumbled to her hands and feet, she noticed that someone was approaching. The robed figure walked with a staff, but her features were blurred. A bright blue smear stood out on her unfocused face.

“My . . .” the woman said, voice sounding distant. “I did not know your condition was this bad.”

As ice melted off Elswyth’s face and body, she blinked, trying to focus. The world continued to teeter left and right, but she got a better visual of the lady. It was Shaisha, with her cat ears and eyes. She leaned against a staff blossoming with a frozen flower—its color matched the rich blue of her lips.

“How are you feeling, child?”

“Child?” a voice hissed in Elswyth’s head. She opened her mouth, but instead of spitting words, black slime dripped from her lips. Shaisha gasped, taking a step back. The icy fish hovering near her shoulders shuddered, backing away with wiggling motions.

Elswyth groaned, grabbing her gut. Danbala was trying to say something to her, but the draca’s words were muffled. And was that her mom’s voice? Was she trying to talk too? Elswyth grumbled a curse, lips dripping with slime. She combed her fingers through her hair, clutching it and squeezing the strands, gritting her blackened teeth. What the scatting scat scat was going on?!

“Come with m-me, child,” Shaisha whispered, holding out a hand covered in frost.

Elswyth glared at the gesture, feeling a spike of alarm in her pounding heart. “If you go with her, I die.” That soothing whisper was her mom’s—it was mixed with the subtle hiss of the Scythe.

“Come.” Shaisha took a step forward.

Elswyth stepped back, swaying to one side, then dropping to the soil. As she unsteadily rose to her feet, she noticed four acolytes carefully approaching Shaisha. The bespectacled one was there, no longer taking notes on her ledger. She was writing on her arm. Had she run out of paper?

Shaisha thrust her hand toward her students. “Stand still,” she whispered. They went stiff, hands glowing with light-blue, green-flecked mist. “If you approach any further, you’ll startle it.”

Elswyth frowned. It? Was she calling her an it? What did she think Elswyth was, an animal? She growled softly, crouching, placing her red-clawed hands against the soil. Most of the acolytes looked as if they wanted to run. The note-taker leaned forward, eyes glistening.

“Elswyth,” Shaisha said. “If you can hear me, I want you to—”

“Of course I can hear you!” she snapped, black spittle spraying from her lips.

The acolytes flinched, but Shaisha remained calm. One of her furry ears twitched. “Then please, follow—”

Elswyth spun around and lunged away. When her hands and feet hit the ground, she took off running.

“Take off the bands!” her Scythe whispered. “Release us from—”

There came a sound like the rushing of wind. It swooshed past Elswyth, enveloping her in ice. Surgefire pulsed through her veins, melting the frost. She shook from left to right, cracking the rest of it. Another frozen wave passed over her, freezing her in place.

Elswyth screamed in frustration, though her cry was muffled by the ice.

“I suggest you do as I say!” Shaisha shouted, her usually calm voice a majestic horror. When the ice surrounding Elswyth’s neck cracked, she glanced over her shoulder. The woman was striding toward her, trailing with wisps of vapor. She held her staff with the flower facing Elswyth—the crystalline petals shone an icy blue.

Elswyth extended her claws, melting the rest of the ice around her fingers. She ground her teeth. These people weren’t going to let her go. Scat, they wanted her mother eradicated. She huffed. Fine then! If they wouldn’t let her go, then she would destroy them before they killed the one she loved!

“No,” her mother whispered. “Run.”

That stopped Elswyth. When she blinked, she accessed her spiritual senses. Shaisha was a glowing form of icy-blue mixed with hints of green. The four tokens behind her neck revealed her rank.

Quartz.

Ram it all!

She spun to face the woman, claws extended.

Shaisha raised a brow. “You wish to challenge me?”

Elswyth snarled, black slime dripping from her nose.

“Elswyth, y-you . . .” Her mother groaned.

“Grab it!” another voice hissed. “Break it!” Elswyth’s hand shuddered, then her arm convulsed. It slapped against her leg repeatedly. Elswyth’s jaw dropped.

She grabbed her spazzing arm with her other hand, pulling it away from her leg. Cold slime rushed down her torso and slammed against the bands around her legs. It shuddered then backed up and rammed them again.

As Elswyth blinked, her vision blackened, her mind going numb. When she came to, she found Shaisha standing over her, the butt of her staff pushing against her chest. Ice crystals, like miniature towers, formed across her tunic, diffusing across her torso.

She blinked, and stars blotted out her vision before going black.

She gasped, waking to find her entire torso encased in a solid block of ice. Shaisha was saying something to her acolytes, but all Elswyth could think was, When will this nightmare end?

But it wasn’t a nightmare.

The consequences of her failure would end in the banishment of her mother, probably Danbala too. Nether! She had to do something . . .

She shifted her head. That simple act made her grow light-headed. Everywhere was numb, except for the burning claws extending from her fingers. She tried opening her heart, but it pumped lethargically, feeling frozen. The mana sliding through her channels inched along with pitiful sluggishness.

The bands . . .

Eyes closed tight, she tapped her burning claws against her thighs, poking flesh. She slid the nail against her leg until it caught on something hard. She tapped the band, scrunching her face. Ripping off the band would grant her Scythe an added portion of power . . . but what would happen to her?

Acolytes grabbed her ankles and began dragging her back. Shaisha strolled along beside her, speaking to her students with a serious tone.

Elswyth’s jaw chattered.

It didn’t matter what happened to her now. If she did nothing, everyone inside of her died. And besides that, she was done with these witches! The best thing about this whole experience was nothing. She needed to get out of here and find Lael and get him out of this mess!

Clutching the band on her right thigh, she took a deep breath. With an exertion of will, she yanked at the metal. Her fingers tore through the fabric of her pants, burning the metal hide of the tartium band. She cried out, stars blurring her vision. Scat. Pulling took more out of her than she’d expected. Shouts sounded from her captors.

What little control she had over the Scythe vanished as the shadow slid down her leg, then slammed against the bottom of her foot. It bounced back up, crashing against her mind. Everything grew dim as hundreds of tendrils tore through her skin, bursting the block of ice holding her bound.

Shaisha shouted as her acolytes screamed.

Elswyth lunged at the woman, reaching out with her flaming claws. Before she made contact, everything went completely black. The last thing she remembered was a dark chuckle, and the sound of her mother weeping.

Chapter 24

Don’t Sleep

The bubble was still stalking him.

Lael huffed, ignoring Zeredathah’s spy as he hiked up a spiraling pathway, heading to his living quarters. He used a rag to wipe sweat from his forehead. After training in secret for about an hour, he’d snuck back to the healers’ tent, then hurried out the front entrance just in time for another round of fighting. Kodia had him spar with several other tribespeople, giving him more time to practice the different moves Aziroth had drilled into him.

His muscles throbbed as he trudged on up the walkway, passing masked soldiers who marched by holding spears out in front of them. Lanterns dangled from the spearheads, flickering with blue fire. Their light was like that of the torches lining the railing, placed every twenty feet or so. Turquoise flames danced from their tips, casting their light across the polished wooden steps.

As he continued up the stairs, Lael heard singing. He glanced to his right to see a circular window carved within the bark of the great tree. The voices of children sang to a simple tune, the scent of cooked garlic and onions trailing from the opening.

Lael’s stomach growled, but he ignored the sensation, smiling to himself. He was a prisoner here, but what a place to be. This wasn’t a civilization of savages. It was a city for families and refugees. At least, that’s what he assumed most people were. It would explain why so many different races lived here.

When he thought of his younger sister, and Elswyth, then Aziroth, his face fell. This wasn’t a vacation. The liberty of his friends, and his own life, was at stake here. He had less than three weeks till the Trial of the Black Deep and, ready or not, he’d be forced to face it. If he failed, what would happen to his friends? Would they be released? Would they remain here forever?

A chilly breeze passed, and he shivered. The bubble bobbed in his peripheral, hiding behind one of the torches. It was doing a horrible job, but he pretended not to notice it. It reminded him of Olhatha somewhat, which made him think of ghosts, which then made him think of his mom.

Where was she? Aziroth had told him that she’d gone off to the center of the Fen, where the largest of the Volmorrian bases was located. Apparently, she was trying to gather some info on Kin, but that was old news. And Saints, he hadn’t seen her in at least a week.

Was she lost?

He reached a landing that led to seven different doors. His room was through the middle entry, but as he tromped on over, he wondered why the other ones were so . . . silent. Did anybody live in them? Or was this where Zeredathah’s “special guests” resided?

He swiped the ivy-curtain aside and entered his room.

“Welcome!” Kin shouted.

Lael stumbled back, hand to his heart, Phantomfire bursting from his skin. He panted, trembling more from exhaustion than from fright. “Kin?”

The Fontinovan raised a glass, then leaned his head back and took a swig. The bark covering his moss-colored skin matched the chair he was sitting on. “Ahh.” He placed the cup on a nearby table. When he turned his large yellow eyes to regard Lael, he looked him up and down. A smirk teased his lips, shifting the whiskers of his ivy-strewn beard.

“What?” Lael asked, looking down at his sweat-stained clothing.

“Nothing,” Kin said, leaning forward before carefully rising to his feet. When he stretched out his back, it cracked several times. “Just admiring my handywork.” It was then that Lael noticed his glowing pupils.

“I thought you weren’t a Brass yet.”

“That’s what Aziroth thinks.” He winked.

Lael narrowed his eyes. “Why did you give me metal bones?”

“Why pass up the opportunity?”

Lael had to admit, he liked the novelty of it. Still . . . “It’s eating up my mana. If I don’t constantly burn spiritual energy, it feels like I’m carrying an extra two hundred pounds.”

Kin waved a hand. “Advancing to Tungsten will fix that. Now . . .” He nodded toward the table. “Drink up.” Lael looked to find three teacups sitting on the table. Vapor twirled from their mouths, rising high before evaporating.

“What is it?” Lael asked, folding his arms.

“Pure energy.”

Lael waited, but the potion master obviously thought that was a good enough answer. Hands behind his back, he shuffled toward Lael.

“Zeredathah wanted me to give them to you. Drink one. It’ll give you the energy you need to continue practicing. Once your strength begins to slacken, drink another. These should last you through the night.”

“Zeredathah wants me to practice?”

“All night.”

Lael frowned, then eyed the teacups. Had he known this was possible, he would have asked for the drinks. Would he be given drinks like this every night? What would that do to his health?

Kin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Pass the Trial, boy. Not only will it prepare you for your fight with the overlord, but if you win, Zeredathah will grant you a personal boon.”

“A boon?”

“You can ask for anything you want!” Kin winked. “Anything.” He cleared his throat. “Even the liberation of a humble potion master.”

Lael nodded. If all of his friends were set free after the Trial, then he wouldn’t mind helping Kin out. But he couldn’t think about that now. He needed to focus on passing the blasted test. If he didn’t, he’d die. His friends would remain prisoners. And the world would eventually succumb to Dharamadeva, or Darkness.

He took a deep breath, trying to ease his pounding hearts.

Kin patted his shoulder. “May the gods be with you.” He shouldered past Lael and exited the room. Lael stood there for a long time, staring at the flat wooden floor. After giving his hearts time to settle, he started toward the table. It was the only furniture in the spacious room. The only other feature was a tunnel in the far wall leading to a sleeping mat and a latrine.

Lael was reaching for the teacup at the center of the table when a little man stepped from behind it. Lael gasped, pulling his arm to his chest. The little person waved, flashing a familiar grin.

“Aziroth?!”

The little Aziroth bowed, trailing white mist. When he straightened his back, he placed a finger to his lips. Lael’s brows scrunched as he nodded quickly, glancing over his shoulder. Blue light flickered from a distant torch, shining through his ivy curtains. The din of distant conversations, songs, and stringed instruments played in the background.

When Lael turned to face Aziroth again, he was gone.

“Didn’t think I could shrink,” he whispered in his ear, “did ya?”

Lael turned to find him standing on his shoulder. This close, he realized that the man was completely white. Even his robes were the color of snow, as were the dragons embroidered on the fabric.

“I hope you know”—Olhatha’s dignified voice trailed from Aziroth—“that without me, this would never be possible.”

Lael grinned at the sound of the spirit.

“Yes, yes.” Aziroth waved a hand. “Now. Lael.” He gestured to the teacups. “Drink up.”

“They won’t turn me into a donkey or anything, right?”

“They might.” Aziroth shrugged. “I don’t know the side effects, but what I do know is that Kin is telling the truth.” He reached out a hand and placed it against Lael’s face, leaning. “You’re a lucky man. Pure energy is a rare find.”

Lael picked up one of the cups. Looking in, he found steaming liquid. It sparkled, as if containing stars. He saw no reason to doubt Kin’s intentions. The man wanted him to win, giving Kin a chance to get out of this place. He threw his head back and downed the liquid.

It boiled in his mouth and down his throat. When it hit his gut, he burped. In a flash, Lael’s mind sharpened. His back straightened, and he felt as if he’d just had a remarkable night’s rest. “Whoa . . .”

Aziroth jumped from his shoulder and landed on the table. Spinning, he unsheathed his sword. “Move this table aside. We’ll need all the room we can get.” Lael quickly pushed it against a wall, then picked up Aziroth and walked to the center of the room, shaking with an antsy anticipation.

“Are we going to perfect my fighting?” Lael asked his miniature friend.

“Yes,” Aziroth said, jumping from Lael’s hand and marching away. When he was about ten feet away, he spun and faced him. “But not now.” He stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “I’ve had some time to think about what you said . . .”

“About?”

“Felsacor.”

Lael’s stomach dropped. “Okay.”

“Somehow, Modrea spoke through him. Not only that, but he’s been speaking to your mind. Tempting you.” Aziroth tapped his foot. “The power he has to reach you so liberally is . . . disconcerting. And I think it has to do with that.” Aziroth pointed and a line of light stretched from his finger to the center of Lael’s chest.

“The Light,” Lael whispered, tapping his metal sternum. The sphere of golden light, swirling between his hearts, gave a pitiful pulse. Lael narrowed his eyes. “Why is it so weak?”

“Because time is running short.” Aziroth lowered his hand. “Hm.” He folded his arms, squinting. “Mm.” He cocked his head, tapping his foot. “Ah ha!” He pointed upward. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?”

“An easy to follow, step-by-step guide to cure your ailment.”

Lael nodded, eager to hear what the man had to say.

“Step number one!” He lifted a finger. “Whenever a temptation slips by, let me know, even if it’s a thousand times a day! I’m here for you, as you go through this . . . strange experience.” He smiled.

Lael nodded, returning a grin of his own. “Thank you.”

“Ah ah.” He held up his hands. “Don’t thank me yet.” He waited a moment. “Okay, now thank me.”

Lael cocked a brow.

“I’m waiting.”

“Thanks.”

“Say it with a little more gusto!”

“Thanks!”

“That’s more like it!”

Lael was shaking his head, a silly smirk on his face, tension spilling out of his chest. He took a deep breath, feeling lighter.

“How is your cycling coming along?”

Lael perked. He’d almost forgotten he was doing it. “But how does this help me—”

“Deal with Modrea?” He pointed at Lael. “Developing your spirit gives you greater power over incorporeal foes and their malignant whispers.”

“Fair enough.” He focused on the state of his soul.

The spirit of his thighs burned, squealing like pigs getting roasted alive. The liquid weight was currently pushing through his knees, as if with a life of its own. “It’s almost to my calves.”

“Good.” Aziroth nodded, leaning against his sword, appearing thoughtful. “Very good.”

While the man mused, Lael fidgeted from side to side. An idea he’d brought up before came to mind, but he couldn’t prevent himself from bringing it up again. “If time is running short . . .” He cleared his throat, then lowered his voice. “Why not skip the Trial and go straight for the Temple of Light?”

Aziroth shook his head, hands behind his back. “My decision stands. You need to go through with the Trail. Leaving now would do us more harm than good.”

Lael nodded. He figured as much. It was just that, when he said time was running short, it made him feel like they had only days before the Light evaporated into nothingness.

Aziroth snapped his fingers, then expanded to his usual size.

Lael flinched. Why wasn’t he this size before? As he examined his wispy mentor, he found that the mist making up his body was thin, making him look like a ghost. “The longer I hold this form, the more mana it consumes.”

“Then stay small.”

“That would make our time together ineffective.” He held up his sword. “Remember how Vaaloo mentioned that the Trail would not only train your physical prowess, but your spiritual will?”

“Yes.”

“Well guess what?”

“What?”

“You’ve already been practicing!” Aziroth reached with his misty blade and tapped him on the head. To Lael’s surprise, he felt the cold steel of the incorporeal blade. “I imagine the tests will be similar to Modrea’s temptations, only much, much harder.”

Lael placed his one hand on his hip. “How am I supposed to practice resisting that?”

Aziroth squinted, then lowered his blade and leaned against it. After thinking for a moment, his eyes flicked to Lael. “Back in Akkesai, after you fought Tegg and Blaise, you told me something I’ll never forget . . .”

Lael’s hearts skipped.

The Light.

He’d guided Lael as he fought . . . It was one the strangest experiences of his entire life. He should have been utterly terrified when facing Blaise, but the God’s influence strengthened him from within, granting him a level of confidence he should not have had.

“You know what I speak of,” Aziroth whispered.

Lael gave a single nod as his stomach sank, his face twisting in dismay.

“What’s wrong?”

“He feels so . . . distant now.”

“Well, have you called upon His name?”

“I . . .” He’d tried speaking with the Light a few times, but when the God didn’t respond, he gave up. “Not really.”

“Then do it.” Aziroth turned sideways and stretched out his sword, holding his other hand back, swaying like a strand of kelp.

“Uh . . . What are you—” Lael yelped as Aziroth stabbed. He lunged to one side, dodging the strike, but Aziroth followed up with a vertical slash. Lael ducked, then lunged toward the man, ramming him with his shoulder. He passed right through his ghostly form. After stumbling, he straightened, balancing himself. Smiling.

He spun, holding his hand up, as well as his cannon. As much as he wanted to use the weapon, he knew that attacking with fireballs would only burn the tree down. That, and he needed to practice his hand-to-hand combat.

Wait, no. Not that. He needed to call upon the Light.

Access that . . . guidance.

Aziroth’s form swirled, a vortex of mist. It split into three forms. When the spinning stopped, each individual mist formed into three shorter Aziroths. They all waved at the same time, then dropped into that swaying kelp stance, holding out their weapons.

“Call upon the Light!” all three Aziroth’s said, shuffling toward him with a sideways step.

Lael backed away, biting his lower lip. “Light?” he thought, directing his thoughts to the sphere at the center of his chest. He swallowed, feeling kind of stupid. “Can you help me?” The sphere at the center of his chest remained dull. “Hello?”

One of the Aziroth clones lunged, swiping with his sword. Lael jumped back, but the other two crouched like frogs then leaped toward him. One was spinning like a top, the other dartling like an arrow. Lael ducked and the arrow shot, but as he came up to deflect the spinning top, Aziroth vanished.

It appeared behind him, slashing his back. Lael gasped, stumbling forward. He spun and touched his back, wincing as his fingers found sticky ooze. He brought his hand back, examining his fingers. Blood dripped from the tips.

Lael stared in horror, then looked back at Aziroth.

The man had completely changed. Instead of well-set hair, baldness had overtaken him. He no longer had two eyes, only one at the center of his forehead. His nose was upturned, like a pig’s, and his lips were large and wet. Fat bulged from his belly.

The monster wailed, raising its sword and racing after Lael. Two others just like it were running in his direction, teeth bared. A spike of primal fear shot through Lael, blinding him to reason. He gave a ferocious bark, Phantomfire surging through his channels.

In a swift moment of clarity, he heard, Duck.

Lael nearly tripped when he heard the distant . . . impression. He wouldn’t even call it a voice. He ducked as the first monster approached, swinging its weapon horizontally. Lael punched the creature in the belly with his cannon—the barrel sank into its gut, and the beast cried out, retreating while hugging its gut.

The two other cyclopses stretched their arms back over their heads, rearing up their weapons for a vertical strike. Lael waited for direction, but nothing came. When the creatures dropped their swords and lunged at him, he was caught off guard.

They slammed into him, one on each side, sandwiching him with their greasy guts. At once, they sank their teeth into his shoulders, drawing blood. Lael reared his head back and screamed.

* * *

As Vaaloo broke through to Quartz, the aura around him rippled, warning him of a distant danger. He reached out with his strengthened spiritual senses, searching for the source of the disturbance. As he scanned, he opened his eyes.

He was sitting in the center of the garden room, legs crossed. Hundreds of sprouts dotted the once barren soil. Potted plants, ranging from saffron roses to narrow beanstalks, leaned toward him, as if trying to get a better look.

Shattered bits of crystal orbited his body. As they dissolved and evaporated, blue and green light shimmered from his face. Liquid life spirits wiggled along his channels, exploring his soul.

His forehead tingled.

When he glanced at a nearby puddle, his reflection stared back. One of his eyes was green, the other blue. A swirling whirl twirled on his forehead, right above his eyes. As it faded, he took a deep breath, and his chest expanded. His eyes widened. My chest? Expanding? Mages inhaled for spiritual purification . . . not to breathe, as humans do.

Was he developing more of a body?

As he stood, he reveled in the freshness of his mind and soul. Every thought was crisp like fresh fruit, clean like unsullied water.

“Welcome,” someone behind a tall stalk of flowers rumbled, “to the Path of Living Water.” A bubble bobbed into view, watching him with a nearly imperceptible eye.

Vaaloo placed his hands together and bowed at the waist. Those of the magehood were considered high-ranking, thanks to their Tungsten spirits. He and the others knew of ranks beyond their own, but there was no ambition to reach beyond the third drahn. Really, there had been no need to. Until the day the Scythes came in and slaughtered them all.

His spirit writhed, anxious to press toward his homelands. But something deeper, the core of who he was, yearned to stick with the Chosen. He would arrive home in time. Leaving Lael would be foolish, anyway. There were foes much stronger than Vaaloo was. Alone, he was weak. Together with Lael, they were strong.

“I am disappointed you didn’t reach this stage sooner,” Zeredathah muttered, his voice vibrating through the approaching bubble. “Considering your age.”

Vaaloo nodded, though he wasn’t offended in the slightest. Really, he hadn’t known how to break through the tier of Gems. It took a specific insight. One regarding what he valued most. Advancing had been easy, once he knew that. And with all the resources—including the spiral-faced spirits to bond with—it had only been a matter of time till he Advanced.

The bubble, now ten inches in front of his face, nodded. “You are free to continue cycling to Advance. You may have had an easy time reaching Quartz, but breaking through to Topaz is a completely different story.”

Vaaloo bowed again, semi distracted by his stretching spiritual senses. He’d located the focal point of the anguish he’d sensed earlier. As he poked around, he caressed a soul burning with destruction, yet healing with crackling flames of purity.

Lael, he thought. Without wasting another thought, he stepped forward. The brim of his hat bumped into the bubble, and he stumbled back, startled. Where was his manners! He bowed to Zeredathah. “Forgive me, but I must go.”

The bubble cocked to one side.

“Lael.”

“Ah . . .” The bubble nodded. “Go.”

Vaaloo nodded his thanks, then with startling speed, he rushed toward the exit. Wherever he stepped, sprouts popped up. Water dripped from his overcoat, sliding down his striped puffy pants. Even his gloves dripped with liquid, drops falling from his fingertips.

As he brushed ivy curtains aside, flowers bloomed at his touch. He followed the call of the aura, rushing to reach Lael.

* * *

Lael hit the wooden floor with a crunch. At first, he thought one of his ribs cracked. But when he shifted in place, splintered wood snapped beneath him.

He sat up to find all three cyclopses striding toward him. Their fat arms swayed back and forth, their bellies bulging beneath their robes. Lael scrambled to his feet, slapping a hand over the wound on his neck. Blood streamed down his skin, seeping into his clothes. It didn’t make any sense. He was fighting illusions! Olhatha had no power to harm someone physically. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. But what if this wasn’t Olhatha? What if this was some malignant spirit come to torment him!

Lael held out his hand and cannon in a fighting stance, shuffling back as the enemies reached for him. He wasn’t sure what to do. Hand-to-hand combat was useless in this situation, at least at his level. As much as he wanted to practice his physical fighting skills, Soulfire would work best in this situation.

He already knew the basics of dragon’s breath, and the flaming mantle. What he needed to improve was the blazing vortex, and his cannon attacks. He’d underutilized the majestic weapon. His battle with Blaise had proved just how powerful it could be. Even the fight he had with Stormhammer the chameleon had been a success, thanks to his blaster . . .

He raised his draconic gun, pointing it at the cyclops in the middle as he cycled Phantomfire and Salvefire to the first Binding. Heat haze radiated from the weapon, and the skeletal mouth of the dragon opened. He didn’t care if he burned the tree down now. His life was on the line!

As he charged the blaster, he focused on what Felsacor had taught him about the blazing vortex. He transferred a portion of his Phantomfire to the channels looping around his skull. Once there, he focused on the aura just above his scalp. Thanks to Felsacor’s earlier instructions, he tapped into a piece of the vast energy field with ease. Phantomfire flowed into it, forming a tiny dark cloud above his head.

“I wouldn’t use that if I were you,” all three of the cyclopses said, sounding like baritone brutes. “Your mission is to tap into the Light. Let Him guide you.”

Lael backed into a wall. He gasped, but before he could rush off to the left or the right, his ugly enemies fanned out, blocking his escape. “Back away!” Lael shoved his cannon toward one of the monsters, hearts hammering. He was certain these ghouls were evil spirits. Aziroth wouldn’t torture him like this! Ugh, Saints! They’d fooled him, disguising themselves as his mentor just so they could corner him, then tear him to pieces.

His first Binding clicked, signifying that it was charged. He released the power stored inside. A stream of silver fire blasted from the draconic mouth, but the cyclops vanished before it could hit him.

Instead, the flame collided with the table at the center of the room. Lighting it on fire. Lael had little time to concern himself with the damage because the other two ghouls were at his side. He spun, swinging his cannon to smash one in the face. Its head vanished, leaving Lael to swipe through air.

The other one grabbed his arm, opening its jaws wide. Lael screamed, thrusting the barrel of the cannon into the monster’s neck. It evaporated, leaving Lael to stumble forward from the strength of his thrust.

He turned around to face the headless cyclops, but it was gone. White mist was flowing toward the center of the room, coalescing near the burning table. When it merged, it swelled to the shape of a body with two legs, and six arms. Three heads popped up between its shoulders, each with one eye.

“Release . . . the vortex . . .”

Lael grabbed his gut, looking down with wide eyes. That was Felsacor! The draca was stirring in his spirit, as if awakening from slumber. “Felsacor?”

“Release . . .”

Lael winced. His words were scratchy. Was he ill? Ha! That didn’t matter! What mattered is that he talked!

The large three-headed cyclops took a giant step toward him. When his foot landed, Lael expected the entire room to shake. It didn’t, which made sense. This was a spirit, not a physical being.

With the aura of destruction gathering above Lael’s scalp, he focused on the space enveloping all three heads. With an exertion of will, he cycled the destructive aura through the energy field to this space. Black sparks snapped around the ghouls’ three ugly mugs.

Lael was taking shaky steps back, but he’d need to quicken his speed if he wanted to avoid—

The giant snapped out his hand, grasping Lael in the blink of an eye, squeezing him tight. Lael gasped, losing his concentration of the aura. He tried taking a breath, but his lungs were constricted.

All three heads smiled, white mist trailing from their ghostly flesh. Their grasp tightened, and Lael was certain they would lift him and throw him. But the creature remained where it was, its clutch growing ever tighter.

The sphere at the center of his chest pulsed.

“Light above!” Lael mentally shouted, “Help me!”

The sphere pulsed again, sending a subtle wave of peace through his spirit. A wordless reassurance urged him to wait, that deliverance would come. As much as Lael wanted to relax, it was kind of hard to be at peace within the crushing grasp of a three-headed cyclops.

White light flashed, and the monster shuddered, its eyes opening in surprise. All three heads bellowed, stinging Lael’s ears. Its grasp tightened, and Lael tried to breathe. Not a sliver of air passed through his lips, and he could feel his mind slipping.

“Lael?” Felsacor writhed at the base of his spirit. “Lael!”

“Felsacor?” Saints! The draca sounded lucid, speaking with his usual rumbling voice.

“Where . . . where are we? What’s happening!”

Lael wanted to respond, but blackness was encroaching on his vision. Where was the promised deliverance? The peace he’d experienced just moments ago was slipping.

Dread filled its place.

“Lael!” Felsacor said. “Let me . . . Let me . . .” He coughed. “Let me help you.” His voice changed, sounding resonant and fatherly. Lael’s anxiety peaked. “I can save you.”

Tears streamed down Lael’s face. He was going to die if he didn’t do something! He needed help, and the black hand Modrea extended seemed the only way out of this hellish—

The light at the center of his chest zapped him. He shuddered and somehow managed to slip in a breath. The tightness crushing his body vanished. When he dropped to the ground, everything felt distant. The bellows, the pain, the feel of the wood grain. When he blinked stars from his vision, he saw the three-headed cyclops striding toward the entrance.

Vaaloo was standing there, drawing out a knot of complex runes. They hovered before him. When he thrust his gloved hands forward, the symbols shot toward the cyclops. When they collided with the creature’s chest, it stumbled back, crying out in anguish. When it dropped to its knees, it melted to a puddle of mist.

Vaaloo lunged forward, gliding through the air, light trailing from his boots. As he arced toward Lael, the last thing he saw were the mage’s glowing eyes. One was blue, the other green, and a spiral of both colors twirled on his shadowy forehead.

* * *

“Lael?” the wind whispered to him, patting him on the cheek. “Wake up.” The crown of his head tingled warmly. That same energy washed through his spirit; it felt like a warm blanket was enveloping his soul.

Lael’s eyelids fluttered, and he found himself staring into Vaaloo’s glowing eyes. “Whoa!” He flinched, straightening his back. Vaaloo took a step back, gloved hands glowing with green mist.

“You are unharmed,” Vaaloo whispered.

Lael placed a hand over his left heart, taking in deep breaths as he glanced around. He was sitting with his back against one of the wooden walls. The table at the center of the room had been reduced to silver dust, and predawn light filtered in through the ivy dangling from his door.

“What you fought was a mere illusion,” Vaaloo said.

“ . . . Illusion?” Lael croaked. He cleared his throat. Saints, he’d screamed it raw.

“Yes,” a disgruntled, gentlemanly voice said.

Lael looked to find Olhatha rolling over. His misty form looked far less substantial than it ever had been. When the ghostly eye bumped into Lael’s foot, it stopped, shook from side to side, then looked up at him with a drooping eyelid.

“Olhatha . . .” Lael said, cocking his head. “That . . . really was you?”

“I picked up a thing or two from an enemy Aziroth faced off with back in that Fontinovan trash pit.”

Lael’s spine stiffened, straight as a board. He’d never heard the spirit speak with such harshness. “What enemy?”

“That filthy illusionist. She nearly killed Aziroth.” He looked to one side. “Too bad she didn’t,” he muttered.

“Olhatha!”

“I’m joking.” He cleared his throat. “Kind of,” he muttered. “Anyway, the pain you felt was all in your head.”

Lael blinked, remembering something. He touched his neck, searching for the bite marks. He couldn’t feel the wound, nor did he see any blood. He huffed, glaring down at the spirit. “Are you kidding me? I thought you were a demon!”

“Aziroth’s orders. He’s the sadist, not m-me.” Olhatha’s misty flesh writhed, making it look like rats were wrestling inside of him. “Speaking of the monster, he’s trying to c-contact you now.”

Lael nodded, waving his hand, gesturing for him to let it happen.

Olhatha twirled, making it look like invisible hands were wringing him out. He rippled, then snapped back to his usual form, panting.

“What happened?”

“Too . . . much . . .” The ghost didn’t need to finish that sentence. He ran on mana, as did every spiritual lifeform. That stunt he pulled back there, turning into a cyclops, must have drained him dry. Olhatha sagged into what looked like a limp pillow.

Poor guy, Lael thought, reaching for him. He placed the ghost in one of his pockets. When he looked at Vaaloo, he stared at the mage with a curious eye. He looked a little different. Was he . . . taller? And why were his eyes two different colors? That swirl on his forehead was new, too.

Just as Lael was about to ask about the changes, his ears perked at the sound of hurried footfall. He turned to gaze in the direction of the front door. A group of people were rushing by, nothing but shadows in the light of his curtains. They were speaking to one another in a swift stream of jumbled words. Lael didn’t understand a lick of it. Either they were speaking in a foreign tongue, or they were talking so fast, his brain couldn’t comprehend a thing they were saying.

“What’s happening out there?” Lael asked, unable to take his eyes off the passing shadows.

“You know as much as I do,” Vaaloo whispered, hands behind his back.

Lael rose to his feet. Despite the head rush, giving him a moment of light-headedness, everything inside of him was a fresh summer morning. Was it because of that tonic? No, it couldn’t be. He’d slurped it down near the onset of night . . .

He gave Vaaloo a sidelong glance. The mage was standing nearby, watching the shadows pass by the front door. What was he doing here? An even better question, how did he find him? Had Aziroth informed him concerning his whereabouts?

Questions for later.

His curiosity about the outdoors was getting the best of him, driving him to exit the room. Already, he was halfway there, Vaaloo on his tail. As he neared the doorway, a pained expression warped his features. He looked down at his gut and patted his belly.

“Felsacor?” he thought.

An indistinct mutter, one that sounded like someone was speaking through a mouthful of sap, came in response.

“Fels? You awake?” His hearts were pounding now. Why was the draca a mouthpiece for Darkness? Saints alive! When would that power-hungry nuisance stop bothering him and just shut up?

Lael winced.

It pained him to think that, for a split second, he’d actually considered the dark God’s offer. In that moment of anguish, when he thought he was going to die, he wondered where the Light was. He’d promised deliverance, albeit in a subtle way, and he waited. And waited. And waited. Saints. He couldn’t believe that he’d nearly—

He shook his head, refusing to think about it.

Vaaloo had saved him. That’s all that mattered.

But, wait, no Vaaloo hadn’t really saved him. The cyclops had been an illusion. Saints, but it had seemed so real.

“Don’t . . . worry . . .” Goop-mouthed words slithered into his mind. “I’m here . . .”

“Felsacor?” Lael was shaking now. “What’s going on?”

“I’m . . . protecting . . . my friend.”

“What?”

“He’s trying . . . to get you . . . He wants your soul . . .”

Chills climbed Lael’s spine, puckering his flesh. Felsacor continued speaking, but his words devolved into indistinct muttering. Lael wanted to continue the conversation, wanted to ask more, but that last statement left him inwardly reeling.

When he reached the exit, he leaned against the doorframe, taking steady, shaky breaths. In the corner of his vision, he spotted Vaaloo. The mage merely watched him, appearing calm and unruffled.

It took Lael a moment to compose himself. When he did, he straightened his back and wiped his hand across his tunic as he faced the door. A couple of straggling shadows passed by. Then he brushed the curtains aside, and watched as women with blue-painted faces passed by. Red streaks marked their cheeks, just beneath the eyes.

. . . Red streaks?

He’d never seen such markings before. He glanced to see if their clothing was the same. They were wearing their usual wooden armor, and as more passed by, he noticed that a few of them were wearing masks bearing the face of a growling wolf.

A bald man, wearing a blank mask and built like an ox, jogged alongside the women. Despite his great shape, he was wheezing, and seemed close to collapsing.

“Excuse me!” Lael said, hurrying toward him. “Do you—”

“Hi-ya!” The man swung at Lael, hitting him on the side of the head. His skull rang like a bell, but his head hadn’t even lurched. He was still standing where he was, shoulders tucked, a startled look on his face.

The bald man grabbed his own wrist and looked at his hand. Part of it was red. He leaned his head back and howled in pain. Lael winced, glancing at the women passing by. There were only three, and none of them seemed to care about the man’s anguish.

“Sorry,” Lael whispered. “But you hit me.”

“Ugh,” the man said, bowing his head and massaging his hand.

Lael clenched and unclenched his fist and the draconic mouth of his cannon, waiting to see what the man would do. When he stood in the same position for an uncomfortably long time, saying nothing, Lael shifted weight from one foot to another. Although he was slightly uncomfortable, a remarkable insight bubbled up inside of him.

It was about his metal bones. This man’s attack hadn’t even budged him. Not only that, it didn’t even hurt. There had to be some way he could use this new skeleton to his advantage. How could he incorporate it into his fighting? And not the hand-to-hand combat sort of fighting. He was beginning to feel . . . sick about the moves his mentors were trying to pound into him. They were trying to make him into a deadly brawler, but what about his Soulfire techniques? His cannon? His new set of bones? There had to be something he could do to highlight his unique gifts . . .

Thoughts for another time.

“I hate to make this brief,” Lael said, “and I hope your hand is okay, but do you know what’s going on?”

“Murder!” the man shouted, throwing out his arms. His mask slipped from his face, clattering to the ground. When Lael looked upon his face, he let out a cry, flinching back. The man’s eyes were looking in opposite directions, much like a chameleon’s. “Murder!”

“Okay! Murder. Got it. Where?”

“Down.” He pointed to the floor. “Dark shadow. Kill us all!”

Lael’s pocket shuddered. When he looked down at it, the brute followed his gaze, then gasped. He reached for it, but Lael backpedaled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t touch.”

The man’s shoulders sagged.

Lael opened his pocket, and a tiny head floated out. Mist streamed behind the scalp, looking like long hair. When it came to rest in front of Lael’s eyes, he wasn’t surprised to see his mentor.

“Lael,” Aziroth said, voice sounding a hundred miles away. “Your friend here is right. There was a murder. Or, shall I say, murders.” He cleared his throat. “Elswyth went missing last night.”

Lael gasped. “No!” Had someone killed her!

“And she killed at least ten people . . .”

Lael’s hearts skipped as a hot rush of adrenaline sped through his veins. “Elswyth?” He shook his head, swallowing. She wouldn’t have killed for no good reason. They must have really been torturing her. Lael tightened his fists, cheeks growing red. Why hadn’t he gone in to see her? To save her! Why hadn’t he just forced himself past the guards keeping watch of her prison! He was the Chosen, after all!

“Do you have any idea where she might be?” Lael asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I . . . idea . . .” Aziroth’s face was blurring. “They’re coming . . . you. I’ll . . . you. Hold—” The mist swirled into a deflated ball. Lael caught Olhatha, hearts tugging hard. The poor spirit was draining himself dry! Again! He felt a momentary spike of anger towards Aziroth. Olhatha was a living thing, not an object.

Lael cycled some of his mana through his hand, feeding it to the spirit. With each passing breath, the ghost grew more substantial. After another minute or so, he placed the ghost into his pocket.

“Chosen!”

Lael looked up.

Two shirtless men marched toward him. Their masks matched their wooden leggings, which were painted with blue, wavy designs. When they noticed the big man gawking at Lael, they flinched. Stepping around him, one of the men stabbed a finger into Lael’s chest. “Zeredathah summons you.”

Lael puffed out his chest. He was about to say, Bug off, fish head, I need to find my friend, but thought the better of it.

“Do you have a problem with that?” the other one said, icy blue eyes glaring from two slits.

“Yes.”

The guards stiffened, squeezing their spears.

“Why didn’t he come for me earlier?” Lael’s hearts were pounding, and he wanted nothing but to shove these jerks out of the way, and look for Elswyth. But he’d faced the Saint’s fury before. Never again would he make that same mistake.

Not till he reached the man’s rank.

“The Saint works in . . . mysterious ways,” the guard on the left said.

“And in his own timing.” The other guard nodded sharply toward the descending stairs. “Come. Don’t keep him waiting.” The two of them turned, then flinched, noticing the chameleon-eyed brute. He grinned, hands on his hips. The guards glanced at one another, then marched around him. Lael took a deep breath, then hurried after them. As he passed the strange tribal man, he made sure to avoid eye contact.

Lael glanced down at Vaaloo, to see how the mage was taking this, and found that he was striding beside him, head bowed in thought. “You better leave,” Lael whispered, starting down the steps, railing on his right, massive trunk on his left.

“No. I’m going with you. You’ll want me to be there when you stand before the Saint.”

Lael hesitated, then nodded. He couldn’t argue with that. He’d much rather stand with someone than stand alone. Especially now that he was going to face one of the deadliest men in all of Wyvden.

Chapter 25

Godhood

Dharamadeva was on the verge of becoming a God. Aura of every kind and element spun around him in a vortex of power, forming a hurricane that tore the very fabric of existence. Fire clashed with water, hissing as they fused. Life smashed into death, screaming in agony, bursting in flashes of brilliant green and pitch black. Force rammed an invisible shield of protection, warping reality.

His Revelation of Ascension was clear.

“I Advance”—his voice boomed, shaking the tower—“to put an end to Darkness!” The walls cracked, and his skin tingled with a surge of power. The room trembled for a moment longer, then went still. Without warning, the room started shaking, gently at first, then rather violently. He frowned. All his concentration was on this crucial moment, but the violent quakes threatened to break that focus. He tried ignoring it all, but when an echoing CRACK ripped through the air, his eyes snapped open.

The aura around him evaporated as his omniscience spread, and in an instant, he beheld the entire tower. The screams of servants and soldiers alike carried through the energy field as ceilings caved in, crushing people. Walls dropped, and floors broke apart as the tower leaned heavily to one side.

Dharamadeva took a deep breath.

With a puff of breath, his lifeforce spread through the energy field blanketing the tower, saturating it in an instant, taking the form of black fog. Green light, like ethereal fireflies, twinkled amidst the mist.

“STOP!” His voice echoed, booming like the voice of the Almighty Himself. Everything from the tower to the people occupying its many rooms froze in place. The earth around it continued to shake back and forth, up and down, as if held in the hands of a giant. “ORIGINATE!” The blanket of his lifeforce shuddered. In an instant, the tower righted, piecing itself back together. Dead men and women were restored to life, taking deep breaths as those around them—still frozen in time—wept tears of joy.

As Dharamadeva’s massive tower regenerated, he spread his awareness to the space beyond his home. Thunderclouds blanketed the dreary sky, spilling sheets of rain all over the blighted wasteland. Slaves like ants scattered from pits, some ducking beneath leafless shrubs, others hiding in the cavities of great boulders. Lightning flashed, striking groups of unfortunate souls.

He pushed his awareness further, toward Modrea’s prison. The spires surrounding the Nether trembled. Two of the colossal spikes snapped, dropping lazily through the air. They crashed with a boom, throwing up great plumes of dust.

The fissure at the center of the spires widened, spreading cracks across stone. Hundreds of skeletal hands reached from the void, grasping for the sky. The head of a dragon, black as night, broke through the sea of darkness. It spread its jaws wide, revealing thousands of white glimmering teeth. Its long tongue stretched, and at the tip of it, a reptilian eye blinked.

As the draconic horror stretched its neck from the pit, it pushed its muzzle against invisible bonds. When they didn’t break, the creature growled, its deep voice echoing as if coming from a thousand sources. Its throat shuddered as a guttural shriek rent the air. The land around it cracked as a plume of dust exploded in an outward circle. Another spire split apart, dropping helplessly through the air.

As the shrieking shockwave hit Dharamadeva’s tower, he held out his hands, cycling his nearly endless reserve of mana into the energy field enveloping his massive home, holding it in place. The building shuddered, but it remained intact.

With his limited omniscience, he scanned the vast stretch of sky, searching for the Light’s heavenly portal. It was nowhere in sight. By the gods, he thought. Had the Light already retreated? Was He that drained? He wasn’t even the one doing the work! Saint Isanath was borrowing His power, directing the golden flames of the Seraphim from the safety of Jeh’va’s pocket realm. Without such a place, she would have suffered the same fate as the other Saints. Even now, Dharamadeva wished she’d leave the Light’s haven and face him head on! Or at least join him so that they could take on Modrea together.

But that was a fool’s hope. She knew what he’d done to their order. And only an idiot would put their trust in his hands. But he needed an idiot right now. Better a stupid ally than none at all. Either that or the end of the world.

As the distant draconic head slid back down into the pit, the tremors ceased. Dharamadeva released his spiritual hold on the tower. His lifeforce trailed back into his soul and for the first time he realized he was floating. When he dropped to the floor, his heavy armor clinked. Wind passed from one open window to the next, and as he stood tall, it played with his long cape.

Now that all his attention wasn’t on keeping the tower from collapsing to its doom, his omniscience picked up something he’d missed. Men in light armor, racing up the stairs, heading to his door. Their helmets, peaked with metal draconic wings, signified their calling.

Scouts.

One of the council lords must have sent them off, but why were they coming to him? His awareness spread, and he noticed Kyiin, wearing his all-blue armor and hugging something wrapped in velvet. Scouts followed behind him.

When they reached his threshold, they knelt and bowed low. Anyone with a brain knew not to disturb one of his cycling sessions, least of all this one. But they were wise, realizing that the salvation of the tower meant he was no longer Advancing to Godhood.

He stomped his foot, cracking stone. “Enter!”

Scouts pushed the doors aside and Kyiin stumbled in, head bowed as he held out the velvet-wrapped item. He dropped to his knees, trembling.

Dharamadeva looked him up and down, eyes burning red. This was unlike him.

“Rise! What is the meaning of this?”

“Scouts were sent to follow Uunoa,” Kyiin said, shakily rising to his feet. “They returned, hours ago, bearing what was left of her . . .”

What was . . . left?

Kyiin clutched the velvet, then tore it off, revealing a dented red helmet.

Uunoa’s helmet.

Dharamadeva’s eyes grew blood red as Phantomfire cycled through his channels. His skin grew hot and sweat slid down his body. Black fire flickered from chinks in his armor, flickering alongside spikes jutting from his plate.

“Who did this?” he whispered. His fiery eyes turned to one of the Scouts.

The man bowed low. “Victoria.”

The flames enveloping Dharamadeva expanded. “Victoria?” He slowly shook his head. “Victoria . . .” She was a Sapphire. She could not have done this to Uunoa, an Archdiamond.

An Archdiamond!

“AN ARCHDIAMOND!” He spun and punched the wall. It exploded into a million pieces. Wind blew into the room and as rain pelted him, he threw his head back and roared. His draca—the piece fused to his spirit—bellowed from somewhere deep within his soul. Its other half—the part that kept him anchored to this castle—buried below the foundation of the tower, moaned, its voice shaking the base of the skyscraping structure.

“Where are the other lords of the council?” Dharamadeva said, turning to face Kyiin, breathing heavily.

“Four are on various assignments. Only Jiuul, Wuutin, and I are present.”

“I want all three of you to go after Victoria. Find her. Do not stop till she is found and she is dead.”

“We know where she is, my lord,” one of the scouts said, pressing his armored forehead to the floor.

Dharamadeva turned his burning eyes on the man. “Where?”

“In Akkesai, heading toward the Fen of Fontinova. Fellow scouts are hidden among her crew, and others stalking her from a distance.”

“Why is she going to the Fen?”

“She has discovered the location of the chosen one.”

Dharamadeva’s heart nearly burst from his chest. “Leave immediately. All of you! Make sure Victoria doesn’t reach the chosen one and Aziroth and any who follow them! I want you to bring them to me.”

Kyiin scrambled to his feet, standing tall. The others followed his lead. After a uniform bow at the waist, they spun and hustled out the door.

Dharamadeva faced the open wall as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, sounding across the land of Volmorra. Wind blew this way and that, pushing millions of droplets in a hundred different directions. Eyes burning bright, he stared through the storm, gaze fixed on the distant ring of spires.

At the center, Modrea poked from the gaping fissure, pushing his draconic head against unseen restraints. Three eye sockets lined the side of his face. They were black, empty. Red flames flickered within the cavities, glaring at Dharamadeva. Baring serrated fangs, the creature growled. The grumble echoed across the wasteland, shaking Dharamadeva’s tower, jostling his armor.

He no longer had weeks to prepare for the rise of Darkness.

He had days.

But in order to reach Godhood, he needed weeks, maybe a month. There were ways to force the Advancement, but those means were dangerous to the mind, body, and soul. He hesitated for a moment, then sat on the ground, taking up a cycling position. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

With a thought, he ordered a host of his servants to fetch him his entire stash of natural treasures. He’d need all the aura he could get for what he was about to do.

He chuckled darkly, his blood sizzling from his earlier rush of rage. How pitiful this was. Their beautiful world, Terra, was on the verge of collapsing, and all she had to rely on were him—a heartless Saint trapped in a castle in the wilderness; and the “chosen one”—one of the weakest Soul artists in all of Wyvden.

He sighed.

How did it come to this?

Chapter 26

Queen

Gurgs . . . .

Gurgs gasped, sitting up. Minnows dashed off, hiding behind jagged rocks. He narrowed his eyes, breathing in through the gills lining his neck. What was he doing at the bottom of a—

His back straightened, red eyes squeezing shut in frustration.

That soldier. The one covered in stone. He’d beaten Gurgs like it was nothing.

“He was a Tungsten,” a posh voice whispered.

Gurgs placed a palm against his scalp, poking it with all five of his claws. His white hair swayed with the movement of the water, like short strands of colorless kelp.

“They’re gone now, along with the rest of your . . . kin.”

“What!” His voice was gargled. Casting his eyes toward the surface of the lake, he was shocked to find the swamp lit with predawn light. It was a new day? Had he really been out for that long?

Gurgs . . .

He flinched, spinning in place. “Who there?” His eyes darted from one rock to another. One of them sluggishly slid across the mud. Gurgs swam over to it, clutching it with his claws. “How you know my . . .” As picked it up, he searched, but found no one. When he looked at the bottom of the rock, he found the slick belly of a thick green snail. It stared at him with long eye stalks, blinking innocently. Gurgs sighed, placing the mollusk back down.

“She calls to you,” Balthazar whispered. “But! I’ve said enough. If I keep giving you my advice, it’ll only . . . Gurgs?”

He was shaking, head bowed.

His kin. If they were no longer on the shore of this pond, then the soldiers had to have taken them. Had any of them died?

His blue flesh flushed crimson, his eyes shifting from bright red to a sickly green. He gritted his sharp teeth as he floated there, heart sinking, stomach souring. Part of him had believed that liberating his family would be easy—that he’d hop from slave camp to slave camp, freeing his oppressed kin. But now, he was alone once again. Master was still captured, and his cousins enslaved. When he thought of them, his heart rapped wildly.

They needed him.

Without him, they’d suffer and die. Fists clenched, Gurgs gazed heavenward. Light flickered against the surface, streaming through in beams. His breath caught as a memory caught hold of him.

As a child, he purposely fell asleep at the bottom of lakes and ponds just so he could awaken to the beauty that now graced his eyes. Everything had been so perfect then. The anxiety that now clutched his chest had been nonexistent. The worries currently plaguing his mind weren’t a thing back then. His weakness didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was safe, held in the arms of a woman he called Mother.

My arms are still open, her gentle voice echoed through the water.

Still open? Impossible. But even if they were, he wouldn’t let her hold him again. She’d abandoned him before. How did he know she wouldn’t do that again? Gurgs’s irises turned blue. Tears streamed from them, but no one could tell. “Why you abandon me?” he whispered.

Stars formed on the surface of the lake, and it started shifting from clear to the color of the night sky. I did what I did to protect you . . .

“Protect?” His crimson skin flushed even brighter red. The water around him began to boil. “You abandon me!” He slashed at nothing in particular, acidic claws trailing hundreds of tiny bubbles. He slashed again, thrashing like a toddler, releasing a tangled knot of buried rage. As it loosened, he screamed, baring his fangs.

When the heat subsided, he sagged, floating like a puppet with its strings cut. Head bowed, he allowed unseen tears to flow from his now gray eyes.

The water around him swirled with a sparkling mass of navy blue. It enveloped him . . . and he let it. Untangling that inner knot of turmoil left him feeling empty.

The navy mass cradled him while forming into slender arms. He could feel a penetrating gaze, but he refused to glance up. He couldn’t look into those eyes. Couldn’t look upon his Mother. Couldn’t—

“Gurgs,” she whispered.

His head, as if of its own accord, turned to behold her face. It was the color of a moonless night, shimmering with billions of stars. Hair streamed from the back of her head, undulating in every direction at once. Soft eyes formed just beneath her brows, one the soft blue of Ralla, the other the calm pink of Allar. Silver lips materialized below her nose, stretching to form a broad smile.

A sparkling tear dripped down her cheek. “Sending you away,” she whispered, smile fading, “shattered my soul . . .” Another sparkle dropped from her eye. “I sent away others as well. You weren’t the only one.” She held Gurgs close, and it was then that the rest of her body materialized. She wore a dress sparkling with billions of twinkling lights. The neck of it melded with her navy skin, as did the flowing sleeves. “I never abandoned you, child. My intention was to protect you . . .” A constant stream of tears trailed glistening lines across her cheeks. “My intention was to protect you all . . .”

Gurgs’s muscles were relaxing, his spirit unfettered from every earthly care. He wanted nothing else than to lie there, cradled in her arms—to let this moment last a lifetime. It was impossible to break the loving gaze of Mother. But the pain warping her expression pained him. If she wanted to protect his family, what was keeping her from doing that? “Protect them,” Gurgs whispered, his words coming out as a plea. “Save them.”

Mother bowed her head. “Alone, I cannot.”

Gurgs knew his hope should have shattered, despair should have overtaken him, darkness should have consumed him. If Mother couldn’t do anything about Master and his kin, then hope was truly lost.

“But with you,” she continued, locking her eyes with his. “I can.”

Gurgs’s soul brightened.

“Balthazar.”

The green leech peeled from Gurgs’s gut. It swam through the water, bowing its head while closing its pinprick eyes. “Yes, my queen?”

She held out a hand. “Bite me.”

Balthazar flinched, recoiling in horror. When he glanced up at her for confirmation, she nodded. Hesitantly, he wiggled over to her palm. Expanding his circular, fanged mouth, he bit down on her finger.

Sparkling navy essence seeped into his acid green body. He released her finger and curled, as if to retch. When he was the same color as Mother, he shakily lifted his head. One of his eyes was pink, the other blue.

“I cannot bind with you, Gurgs” she said gently, casting her warm gaze upon him. “But a part of me has always lived within you.” She nodded toward Balthazar. The spirit was looking down upon his new body, admiring the sparkles. “And now, you will own a piece of my power.”

Balthazar perked, as if realizing something. With a flick of his tail, he darted toward Gurgs, colliding with his chest, worming his way inside of him. When the spirit melded with his soul, Gurgs gasped. The world inside of him seemed to expand, growing into something vast. His skin shifted from crimson to its usual blue, then to a navy blue. His irises glittered, as if speckled with stardust.

Mother released him, slowly fading away.

“No!” Gurgs yelled, water rippling around him. “Don’t go!”

“I am ever with you . . .” she whispered. “Together, we will save our family.”

“No!” Tears streamed from his new eyes. “Fight with me, side by side!”

“If it was that easy,” she whispered, “then Jeh’va would have already redeemed this world. Not even Modrea can act without a human vessel . . . and I have yet to find mine.” She vanished, and the world brightened. Sunlight streamed down from above, filtering through the water.

Fight for me . . . Mother whispered. Save my children . . .

Gurgs’s blood tingled. He clenched his fists, sharp teeth grinding against one another. An image of Master, forever branded on his mind, seemed to grow large. He was standing in front of Gurgs, eyes sorrowful. I am not your god, they seemed to say. Behind him, Mother hovered, vast as the night sky. He nodded toward her. She is . . .

Gurgs reeled back, staring up into the gentle face of the goddess. Her silver lips curved into a kind smile. Gurgs dropped to his knees, bowing before her. Trembling like a leaf shaken by the wind.

I cannot send you away this time, she whispered. This time, you fight or die.

The vision closed, and he found himself floating near the bottom of the pool, curling up. He felt like a locked and loaded spring. His soul yearned to help—yearned to fight—yearned to obey Mother! He kicked off the mud, shooting heavenward. He burst from the surface, arcing toward the shore like a flying fish. He landed on all fours, crouching like a predator. Dried blood was splattered everywhere, and his navy eyes caught sight of several footprints. He crawled over to one, and licked with his long tongue, catching the scent of several armored men.

He leveled his gaze in the direction they’d gone, looking past hundreds of arching roots and dozens of spindly stalks. Golden fireflies darted this way and that, accompanied by a rising swarm of flaming beetles. They were deadly critters, but there were even deadlier things near the center of the Fen—adult crogators, massive spiders, carnivorous plants . . .

And when he reached the heart of the swamp, one more creature would be added to that list.

Him.

Chapter 27

Pockets

Felicity peeked from behind a barrel in one of the war camp’s many taverns. It was clean and well kept, unlike the others she’d visited. Men in black armor sat around a large table, most without their helmets, but she wasn’t here to spy on them.

An airship had landed last night, bearing a crew of armed women. Four of them were unsightly, made completely of blood, with long curving fangs. Those four stayed put on the ship while the others spread out through the camp, confronting anyone in sight. Felicity could tell that some of the single men were delighted . . . at first. Within minutes, there arose warm disputes. When Felicity wondered why, she crept close, listening to their conversations. To her surprise, they were asking about Lael! The men claimed to have never seen the chosen one, nor to have heard of his arrival, but the women suspected deceit. The intense questioning lasted through the night . . .

Finally, just moments ago, a group of Volmorrian generals returned from an expedition, calming the contention. Now, they were meeting in a room behind the bar, speaking with the female soldiers. And Felicity was dying to hear what they were talking about.

She’d hunted high and low for Kin but found no trace of the potion master. She didn’t want to go back empty handed, so the least she could do was gather intelligence. She took a deep, unnecessary breath. She still wasn’t used to not having her lungs expand. Being dead was weird, but incredibly convenient.

Which made her wonder . . .

Why was she hiding? None of the men in this place could see her. She stood tall, fixing her sleeves, and brushing her silk dress. Another unnecessary act. The spotless garment refused to catch dirt.

She hovered forward, the hem of her dress skirting the floorboards. She passed through the table where ten men were playing cards. One of them slammed a card against the table, jostling a pile of coins before scooping them up. The group laughed as another slammed his hand against the table, then slumped back in his chair, looking defeated.

Predawn light filtered in through the windows, and as Felicity approached the bar, she half expected someone to point at her and scream.

“Good morning,” Zarra yawned, twirling around her arm. He felt warm against her skin, his golden scales shimmering bright. “Seems like we have a visitor . . .”

Before Felicity could ask what he was talking about, she caught sight of a fox with golden fur darting along the periphery of the room. It slowed, flicking its many tails as it looked around. When its multicolored eyes locked with Felicity’s, it froze, ears perking.

“Hi—” she began, but before she could utter another word, it dashed toward the bar, slipping through the wood.

Felicity and Zarra exchanged glances before moving through the bar. She looked around, searching for the fox, but it was nowhere to be found. She shrugged, placing a palm against the wooden surface of the door behind which the generals were meeting, readying to push through.

“You’re sure this is the right door?” Zarra asked, his whiskers undulating like reeds caught in a current.

“I am.” She pushed against the polished wood. “I saw them enter just minutes ago. Them, and a group of those . . .” She frowned. Her hand wasn’t slipping through. She gritted her teeth, pushing hard. A rune shimmered at the center of the door, glowing brighter.

“Ooo. That’s a complicated one,” Zarra muttered, hovering toward the rune and eyeing it with his all-white orbs.

“Why would they make a rune to keep spirits out!” Felicity shook her hand. It was aching slightly. A strange sensation, considering the fact that she didn’t have any physical muscles.

“There are some spirits that act as spies.” Zarra scratched the symbol with one of his claws. It sputtered, throwing out a spark. A gasp sounded from one of the tables far behind Felicity.

She spun on instinct, igniting with Goldfire.

A bearded man, munching on a loaf of bread, was gawking right at her. Felicity’s spine stiffened, and she stepped back.

“Did’ja see that?” he said, punching his neighbor on the shoulder. “The door sparkled!”

“Quiet,” his neighbor muttered, forehead resting against the table.

Felicity’s shoulders sagged. If her heart had been beating, she was sure it would have been racing, and now calming with relief. Then her eyes lifted, and she spotted someone she hadn’t noticed before. The figure was wearing a black hooded robe. He reached a skeletal hand to grab the edge of the hood, then pulled it back, revealing a skull with flaming . . .

No. Not with flaming eyes. With human eyes.

Felicity’s stomach turned—and she didn’t even have one. Since when did Reapers have eyes like that?

“Felicity,” he said, wheezing as he took a breath. “It’s so good to finally meet you, dear.” He spoke with an underbite, his tone smooth and suave. “The name’s Cal.” He threw a hand across his chest and bowed at the waist. “Royal courier of His Majesty, Modrea, Lord of Darkness.” He rose to his full height, a scroll appearing in his hand.

Felicity took a step back at the mention of Modrea’s name. “Leave!” she said, pointing to the door.

“Now, now,” Cal raised his hand defensively. “Not here to fight, just here to deliver a message, see?” He raised the scroll.

“I want nothing to do with you devils.”

Cal laughed. “Harsh words from one so beautiful!”

“I don’t need your sweet talk.” She summoned a golden fireball above her hand. “Leave or die.”

“You can’t really kill me, ya know.”

“I’ve burned your brothers.”

“And where are they now?” He opened his arms. “Hm?”

A chill passed over the room, and it seemed to darken. Reapers rose from the shadows in the room, from beneath tables, and from behind barrels. They grinned, watching Felicity with the usual yellow flames flickering within their eye sockets.

As Felicity cycled Goldfire through her channels, the chill she was experiencing dissipated. Fire flickered from her flesh, making her look like a woman made of golden flames.

Cal chuckled. “Now, miss, please. We don’t want any—AH!” He ducked as a golden fireball soared over his head, exploding against the wall. The scroll he’d held clattered against the floor as he vanished.

Felicity swiped her arm through the air in a horizontal strike, throwing out an arch of golden fire. The Reapers drew back, sinking down into shadows as the flames passed over them. Breathing heavily, she spun around, searching for any who might be sneaking up behind her.

A foreboding weight left the air.

“They’re gone,” Zarra muttered, coiling up on top of her head.

Felicity nodded, eyes turning to the scroll that weird Reaper dropped. She sniffed, turning to face the door. He left it on purpose. She wasn’t stupid enough to grab the scroll.

“Now . . .” She glared at the rune at the center of the door. “How to get in.”

“Simple,” Zarra whispered, leaping off her head and diving through the air. Before hitting the floorboards, he arched upward, twirling. He slowed till he hovered in front of her face, watching her with his bland eyes. “We teleport.”

The draca had given her an extensive lecture on the subject. She had the knowledge, now all she needed was the experience. She extended her arm, and the dragon coiled around it, facing her hand. She could almost feel the excitement buzzing off the creature’s scales.

“Ready?”

“Uh—”

“Go!”

“Wait. Remind me what to do.”

As the draca explained the technique, Felicity obeyed his instructions, cycling Goldfire to the arm he was constricting. “You’ll want to do a full body teleport,” he explained. “Opening up a portal could work, but those are potent enough for people to see, and potentially use.” He shook his head. “We don’t want that . . .” He directed her to summon a flaming mantle. She did so immediately. “Now, tap into the aura around you, then reach into the room.”

During their prolonged journey through the swamp, Zarra had spoken with her extensively upon the subject. Concentrating, she sensed the field around her. It was an ever-present source of energy and life.

As easily as reaching out a hand and touching something two feet away, she reached into the aura, feeling the energy behind the door. It was heated, writhing with a mix of negative emotions. She hesitated, wincing at the touch of the discordant aura.

“Ready?” Zarra asked.

Felicity bit her lip, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Go!”

She willed herself to the spot she was poking—at the same time, something wrapped around her leg. Flames swirled around her body as she folded in on herself—a second later, she was unfolding.

The room around her spun in a confusing mess of colors. Shouted conversation intermingled with coughs and groans. Felicity dropped to her rump, hand on her head. Mana trickled through her channels, her Goldfire dwindling.

As the world balanced around her, she looked up to find an overturned table, shattered chairs, and men and women lying in pools of blood. A blood-covered warrior wearing crimson armor grinned, revealing serrated teeth as she grabbed a man by the neck, lifting him up into the air. His silver armor gleamed in the lamplight.

“Tell us where he is,” the crimson warrior muttered, “or die like your friends . . .”

“I,” the man gagged, eyes bulging, “don’t . . . know!”

Something rustled on Felicity’s leg. She looked to find the fox balancing on her shin. It flicked its seven tails, staring at the choking man. It evaporated into multicolored mist, crawling along the bloody floorboards, passing over fallen men and women. When it reached the blood-warrior, it crawled up her metal boots, reaching her hips and torso in a matter of seconds. The lady was cursing at the man, squeezing his neck with her sinister claws—his face was growing purple, his eyes bulging like balloons.

When the multicolored mist covered the woman’s face, she flinched and dropped the man. He collapsed on his side, gasping for breath. The woman screamed, slashing the air with her red claws. She spun, kicking a crippled chair. It splintered into a thousand pieces. She grabbed her gut, then pulled out a blade made of blood. She swung the curved blade through the air, attacking an invisible enemy.

The man who was catching his breath gawked at the woman in astonishment. Then, taking advantage of the moment, he scrambled to his feet, thrusting out his hand to the side. Pebbles squeezed from the pores of his arm, and raced toward his hand. They formed a hilt in his grasp, then stretched out to form a massive blade made of thousands of pebbles. They coalesced, morphing into a stone sword.

He thrust it at the bloody warrior, stabbing her through her back. It tore through her chest. Blood spattered in every direction. Felicity yelped, holding up her arms, but the crimson droplets passed right through her. The man jabbed again and again, tearing her torso apart. She collapsed to the floor, splattering, leaving behind a shell of crimson armor.

The man trembled, losing his hold on the sword. It hit the floor, shattering to pieces. He dropped to his knees, placing his palms against the blood-stained floorboards, breathing heavily. Was he going to faint? His cheeks were still tinged purple . . .

Multicolored mist was hovering toward him. Was it bound to make him mad too? What was this fox she’d accidently brought into the room! A demon? Felicity raised a hand, intent on summoning a ball of Goldfire. She stopped short when the mist dropped in front of the man, forming into the seven-tailed vixen. The man gasped, flinching at the sight. He gawked at the spirit with disbelieving eyes.

“Kiyish?” he muttered.

The fox formed into a twirling, rainbow vortex. It expanded, morphing into an armored figure whose plate was similar to the man’s. As the misty figure took off his helmet, Felicity was shocked to find that it wasn’t a he at all.

It was a woman—a pink, Fontinovan woman with long dark hair.

“This message is for my fellow generals,” she said, staring straight ahead. “I am currently held hostage beneath one of the biggest rebel encampments. Their leader, Zeredathah, is present, as is the chosen one, and his allies.” She melted into a map of the swamp. An arrow pointed to the center of the swamp. “This is your current vicinity. In order to get where I am, follow Keaton. She knows the way.” The arrow panned across the swamp, heading west. “Zeredathah’s stronghold is in this location.” It stopped several feet from the center. “It should take you less than five days to reach it.” The map expanded, then formed back into the armored woman. “Bring everyone. With an army to overwhelm the Saint, this could very well be the chance we’ve been waiting for, to bring the guerillas down for good!” She raised a clenched fist. “Come! I eagerly await your arrival.” The illusion melted, forming back into the petite fox. The vixen cocked its head, looking up at the man.

He stared with an expression of pure astonishment. A smile crept on his face. He chuckled, shaking his head. The chortle devolved into a mad laugh. He rose to his feet, trembling like a newborn fawn.

Stumbling toward the door, he pressed a hand against the rune etched into the wood. When it shimmered, it flung open, and he stumbled out, shouting like a drunk.

Felicity was still gawking at the fox.

Lael . . .

It had revealed the location of Lael, and the others!

Kind of.

The map wasn’t detailed, so she’d need to follow the fox in order to find the exact location of her son.

“Get off your butts, you lazy rats!” the man was shouting. “Send a message to every encampment across the entire Fen! Tell them to meet here in two days. On the morning of the third, we march to Zeredathah, and to war!”

No one responded. She heard a man retch, probably from the scent of blood diffusing from the dead bodies. Good thing she couldn’t smell.

“What happened in there?” one asked, sounding congested.

“Betrayal!” the general yelled. “Now go!”

As Felicity heard the soldiers scrambling to their feet, and hurrying out of the room, she couldn’t help but wonder why none of the spirits had trailed from these dead bodies. Had they died much earlier? Had the Reapers already gathered their souls? But spirits couldn’t enter this room without teleportation. Could they?

“Whoever said the Reapers couldn’t teleport?” Zarra muttered.

Felicity shivered. “Good point.” She hovered to her feet as the fox scurried out of the room. Once she knew where the creature was heading, she’d zoom forward, and warn Lael of danger.

She exited the room and watched as the last of the men scurried out the front door. As she hovered after them, light caught on something near the wall. She turned to find the scroll. She clenched her fists, then glanced at Zarra. The draca stared blankly, then shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

Felicity tightened, giving the scroll a skeptical glance. With a sigh, she hovered over, and picked it up. She stuffed it away in one of her pockets. Now wasn’t the time to read it.

She glanced at the golden fox. It was watching her, flicking its seven tails. Perhaps, if she caught the creature, she could force it to show her the direction she needed to go.

As if the fox could read her thoughts, it zipped out of the room. Felicity darted after it, shooting through the air like an owl swooping for its prey.

Chapter 28

Execution

Elswyth woke with a start, gasping for breath. She took another breath, then another and another in rapid succession. Cold sweat trickled down her warm flesh, soaking her clothes. Where am I? She sat up and looked around, seeing nothing. Her surroundings were pitch black. What’s going on?

Pushing her hands into the ground, they sank into warm soil. She clenched two fistfuls, gritting her teeth, wanting to slap someone or kill something. She flinched, brows puckering. Where did that come from?

Someone smacked their lips, as if finishing a delicious meal. Elswyth looked over her shoulder, towards the sound. “Who’s there!” She scrambled back, crawling on all fours. As her eyes searched in vain, the person groaned. Two shimmering orbs appeared in the darkness. Their bloodred irises narrowed as they watched her.

“Els . . . wyth?” the woman said, her throat gurgling.

Elswyth cocked her head. As the woman muttered, Elswyth’s heart skipped, nearly bursting from her chest. She recognized the underlying voice! “Mom?”

“Ugh . . .” The woman cleared her throat. “Hungry . . .”

“What are you doing outside of me!”

“I am . . . still . . . part of you . . .”

“What?”

In response, cold slime tightened around Elswyth’s arm and yanked. Yelping, she lurched forward, grabbing her wrist, pulling back. Her mother let go. Elswyth fell back, slamming against the dirt. Groaning, she whispered, “What the Nether is going on?” Elswyth heard her mother shuffle, so she reached out, to stop her from getting any closer. Her hand pressed into cold slime. She clutched the goo, just to get a better grip and more control over the woman. The slime pulsed, like a massive artery. Elswyth cringed, stomach twisting.

“Let me . . . show you . . . something . . .” her mother whispered.

The artery in her grasp started pulsing faster. An icy chill creeped along her arm, up her neck, and to her eyes. As they froze, the darkness around her faded. She found herself sitting in a narrow tunnel. Roots poked from the muddy walls.

In her hand was a . . . thick, black vein. It was attached to her wrist, and extended forward, burrowing into the black palm of a nearby woman. She was made entirely of dark slime—from the tips of her toes to the robe covering her body and all the way up to the hair extending from her scalp. A third eye rested above her brow line—all three of her irises were stark white, and she stared at Elswyth with a piercing gaze.

But that lithe build. Those high cheekbones. That petite nose.

It was hers . . .

Reanna’s.

“. . . Mom?” Elswyth muttered.

Reanna cocked her head, slime dripping down her face like shadowy sweat. “Mom . . . ?” the woman whispered, her flesh rippled like the surface of a pond. “Mom . . . ? No.” The slime woman shook her head. “I’m not your mom.”

Elswyth’s stomach dropped. “Yes. You’re my mom.”

“I’m your shadow.”

Her shadow? “Don’t say that! I . . .” What was she doing? Arguing with the Scythe was like arguing with a toddler. Her mom was obviously unconscious; the Scythe was in control. She needed to do what she’d done before and cycle the Scythe’s essence. It was the only way to wake up her mom . . . and Advance.

You’ll have to do things differently if you want to Advance, Aziroth had told her. Cycle the Scythe’s essence one appendage at a time. By the time you’re done, you’ll break through the third drahn, and you’ll be one step closer to having that spirit under control!

As her heart throbbed, it leaked Surgefire, tainting her veins with its blazing speed. With a deep breath, she focused on her connection to the Scythe. She cycled mana into the shadow, and as her will consumed the being, she sensed another presence wriggling inside of it.

What is that?

She probed with her spiritual senses, feeling scales, horns, wings. She gasped. “Danbala!” Had her mom eaten the draca? She glared at the woman, who was goggling with an emotionless expression. “What is my friend doing in your gut?”

The woman shrugged, looking away.

“Spit her out.”

The Scythe didn’t respond.

Elswyth tugged on the slimy cord. “Now.” She waited, but still, the woman gave her nothing. Fine, she thought. I’m just going to have to pull her out myself. As Elswyth’s mana filtered through the shadow, she grasped its essence. The woman stiffened, eyes going wide. Elswyth took a deep breath, lungs expanding as she willed the Scythe toward her arm.

Its slimy flesh rippled as it pulled back, resisting Elswyth’s will. With a sigh, the woman melted, coiling into Elswyth’s wrist. Her spirit shuddered, growing cold as the shadow enveloped her soul. Everything but her left leg, still bound with a tartium band, shivered from the blanket of slime.

She expected her consciousness to wane, as it had done the night . . . before? How long had it been since she blacked out?

Anyway, her consciousness remained intact.

The Scythe’s lifeforce pulsed dully. It reached out to Elswyth’s store of mana, nibbling at it. Elswyth pulled her energy back into her channels, keeping the slime from consuming it. It grasped with a halfhearted effort, but when it couldn’t get what it wanted, it went still.

All spirits, even parasitic ones like her shadow, ran on mana. Hers shouldn’t be any different, even if it was fused with her mother. And the fact that the creature was barely fighting back proved just how low it was on spiritual energy . . .

She winced, hating to call this maternal hybrid a creature. Her mother was nothing of the sort. But until she broke through the Quartz, and bound her mother’s soul to her own, she’d have to treat the spirit like an animal. Of course, whenever her mother was lucid, she’d give her the utmost respect.

She cycled the Scythe’s essence to the crown of her head, then down her body. It slid easily across her spirit, extending scythes from its slimy form. They scraped her soul, but they didn’t tear it apart like last time. Thanks to her exorcism, the acolytes had healed her wounded soul far faster than any spiritual fruit or herb ever could.

Her right leg was still in the process of healing, and because her left leg was still bound, it would be some time before she broke through to Tungsten. But she was almost there. Part of her wondered if she should break off the band now, and cycle while her spirit was weak.

“I . . . wouldn’t,” Reanna sounded tired, yet lucid.

“Do what?” Danbala muttered. “Where am I?” The draca stirred, sending out a pulse of panic.

“Mom!” Elswyth said. “Danbala! Hey, you’re fine. You’re in me.”

“My . . . lady?”

“Yes.”

Danbala took quick breaths, then cleared her throat and managed to slow her breathing down. “My lady . . .”

“Mom, why shouldn’t I break off the band? I’m cycling the Scythe—its energy is low.”

“If you snap off the band now, you’ll unleash another part of the shadow. One brimming with energy. Hold off. You still have yet to master the piece inside of your right leg.”

Elswyth nodded, moving her right leg. Wincing. Now that the Scythe was enveloping her soul again, her thigh was beginning to cramp, and her veins twisted in a spiral of torture. She bit down hard, squeezing her leg till the muscles in her hands burned.

Her veins relaxed, but her cramp persisted.

“You’ll need to find spiritual herbs, or something else that can heal your spirit. Don’t move on to your next leg till you heal this one.”

That was good enough information, but where in scat’s name was she going to get herself a basket of herbs? She narrowed her eyes, thinking hard.

“My lady,” Danbala thought. “Why find herbs when you’re best friends with a Salvefire artist?”

Elswyth perked. “Of course!”

Lael! Or Aziroth. Either one would work, but she preferred the former.

First, she had to find him. When she did, he could help her. Salvefire healed spiritual wounds. She could already feel his gentle touch—that thought sent a rush of warmth to her cheeks as she placed her hands on the ground and scurried forward. The muscles in her right leg tightened, and she cursed, but pressed on. She wasn’t even sure if she was going the right way, but only time would—

“You’re heading in the right direction,” Reanna whispered.

Elswyth nodded, hurrying with all the speed she could muster.

* * *

Lael walked through a gateway at the base of one of the massive trees. Noisy conversations surrounded him, but he gave the crowd only a passing glance. His eyes were drawn to the near infinite stretch above. How long did it take these people to hollow out this tree? Saints, he couldn’t even see the top. Colorful birds soared in through windows, some gliding through the air, others swooping down to perch on poles stretching from the bark walls.

“Wow . . .” He took a deep breath, then sighed, and started forward.

Men and women surrounded him, some with masks, some without. Their scuffed pelts and wooden armor shifted as they shouted at one another, speaking with their arms, swaying this way and that. The reek of body odor permeated the air. Lael placed a hand over his nose, trying to block out the smell. When that didn’t work, he stretched the collar of his tunic, using it to cover the lower half of his face.

Someone at the end of the tree raised a massive, muscled arm. The conversations died off as people turned to face the Saint. He was at least three heads above the crowd. “Make way,” his voice rumbled. “Make way!” He nodded toward Lael. “The Chosen has arrived.”

People cast their eyes in his directions. Some faces darkened while others lit up. Lael cocked a brow, looking from one person to the next as they stepped aside, forming a pathway to Zeredathah.

The man was sitting down, leaning against his wagon-sized chameleon. The reptile was licking its forearm, curling its toes. One of its eyes watched what it was doing, while the other gawked at Lael.

“Approach,” Zeredathah said, waving him forward. Lael marched forth, conscious of how many eyes were upon him. He kept his gaze on the Saint ahead, appearing more confident than he actually felt. The giant of a man was watching him, stroking his great beard. His iris twinkled, shifting like light playing on the surface of a lake. A bubble hovered near his sewn eye, bobbing up and down.

When Lael stood before the Saint, the people around him held their breath. One leaned in, chewing on her lip. A masked man clutched his spear with white-knuckled fists, muscles tense, veins bulging. It was so quiet, he could hear the shuffling of feet. Even the colorful birds seemed to know something was up. Perched near windows, they watched with unblinking eyes, poised for flight, as if anticipating a fight.

Zeredathah waved a hand up and down. “Everyone may be seated.”

Lael glanced around as the people lowered themselves to the wooden floor. He was about to sit down but stopped when Zeredathah pointed at him. “Everyone, but you.”

Lael held his crouch for a second, then rose to his full height.

“Vaaloo, you’re welcome to sit.”

Lael perked, then looked to his side. The mage was standing beside him. Saints, he’d forgotten he was there.

Vaaloo gave a respectful nod. “If Lael stands, I stand.”

Zeredathah snorted, his eye turning to Lael. After taking a great breath, he lumbered to his feet. Tight chainmail armor tinkled. His tattooed arm, bulging with muscle, was bare. The boots, on both his flesh leg and his metal appendage, were rimmed with iron.

“One of your allies murdered twenty of my men,” Zeredathah whispered, leveling Lael with a steady gaze.

Lael frowned. That should have been a slap to the face, and it would have been, had Aziroth not informed him of Elswyth’s violent acts.

“Thirty were murdered,” a woman’s voice came from behind. “And they weren’t just men.” Lael looked over his shoulder to find the priestess striding forward. Her cat eyes glared, her lips a tight blue line. Her robe was scuffed and dirtied, but it was nothing compared to the clothing of the poor acolytes that followed her. There were two, and their robes were stained with blood, their hair knotted nests of disarray.

“Priestess Shaisha.” A broad grin stretched across Zeredathah’s hairy face. “How pleasant of you to join us.”

“I’m here to see that justice is delivered.” She stopped twelve feet behind Lael, blocking the pathway out. She slammed the butt of her staff into the floor. Wood cracked and green mist flowed from the opening. It diffused through the air behind her, forming into strands of ivy. They tightened together, forming into a seat. Shaisha dropped onto it, staring at Lael with dangerous eyes. The air buzzed with an unsettling force of tension. More faces in the crowd seemed to harden, some even baring teeth like wild animals. One person in the audience, wearing the pelt of a beaver, face covered by a mask painted with the design of a wave, gave Lael a slight nod.

“Chosen,” Zeredathah grumbled, floor rumbling.

Lael turned to face the Saint.

“You may be honored by the Light, but that favor doesn’t extend to your friends.” His empty arm socket burst with blue flames. They gathered into the blazing form of a muscled arm. A sword made of blue fire stretched from his fiery hand; its edges rippled like an ocean wave. He raised it high, then stabbed the tip of it into the floor. Cool mist burst from the impact, spraying over Lael and the rest of the crowd. He wiped his eyes of moisture, standing tall, proud. Hearts pounding with fear for Elswyth’s life.

“Speak!” Zeredathah boomed, sending Lael a step back.

Lael, ears ringing, shook his head. Clearing his throat, he matched the Saint’s gaze. “My friend would never murder. She’s a woman of integrity, not some ruthless monster. If she killed, then she did it out of self-defense.”

This caused a stir among the crowd. A nearby tribesman, with locks of blonde hair, growled. He shifted, as did the men and women around him. Their hands were on bows and spears, gripping their weapons tight.

Zeredathah stomped his foot, and the floor shook. Everyone shut up. The meaty chameleon, rising to its feet, gave a hissing chuckle. He crawled until he was side-by-side with his master. He swiveled his eyes, locking on to Lael’s sweaty face.

“Shaisha.” Zeredathah nodded toward the priestess behind Lael.

“It was not self-defense. It was murder,” the woman said, her cool voice tinged with a dangerous edge. “My students did what they could to purge that shadow from her soul, but it proved too much for them.” She sat back in her ivy chair, arms resting on leafy armrests. The green aura radiating from the plants slid past scars on the lady’s face. “I myself was just about to go through with an extensive exorcism, when that fiend took over, killing—” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat, fierce eyes going misty. “Killing several of my students before fleeing.”

A knot tightened in Lael’s chest. He should have felt horrified, but his emotions were a tangled mess of blah. He’d experienced this kind of warped emotion before. His conscious mind was protecting him, trying to convince him that this was all a lie while his subconscious worked to process the information.

Saints . . .

Elswyth?

Murdering? That wasn’t like her. She wouldn’t do that! But that Scythe of hers would. Had the spirit completely taken over? If so, how? Had Shaisha’s exorcism frightened Elswyth, forcing her to draw deep on the shadow’s power?

Lael was trembling. He couldn’t help but imagine Elswyth screaming, cornered by a group of acolytes trying to tear her mother from her soul. “What happens when you corner a frightened animal?” He looked to Shaisha.

She blinked, obviously not anticipating such a question. “They . . . fight.” Her cat ear twitched.

“Elswyth’s no animal, but the same concept applies. If you had just left her alone, she wouldn’t have felt the need to fight back.”

“We were doing her a favor, sir Chosen. If that shadow is left to plague her soul, it’ll eat her from the inside out, leaving nothing but an empty husk in its wake!”

“If it was just the shadow inside of her, then I’d believe that, but that spirit is fused with the disembodied soul of her mother!”

Audible gasps peppered the room, and Shaisha’s face paled with horror.

Lael inwardly cringed. Should he have said that?

“And yet, a murder is still a murder,” Zeredathah rumbled.

Lael turned to face the Saint.

He was leaning against his chameleon, his muscled arm of flesh resting on its spiny back. His flaming hand clutched the hilt of his blue sword; its pointed tip was buried deep within the floor. “Your friend must pay . . .” His smile broadened, his pupil constricting to the size of a pinhead before dilating. “. . . with the price of blood.”

Murmured agreements sounded around the room, tribesmen and women nodding, others clapping, a few shaking their weapons.

Now Lael’s hearts were pounding hard. “Execution?” His stomach soured.

Zeredathah’s eye shimmered. “Precisely.”

The racket from the crowd increased, some rising to their feet and chanting something Lael didn’t understand. Like wildfire, others caught on, jumping up and joining the chant. It sounded like, “Rah, rah, rah, rah!”

“We know where she is, Chosen,” Zeredathah grumbled, his resonant voice mightier than the crowd’s rising mantra. “When I say the word, she’s dead.”

Lael’s brain buzzed, his tongue swelling, feeling like cotton in his mouth. This couldn’t be happening. Elswyth wasn’t supposed to die! She’d been a friend when he had none, and with each passing day, they were growing closer. Not only that, but their destinies were intertwined. He couldn’t let her die! Felicity wasn’t around to stave off any Reapers. Leaving her to the whims of those phantoms meant eternal damnation! What kind of friend would he be if he left her to that fate?

Zeredathah was lifting his sword and opening his mouth. “GO—”

“I will take the punishment for her!” Lael yelled, the sphere swirling in his chest. Somehow, his words echoed through the vast trunk, breaking through the noisy chant. Everyone grew silent, even the Saint. “Kill me instead!” What was he saying? The words simply rolled off his tongue, but they felt right.

Shimmering mist was trailing past his lips.

He frowned, pivoting his eyes to stare as it evaporated.

Zeredathah was stroking his beard, a wild look in his eye. He glanced at the bubble hovering near his head, smirking. “Kill him instead . . .” he muttered. “The Chosen? Called of God to slay the fallen Saint.” He shook his head. “No.”

“Then send her into the Trial of the Black Deep.”

Zeredathah opened his mouth, as if to speak, but nothing came out. He narrowed his eye and stroked his beard, staring at the priestess sitting behind Lael. “The Trial?” he rumbled. “That would be a . . . far more excruciating death.” He smiled. “I like it.”

Lael straightened, hearts fluttering, thoughts darting through his mind. He was about to speak, but before he continued, he glanced back at Shaisha. Her expression was still an intense, frozen mask of pain. When she didn’t say anything, he faced the Saint, deciding to wait for the man to speak.

“Congratulations,” he muttered. “You’ve just sentenced your friend to prolonged torture.”

“Not just my friend.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going in with her.”

Dead silence.

The Saint cocked a brow. “You still have three weeks before—”

“Not anymore.”

Zeredathah’s broad grin didn’t fade.

“I’m not ready, I know,” Lael said. “But I doubt three weeks will prepare me for the torture I am to face. All I ask is that you give us till tomorrow. I need time to pack my things.”

Zeredathah was already nodding, a pleasant smile on his rugged face, his lone eye piercing Lael. Then, he stopped. His features slowly devolved into an unsettling scowl. “You think you’re in charge here?” Flames flickered from his hulking form as he straightened his spine, towering over Lael. “What do you think I am? A slave to be ordered around by the whims of a child?”

“I didn’t—”

“Who sets the laws here?”

Lael’s lips drew to a line.

“Who rules these lands?” He opened his arms wide, sword slashing the air. “Hm?”

“Zeredathah’s clan!” someone shouted.

Zeredathah pointed at the person. “Precisely!” He raised a mighty fist. “We do!” He chuckled. “And soon, we will drive every Volmorrian rat from our midst! And it all starts with”—he thrust a meaty finger in Lael’s direction—“you.”

Lael gave a hesitant nod. Was the Saint . . . upset? Happy? Both?

“Throwing you into the Trial this early is foolish.” Zeredathah shook his head. “My decision stands. You will wait three weeks, but Elswyth will be tossed to the Black Deep first thing tomorrow morning!” Zeredathah leaned to one side, looking to the woman seated behind Lael, his face uncharacteristically ecstatic. “What do you think of that, dear?”

Lael jumped.

Dear?

He looked over his shoulder, at Shaisha. Were they married?

The woman’s face was a stoic mask. Her feline eyes flicked to Lael, then back in the Saint’s direction. “I’m not one to take pleasure in watching someone suffer, even if that person murdered my students. I say lop off her head and be done with it . . .”

Lael swallowed, his spit sliding past a lump gathering in this throat. He watched the woman with pleading eyes.

“But,” she continued, “if the Chosen here wishes his friend extended torture before she dies, who am I to complain?”

Lael nodded, breathing a sigh of . . . relief? He wasn’t sure what to feel. He’d only asked to have Elswyth go through with the Trial to give her a chance at survival, but these people made it sound like he was condemning her to something worse than death!

“Which is why I need to go with her,” he muttered. The room was so quiet his words seemed to echo. “Please!” He turned toward the Saint. The man was giving him a broad smile. Lights above, he looked like Aziroth.

Felsacor turned in his soul. “Challenge him . . .” he grumbled.

Lael frowned, looking down at his gut, hearts pounding. That sounded like Fels, not the Darkness. And if he’d pushed through whatever coma he was suffering through just to say that, he had to take it seriously.

But how? What challenge could he . . .

Lael perked, an idea blooming in his mind. It was rash, but he needed to say something before Zeredathah crushed his pitiful plea. “Give us one week’s time!” Lael said, pointing at the Saint. “Elswyth and me.” His breathing was shaky. “By the end of one week, I want you to face me in a duel! If I win, you let Elswyth and me challenge the Trial together.”

Zeredathah’s expression was one of pure delight. “You win by pinning me to the ground. You lose if I pin you. And if you lose, she dies, and you face the Trial immediately.” He nodded eagerly.

That gave Lael pause.

Was he really about to go through with this? Nether, he didn’t want to go through with it at all! Which was why he’d asked for a week. Another plan had boiled up in his mind, one that might very well save his and Elswyth’s life. But he dared not think of it. Not with the Saint standing before him. He swore the man could read minds.

The tribesmen and women were rising to their feet, talking excitedly. He understood nothing, not even the words of those nearby. The rustling of leaves caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder. Shaisha and her two assistants were striding to the exit. The seat she’d left behind was wilting, leaves dying.

A symbol of the fate Zeredathah had sentenced upon him.

He clenched his lone hand, the skeletal head of his draconic cannon biting down.

A fate he refused to accept. He glanced to his right, searching for Aziroth. He was standing motionless. All others danced around him, jostling his shoulder, gesturing towards Lael. Lael gave his mentor a subtle nod. The man nodded back, as if to say, Smart move.

But Lael could be totally off. The man was wearing a mask, completely obscuring his features. For all Lael knew, Aziroth could be biting his lip, wincing in pain. Saints, but what other choice did Lael have! He could have asked for two weeks to prepare, but that would have been pushing it.

He gave one last nod of comfort to Aziroth, not feeling the least bit secure as he turned to face the Saint. The man was stroking Stormhammer’s scaly hide, watching Lael with his single eye. The bubble floated beside him too, its invisible gaze locked with Lael.

The Saint mouthed something, but between the din of the crown and the whiskers obscuring the man’s lips, Lael wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. Was he mouthing the words, Good luck? And, He’ll need it.

He wasn’t sure.

Wait . . .

The Saint’s eye wasn’t even on him. It was directed at a short figure standing beside him, wide-brimmed hat covering his head, gloved hands folded behind the back of his vermilion coat.

Vaaloo and Zeredathah stared at one another for a long while, as if speaking telepathically to one another.

Guards wearing wooden armor, and masks etched with spirals on their foreheads, approached Lael. They slammed the butts of their frosty spears against the wooden floor, backs straightening. “Out!” they demanded.

Lael headed toward the exit, followed by Vaaloo. The surrounding crowd shouted like maniacs. A few nodded in respect, watching as if they were spectators at a funeral procession. Many were red-faced, yelling, spittle flying from their lips. There was one in particular who was screaming so loud, his face turned purple.

“My daughter!” he shouted. “She killed my daughter, you—” The curse word was drowned out by a swelling roar from the crowd. As Lael left the hollow of the towering tree, his ears buzzed and his hearts hammered.

Saints, what had he gotten himself into?

His instincts screamed, “Run!” And that’s exactly what he planned to do. It was his best option. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his anxiety, thinking through his plan. Either tonight, or tomorrow, he’d break through to Tungsten. As soon as he did, he’d turn his back on this place forever.

But . . .

Zeredathah was no idiot. His bubble would be monitoring his every move. If Lael somehow managed to slip past the guards with Fiora and Elswyth in tow, it would only be a matter of time before the Saint intervened.

Felsacor shifted inside of him, an emotion of delight welling up from the creature. “You can always rely on someone with a little more . . . power.” Lael’s spine straightened. For a split second, he considered the offer. Saints, what other choice did he have? The glowing sphere swirling at the center of his chest gave him a little zap.

“Ow!” He blinked. What was he thinking? Giving himself to Modrea would go against everything he was fighting for! He bit down hard, inwardly chiding himself for feeling, even for an instant, hope at the thought of trusting in Darkness.

Yet, a piece of it remained, wiggling in the back of his consciousness.

* * *

Fiora sketched a beautiful rune; two horizontal lines, with a vertical slash through the middle. To anyone else, it would look like crap. But to her . . . it was a masterpiece.

She scraped the sharp tip of her stencil across a flat stone, etching triangular modifiers to the tips of the lines she drew. It would take another thirty minutes for her to perfect the symbol, but her heart fluttered at the thought of what it offered.

Protection.

And escape.

She’d drawn at least fifty of them across the floor of her cell. Jynzo had called them leech scripts, whatever that meant. What she did know was this: if a Soul artist opened the bone-bar door leading into this prison of hers, and stepped on just one of these symbols, it would light up and drain them of mana, giving her a chance to slip past and escape!

It was brilliant.

Except for the fact that, once she was out, she had no idea where to go. How many sentinels were keeping watch over this place, anyway? Was it even worth escaping? Wouldn’t she just get caught again?

No, she told herself, brushing a lock of curly hair from her lightly freckled face. Lael would never think that way. If he did, he would have never set out for the Tears of the Gods. If he did, he would have never faced off with Blaise. And if he did, he would have never taken up the mantle as the savior of this world.

She’d find a way, Light be thanked. He guided all His children who sought that guidance.

A creak sounded down the hall, out of sight. Fiora gasped. She pulled a cork from her pocket, and jabbed it into the point of her stencil, then slid it into her mouth, like she’d done when she’d been caught. Footfall echoed, drawing closer. It sounded like two people were walking. Maybe three.

Was it Jynzo? Had they captured him too?

Two guards passed by, eyes set on the path ahead. They were dragging a black frozen monster by its arms. What interested Fiora the most was the creature’s legs. They were human, wearing scuffed pants and . . .

Wait.

Fiora gasped, jumping to her feet, and grabbing the bone-bars. That frozen black slime belonged to Elswyth!

Lights above!

Fiora’s hands trembled, and she found herself sinking to her knees. The structure of her faith was rocky—but the foundation was not. Although, at that moment, it felt like everything inside of her was beginning to crumble.

If Elswyth—a Soul artist at the second drahn—couldn’t escape, then what made her think she could?

Don’t think like that! She huffed, turning to face the rune she’d been working on. Draw. Just draw! She spat out her stencil and caught it. It nearly slipped from her fingers, thanks to the saliva sliding down its length. She pulled off the cork. As she continued working on the leech script, she prayed . . .

Prayed for Elswyth.

Prayed for her mother—how she missed her!

Prayed for Lael. Seven Saints, he was getting in way over his head.

Thus far, he’d narrowly escaped death twice. Everyone said third times a charm, but Fiora was beginning to worry that the opposite was true. Please, she prayed, keep Lael alive. Because if she lost another member of her family, she would probably die herself.

Chapter 29

Preparing to Die

“Congratulations!” Aziroth brightened, opening his arms wide. “You’ve just sealed your doom.” He wrapped his arms around Lael in an embrace, squeezing him tight. Lael just stood there, staring over the man’s shoulder at . . . nothing. The hug was getting a tad bit tight. “I’m going to miss you, my child.”

“Why are you acting like I’m going to die?” Lael said, cheeks flushing. He pushed back from the embrace. “Aren’t you supposed to be supporting me?”

“But I am!” He spread his arms open wide. “It’s why I brought you here.” Lael sighed, glancing around. They were behind one of the massive trees, surrounded by a wall of interlocking roots. A shallow pond, bristling with cattails and brimming with life, was at the center of the hideout . . .

Hideout?

Could he call it that?

Zeredathah’s bubble knew where this place was. Was it watching them now? He glanced up at the towering tree, scanning everything from the bark to the pathway spiraling up the trunk. Men and women were hustling up the stairs, climbing high, as if training for a marathon. None of them stopped to peer over and gawk, but even if they had, Lael wouldn’t have cared. He was more concerned about prying ears.

He bit his lip, not sure how to proceed. If Zeredathah’s spy was somehow listening, he didn’t want to divulge his plan of escape, only to have it crushed like a bug.

The scrape of metal against metal startled Lael. He turned to find the point of a sword pressing into his neck. Aziroth clutched the hilt, smiling with that painted face of his. His pelt was different now. Instead of the coat of a beaver, he donned the skin of a fox. “Are you ready to fight, my pupil?”

Aziroth had no idea what Lael had in mind. Did this man actually believe he had a fighting chance?

“What’s wrong, dear child?” Aziroth straightened. “It’s not like you have seven days before you have to fight one of the most powerful Soul artists to ever walk the face of Terra.” He grinned. “Cheer up!”

“Not everyone can be happy under any circumstance,” Olhatha muttered, flowing from Aziroth’s head in the form of white mist. He coalesced into the shape of an eye, staring at Lael with concern.

Lael drew his lips to a line, worry twisting up his face. He wanted to speak, but even hinting at a plan involving his desire to escape was dangerous. The Saint’s bubble could be anywhere. “Can you . . . give me some time to myself.” He turned and started walking over to a flat stone, tapping his head. “I need some time to think . . . about . . . everything.”

“As you wish, dear Chosen,” Aziroth said. Lael sat down, his back to the man. “Just, don’t think too long. Time is short, and your future wife’s life is on the line.”

Lael stiffened, and he glanced over his shoulder. Aziroth was already strolling away, twirling his sword. Where did that come from? Lael shook his head, about to face away, when he stopped.

Olhatha wasn’t following Aziroth.

Cold mist tickled Lael’s back, climbing up his spine. He tried to keep from shivering, so as to not look suspicious. He cupped a hand over his chin, slouching as he put on his best thinking face.

“What is it?” Olhatha’s dignified tone eased Lael.

“I—”

“Psst, can you hear me?” Aziroth whispered to his mind.

Lael flinched.

“Don’t make it obvious!” He chuckled. “Just, stay calm. Don’t move. Keep pretending like you’re thinking.” He chuckled again. “I know you have a plan spinning in that mind of yours! And you are smart to keep your trap shut. Zeredathah’s presence is everywhere, keeping a sharp eye on you.”

“Can he read our thoughts?”

“Of course not! Now, tell me your plan.”

Lael sighed. “It’s not much of a—”

“Doesn’t matter! Just tell me.”

“You could probably guess what—”

“You’re thinking about sneaking off, aren’t you?”

Lael cringed. Aziroth made that sound like it was the stupidest thing since—

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” He chuckled yet again. “It will be difficult, that’s for certain. I mean, it’s not like we could use Olhatha’s illusions to distract the whole entire camp.”

Lael snapped his fingers, then winced. He slumped, rolling his shoulders, trying to make it look like he was merely popping stiff metal bones. “I didn’t know Olhatha could do something like that.”

Olhatha cleared his dignified voice. “You know,” he said, “I’m here too.”

Lael was about to apologize when Aziroth cut in. “Yes, hello, Olhatha. Glad you could make it. Now that everyone’s here, let’s plan.”

Lael nodded, but before he could get a word in, Aziroth continued.

“We have a week before you have to face the Saint. During that time, you need to continue developing your combat skills for two reasons. First, so that you get better; and second, so that Zeredathah doesn’t think you’re slacking, which would make him suspicious.”

“Agreed,” Lael thought.

“As for the rest of the plan, we need to get Fiora and Elswyth out along with us, which is going to be a challenge to—”

“But with my help,” Olhatha butted in, “it won’t be a problem.”

“. . . True.”

“Olhatha,” Lael thought, “could you visit my sister and Elswyth tonight? Tell them of this plan?”

“Most certainly.”

“In the meantime,” Aziroth thought, “let us practice!”

Lael nodded, then winced, hoping the bubble wouldn’t think anything of his nod. “What should I do to not look suspicious?”

“Just walk over to me and tell me you’re ready.”

Lael nodded, rising to his feet and stretching. He glanced to his left. On the other side of the pond, Aziroth was slashing the air with a flaming sword, swiping up, then bringing the blade down, point first. He stabbed the soft earth, then pulled back, continuing his deadly dance.

Lael started around the pristine pool, startling a group of multicolored dragonflies. They darted off, skimming across the water. He frowned, thinking of Felsacor. He wanted to wake the draca, but that made his hearts pound. Modrea seemed to have full range of the dragon, using him like a puppet. That brought warmth to Lael’s cheeks, his hearts pounding faster. He had the sudden urge to punch that devil in the face.

Guilt coiled in his chest as he remembered his fight with Olhatha’s illusions. Saints, he’d almost given in to Modrea’s offer. Why didn’t the Light speak to him like that? The Darkness was loud, and annoyingly persistent. The Light was subtle, speaking to him in wordless impressions.

What if he had given in? Saints, what if he couldn’t get out of this situation, and had to fight Zeredathah. What then? He would seek the Light, obviously . . .

He bit his lower lip.

But what if He failed him? Olhatha’s illusions nearly killed him. Where was the Light then? If Vaaloo hadn’t shown up, he would have been crushed.

“Sir Chosen,” Olhatha thought, sounding hesitant. “I am . . . sorry about this entire situation. Just know that I will do whatever it takes to keep you—and the entire team for that matter—alive.”

Lael’s hearts stirred, and the only way he could respond was with a simple, “Thank you.” He was grateful for the ghost’s intervention. His thoughts had been spiraling there for a second, and now that he was out of that snowball, he focused on the situation at hand.

Lael finished rounding the pond. “Aziroth!”

Aziroth was spinning with his blade, stopping when he heard his name, feigning a look of surprise. “So soon?”

Lael nodded. “We need to practice.” His stomach soured at that, though he didn’t know why. As he started toward Aziroth, the man leveled his blade at him.

“Get ready,” Aziroth said. “I want you to show me what I’ve taught you so far.”

Lael stopped, bile rising at the thought of hand-to-hand combat. He frowned. Why was this making him sick?

“It’s not your forte.”

“My wha—AH!” Lael jumped back as Aziroth lunged, cutting the air like a madman. “Stop!” Lael put up his hand, and his cannon, but the sword swiped for his head. He ducked. “Aziroth!” The point of the blade collided with his metal sternum. His bones rang like a bell as he stumbled back. Phantomfire surged through his channels as his pent-up stress popped the lid on his anger. Yelling wordlessly, Lael shrouded himself in a flaming cloak while throwing a black fireball at his mentor. It zoomed through the air and exploded against the man’s chest, throwing him into a backward flip.

Aziroth laughed maniacally, landing on his feet. The chest of his pelt was singed, and he had an eager look on his face. He rushed forward, darting with startling speed. Lael raised his draconic cannon and cycled Soulfire through the blaster. Without charging the Binding, he let the cannon fly.

Tiny fireballs zipped from the barrel in rapid succession. Aziroth raised his sword, blocking the bullets with the flat of his blade. Lael lowered his cannon, screaming out his rage as he aimed for the man’s hands. His skin was covered in pearly white scales, so when the fireballs blasted against them, they refused to catch.

Lael ran at Aziroth, continuing to fire with his cannon. The man noticed, and jumped through the air, arcing toward him. When he was over Lael’s head, he raised his weapon high and slashed down, aiming for Lael’s head. Lael lifted his cannon arm, blocking the attack. The sound of metal clashing against metal rang through the air as Aziroth finished his arc, landing behind Lael.

Aziroth spun and kicked him in the face. Lael stumbled a foot or two as he reared his cannon arm, aiming at Aziroth’s startled face. Wham! He slammed the draconic blaster into Aziroth’s chin, sending him to the ground. Before the man had any chance to recover, Lael cycled flames to his feet and lunged. Fire blasted from his soles, sending him flying.

Aziroth was scrambling back, but Lael managed to belly-flop onto his legs.

“Ha HA!” Aziroth laughed, expression harried. “MY!” He tried pulling his legs free, but Lael’s crushing weight held them down. After a few more futile attempts, Aziroth stopped trying to liberate his legs, panting. He was laughing hard now, a broad smile on his face.

“I win.”

Aziroth wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Lael thought a moment, taking deep breaths. Saints, his lungs were burning. “I pinned you down.”

“I hardly count this as pinning.”

“You can’t move.”

He waved his arm.

“I mean, you can’t . . . stand up.”

Aziroth thought for a moment, his smile stretching so wide, he swore it was going to tear his cheeks apart. He chuckled darkly, as if realizing a master plan. “Yes. Lael . . .” He nodded. “I see . . .”

Lael rose to his knees. “This is how I’m going to beat the Saint. Not with punches and kicks, but with weight.” He shook his cannon. “And long-range attacks.”

Aziroth stroked his chin, looking strange with that painted face of his. “You’re . . . still planning on dipping out of this place, right?” he thought, words transferring to his mind through Olhatha.

“Of course! But if I’m going to have to train anyway, I want to do something that will actually give me a chance to beat Zeredathah, just in case . . . things don’t work out.”

Aziroth was nodding.

“What other potions does Kin have?” Lael asked.

“Lots. And I’m sure he’d be more than happy to give you an edge on Zeredathah.”

“Then, what are we waiting for?” Lael asked, rising to his feet. Aziroth grabbed his hand, and pulled himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Kin’s place was not like Lael remembered. Wooden shelves, bearing bottles of every conceivable shape and size, lined the shelves. They were organized by color, the shelves wrapping around the entirety of the potion shop.

A u-shaped bar took up most of the far wall, with an apothecary scale sitting upon its polished countertop. Behind the counter was a rocking chair. The seat and its tall back were lined with green velvet. A circular doorway stood open behind it, probably leading to dark tunnels connecting to other burrowed pockets in this massive tree.

The only thing missing was its owner.

“So . . . this is his storefront?” Lael muttered, walking through the entrance, eyeing the potions lining the walls. They practically covered the woodgrain, looking like a glass mosaic. “I thought his other place was—”

“That was his personal room.” Aziroth was walking beside him, looking at his dirty fingernails, grimacing. He sighed, sliding the mask from his face. “Does this disguise matter, do you think? I mean, Zeredathah obviously knows who I am. Or does he?”

“You should probably keep it on.”

He sighed again. “Oh, how I miss wearing fine robes, and having perfect skin.” He sniffed his armpit, then gagged. “Ugh! And perfume.”

“Aziroth . . .” Lael shot a glance toward the door, worried someone heard the loud comment and glanced in. Men and women were hustling by without so much as a glance in their direction, thank the Light. Lael turned, walking deeper into the room.

A shadow stretched from the doorway, startling him. He spun around, dropping to one knee, pointing his draconic cannon at . . . Vaaloo. The mage blinked, the swirl above his eyes twirling. “Lael.” He gave Lael a nod as he ambled in, booted feet tapping lightly against the wood. “Just got back from checking on your family.”

“My family?”

“Fiora. Elswyth.”

“Really now?” Aziroth placed his hands on his hips. “That was kind of you.”

“Elswyth and Fiora are safe,” Vaaloo said, staring at Lael with his glowing eyes; one was blue, the other green. The change was still a mystery to Lael, but he didn’t have time to chat about that now. The head of a green spirit stretched from Vaaloo’s wide-brimmed hat, staring at Lael with a featureless face. A blue swirl twirled on its forehead, and it cocked its head, cheek dripping with water. “I told them what was happening. They were worried, severely so. The only thing I could say to calm their fears was that I’d be with you every step of the way.”

Lael was slowly rising from his kneeling position, staring at the mage in disbelief. “Vaaloo . . .” His hearts clenched. Why did this guy care so much about him? “I . . .” His stifled emotions were beginning to unravel. A lump gathered in his throat as his eyes grew moist. “Why?” He looked away, flushing.

Vaaloo entered the room, bowing his head in thought as green mist trailed his vermilion coat. With every step of his saturated boots, a squish sounded. Water slid down his sleeves, dripping from his gloves. Each droplet contained a swirled mass of green light. Finally, he stopped, and looked Lael in the eye. “The Light has chosen you.” His words sounded like a breeze. “The longer I’m with you, the more I’m convinced of that. If the world is in as much danger as everyone assumes, then it would be pointless for me to return to my people.” He nodded. “I want to help you set things right.”

“As do I,” Aziroth said, voice muffled behind his mask.

Lael gawked at him. Maybe he was being a little too cautious. “I . . . don’t think you need to wear—”

“Hold that thought!” Aziroth leaned toward the far counter, cupping a hand over his ear. “Wait . . . Is that what I think it is?”

Lael strained to hear whatever Aziroth was talking about, but he couldn’t hear anything over the chatter outside the front door.

Lael could hear the smile in Aziroth’s voice as he said, “Do I hear the pitter patter of a crotchety old man?” He nodded. “Yes. Yes indeed!” Without warning, he sprinted toward the back of the room, spun around then did a backflip over the counter. He landed next to the rocking chair, shoved it aside and raced through the opening. “I’ll be right back!”

Olhatha sighed. “Forgive him for his idiosyncrasies.”

“There’s no need for that.” It was what made Aziroth Aziroth. In fact, it was what made humans human. And to apologize for that was like apologizing for one’s existence.

Ridiculous.

And yet, how many times had he chided himself for his imperfections? His flaws? His fears? Felsacor kicked, and Lael grabbed his gut. Whoa. Was this what pregnancy was like? “Fels?” he thought, transferring the message to his draca.

“Is everything okay?” Vaaloo asked, noting Lael’s hands.

“Just trying to contact my—”

“La . . . el?”

Lael frowned. Did that sound like him? It was hard to tell. “Fels.” He bit his lip. Saints, what did he say? “I need you to wake up. Come back to me. Please.” Lael still had yet to perfect the blazing vortex. It would prove handy, whether he escaped this place or faced off with Zeredathah.

“I’m . . . here . . . for . . . you . . .”

Lael’s vision blurred. Wiping his eyes, he opened his mouth to reply when someone hollered. Lael turned to find Aziroth leaping over the counter, cradling Kin in his arms. When his feet hit the floor, he set the old man down. The guy was chuckling, his wide fish-like eyes streaming with tears. His green fingers combed through his ivy-strewn beard, fixing it up. Still chuckling. “Aziroth, my boy!” He reached out and patted Aziroth’s shoulder, giving him a broad grin. “I oughtta give you a raise for that!”

“A raise?” Aziroth asked. “But I don’t even work—”

Kin jabbed Aziroth’s chest with a knobby finger. “How ‘bout I hire ya, fifteen silver clippings an hour?”

“Ha! You’re too kind, but we have a more pressing need.” He gestured toward Lael. Vaaloo was watching the potion master, squinting skeptically

Kin stroked his beard, eyes on Lael. “What . . . seems to be the issue? Are your bones well?”

“They are . . .” Lael puckered his brows. “Were you . . . at the meeting?”

“There was a meeting?”

“They don’t invite people like us,” Aziroth said, hands on his hips. He looked so silly in that fox pelt. His mask was gone, so he must have given up on the idea of lying low. “Which is why stealth is required.”

“Kin. There’s . . . something you should know.” Lael explained the entire situation. The potion master’s already bulging eyes bulged even further. When he heard that Lael was going to fight the Saint in one week he squawked.

“What?!”

Lael nodded.

“Then we have no time to lose.” He shuffled to the wall. “I’ll stock you with as many potions as possible.” He reached up, grabbing round bottles filled with red liquid.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Kin stopped.

“I need you to give me something I can drink now, that will last me, like my metal bones.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Anything that’ll increase my weight.”

“Fatty sweets should do the trick,” Aziroth said, leaning on his sword like a cane.

Kin waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary. Your bones are heavy enough. If you want to increase your weight any further, visit the armory. They have suits you can wear that’ll do the trick.” Kin was walking over to the counters lined with bottles bearing various shades of purple essence. “What you need is a way to bear that weight of yours.” He grabbed a bottle in the shape of a spirally shell. He hobbled over, and handed the bottle to Lael.

“What is it?” He held it up, peering at its contents.

“Mana slugs.”

The bottle wasn’t full of purple liquid. It was brimming with purple slugs. They slithered all over each other, writhing pitifully. “What do they do?”

“They give you mana.”

Lael frowned, lowering the bottle. “When I run out?”

“Kind of.” He cleared his throat. “After you swallow the critters, give them a day to fully incorporate into your system. Once they do, you’ll feel them slithering along your channels.”

Lael gave Kin an uncomfortable look.

The man chuckled. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. They need to live in your spirit in order to survive. The longer you go without using them, the more there’ll be to use.”

“I’m guessing they’re something like a mana reserve?”

“Yes! A mana reserve that grows and grows and grows.”

“What if they grow too big?”

“They die when they reach a certain size, but you don’t have to worry about that. It takes years.”

“What if I use them all at once?”

“They leave eggs behind. Those take anywhere from a day to a week to hatch.”

Lael nodded. He wanted to put the bottle in a pouch, but he didn’t have—

Vaaloo tapped his leg. He turned to find the mage holding out a leather satchel. “For you.”

Lael hesitated, then grabbed the satchel. “Vaaloo . . .” These people were too good to him. His heart spiked with a moment of fear. What if I’m not the hero they’re making me out to be? What if—

He took a deep breath. Stop thinking like that, Lael. His tide of doubts ebbed, but they were flowing back. In order to keep from drowning, he distracted himself by accepting the satchel from Vaaloo and placing the bottle inside.

“Kin,” Lael said, facing him. “What else can you give me?”

Kin stroked his beard. His large eyes shifted from Aziroth, to Vaaloo, then back to Lael. “Before I give you anything else, swear something to me.”

“What?”

“Swear that when Zeredathah offers you a boon, you will release me.” He reached toward Lael, opening his frail hand, stretching his bony fingers. “Swear on your soul.”

Aziroth gasped.

Lael looked over.

The man was staring at one of his dirty nails. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice how nasty this—”

Vaaloo cleared his throat. “Careful, Chosen,” he whispered.

Lael glanced at Kin’s outstretched hand before looking back at Vaaloo. “Why?”

“Because,” Aziroth said, brushing his knuckles on his pelt, “if you swear on your soul, it’s binding. Break it, and suffer the consequences.”

Lael nodded, then glanced at Kin. The man was staring at him evenly. If the man had this much trust in him, as to bind him with a spiritual pact, then he wanted it. Lael reached toward the man’s hand, but hesitated, remembering Tibetta, the witch of Hidden Valley. She’d bound his word with a rune, and that had nearly been the death of him.

But Kin was no witch. He merely wanted out of this place. Lael was his only hope, and if binding his soul to this man with his word meant he’d have help to win against Zeredathah, he would do it.

Lael clasped the man’s hand. “I swear.”

“On your soul!” Kin pointed at him.

“I swear, on my soul, that if I beat Zeredathah, I will use his boon to grant you freedom.” Lael’s soul tingled, then tightened. For a moment, it felt as if someone were wringing his spirit. He winced, but the discomfort passed.

Kin took a deep breath, closing his eyes, as if relishing the moment. When he exhaled, he released Lael’s grasp. “Good.” He wiped his hands. “I have two more potions to give you. One to drink now, and one you’ll drink on the day of your battle.” He hobbled over to a wall of green potions. He grabbed a bottle in the shape of a shield. Then, he walked over to the red section. After reading through a couple of labels, he decided on a potion contained in a glass fist.

“Here,” Kin said, shuffling toward Lael. He handed him both bottles. “The green will increase your overall toughness, and I suggest taking it immediately. It takes at least a day or two to really settle into your spirit.”

“Overall toughness?” Aziroth said, sounding intrigued. “You mean . . .” He flexed.

“No, I mean . . .” Kin flicked Lael’s shoulder.

“Ah . . .” Aziroth nodded. “I don’t understand.”

“The boy’ll be as tough as arctic steel!”

Lael’s eyes were widening in realization, hearts throbbing with anticipation. This was exactly what he needed. A highly defended body, supporting long range attacks. And even if his opponent did get close, shooting Soulfire from his feet gave him the boost he needed to get away, or lunge forward, crushing his foe with the weight of his metal bones.

It was perfect.

While Aziroth and Kin were talking, Lael unstopped the lid of the green potion and drank. It tasted of lime, with a hint of coconut. After draining the bottle, he let out an “Ahh . . .” before wiping his lips. The potion sat in his gut, fizzing slightly.

Everyone was watching him, as if expecting him to grow a third arm.

“Save this one till the day you fight.” Kin handed him the fist-shaped bottle. The red liquid sloshed, frizzy froth forming at the surface. “It’ll increase your strength by ten, but as the day wears on, your power depletes. By the end of the day, you will drop into the depths of exhaustion, the likes of which will leave you incapacitated for days.”

“Wait till the day of the fight to drink it.” Lael nodded. “Got it.”

“You should drink those too.” Kin pointed to the bottle with the purple slugs.

Lael grimaced. It was going to take some time to summon the courage to swallow those. “I . . . will. Before bed.”

“You better.” Kin stretched, bones popping. “Ah!” Shaking out his hands, he walked over to one wall, gathering small bottles. “Come. Put these in your satchel.”

“What do these do?” Lael walked over, accepting the tiny potions.

“That’s none of your concern. We’ll be using them to barter.”

“Barter?”

“With the armorer.” Kin picked up a glass cube filled with black slime, turning it over. “It’ll take most of my hard work to buy one of those silly suits of his, but if it increases your chance of winning, it’s a small price to pay.” He placed the cube in Lael’s satchel. “Hey, tsk.” Kin pointed to Aziroth and Vaaloo. “Don’t just stand around, help me gather some vials!” Aziroth saluted while Vaaloo gave a bow at the waist. Together, they hurried to one of the walls, grabbing as many small potions as they could manage.

“As soon as we’re done here,” Kin said, “to the armorer we go.”

Chapter 30

Royal Mana

Gurgs zipped through the water, brushing the tips of purple kelp. Thirty Bogyns followed behind him, undulating like sea serpents. He’d liberated four slave camps already, slaying the Volmorrians with the strength of Mother. She was distant now, but the essence pumping through his channels made her feel close.

His skin was a deeper shade of blue, and his navy eyes twinkled as if speckled with microscopic stars. Blueish purple mist trailed his hands and feet, diffusing through the water. As his kin passed through the swirling mass, they cackled, absorbing it through their skin. Although their blue flesh didn’t darken, their red and pink eyes shimmered, and their long wispy hair undulated wildly. If only they had fish-scale armor, like Gurgs. Their dirty rags for clothes made them look like a homeless bunch of rebels, but it was better than nothing.

“Mother brought you closer to Advancement,” Balthazar said in his formal tone. “Allowing her essence to flow through you will only bring you closer to Tungsten.”

Gurgs still had no idea what he was talking about, but if it made him stronger, then good. He swooped down, catching a carp with his teeth. With a crunch he bit it in half, swallowing what he could. Without looking, he sensed some of his cousins dart for the severed fish. It was Quag and Mire, two burly twins. How they managed to keep that much muscle on their bones was a mystery to all, but Gurgs wasn’t complaining.

Waves rippled up ahead, but he didn’t need his aquatic senses to spot the slaves. There were fifteen, maybe even twenty, but unlike the others they rescued, these ones weren’t even pretending to work. One was even munching on purple kelp.

Their red and pink eyes were gazing in the direction of the opposite shore, but as Gurgs and his people drew near, their attention turned toward them. They flinched, appearing horrified, but as they watched, their shoulders sagged, relaxing with realization. One woman threw up her boney arms, shouting praises to their names. Others joined in, but most pointed toward the shore.

“Help them!” they shouted, bubbles bursting from their mouths. “Help!”

Gurgs’s eyes followed their pointing fingers, lifting his gaze. Through the rippling surface, he watched as dark forms wrestled with one another. The occasional blue figure bounced about, and that’s what set Gurgs’s heart racing.

Mother’s essence surged through his pumping veins, causing his blood to tingle.

“Ready?” Balthazar asked.

In response, Gurgs shot toward the surface and broke through, splashing water in every direction. He collided with an armored man, soaking him, and knocking him to the mud. Shouts and cries and growls sounded all around, but he was focused on his prey.

His eyes twinkled as navy mist flowed from his spirit, surrounding the stunned warrior—a Steel, like him. The fog, streaked with acid green lines of light, enveloped the man in an instant. A deep hunger growled within the core of Gurgs’s soul. With a flex of his spirit, the mist darkened, shrouding the warrior.

Gurgs did a backflip as the man screamed. When he landed, the mist—now twinkling with stars—grew black. The man’s scream cut off. Gurgs held out a hand, willing the mist to flow toward his palm. As it did, it left behind an armored husk.

As Gurgs soaked in the mist, his supply of mana bubbled over. The mist saturated his soul, fueling him with a distinct spiritual high. Flicking his long tongue, he grinned an eerie, sharp-toothed grin and tasted the earthy aura now radiating from his skin. As it coursed through his channels, feeling like gritty pebbles, he felt his spirit shudder.

“Closer,” Balthazar said. “You are getting closer.”

“I is . . .” Gurgs muttered, turning his glimmering eyes on the chaos ahead. Volmorrians with rock-fists and stone swords punched or stabbed black canines. One of the beasts raced around a Steel, its eyes glowing orange. Teeth bared, it growled, bloody foam trailing from its hairy lips. A long black tail stretched from its cranium, swaying lazily from side to side.

Gurgs cocked his head, frowning. What was that thing? Creatures like this didn’t roam the swamp. He would know! He prided himself on cataloging nearly every plant and creature inhabiting the Fen . . . never taking the time to write it down, of course, because Bogyns didn’t concern themselves with such pointless activities.

The black hound lunged at the warrior, who swiped with his stone sword. The blade shattered against the creature, sending it flying off to one side. It rolled, then jumped right back to its feet and darted toward the warrior, barking, and biting the air.

Most of the Volmorrians were running away, carrying Bogyns on their shoulders. As black hounds caught up to them, lunging and biting their legs, they shouted and dropped the blue slaves. The dogs took advantage of this, diving in and sinking their fangs into the necks of his defenseless kin.

The water behind Gurgs bubbled. He glanced back to see his small army rising from the surface of the lake. He grinned, noting that his numbers had grown, thanks to the slaves below. When their red and pink eyes took in the scene, their expressions changed from confused to fierce.

Gurgs faced the fleeing Volmorrians, the racing dogs, and the defenseless Bogyns. He took a deep breath, and yelled, “For Fontinova!” He lunged forward, running on all fours, his family crying out behind.

As they reached injured Bogyns—some of them bleeding out, others fighting off dogs—his followers tackled the canines. The mutts yelped, thrashing as Bogyns wrestled them to the mud.

Gurgs hurried forward.

There were four Volmorrians darting away, and one of them was carrying a female Bogyn. They tore through the underbrush, ducking under arching roots and hopping over bubbling mud pits, heading toward a field of fronds stretching high above their heads. The fronds swayed back and forth, as if dancing. A few were even leaning toward the men, gesturing for them to approach.

Fools!

Didn’t they know what that was? The plants seemed harmless, but they were the sticky tendrils of a carnivorous shrub. And those men were bringing one of his sisters right to it!

“Mire!” he yelled, glancing over his shoulder. The brawny Bogyn was distracted, swinging one of the mutts by its head-tail.

“Brother Gurgs!” another Bogyn shouted, racing up to him from the other side. It was Quag.

“Lift me!” Gurgs panted, hopping over a fallen soldier. “Throw me!” He whipped out his tongue, using it to point at the fleeing Volmorrians. Quag nodded, grabbed Gurgs’s legs then swung around once before letting go.

Gurgs shot through the air, wispy hair flapping in the wind, tongue dangling from his mouth. Mother’s essence trailed from his skin, brim with that earthen Soul energy he’d siphoned from the soldier. As the navy essence expanded around him, it shattered into fifty different pieces. These pieces formed into rugged, sparkling stones.

And Gurgs, sensing the rocks through the aura field, held every single one.

He spun, crying out, imagining himself as a hero, like Mast—

He shook his head. No.

Not Master.

Lael.

The Chosen One.

He thrust his stones toward the fleeing Volmorrians, who were now looking back at him, faces twisting in surprise. When the now-black stones crashed against the warriors, they exploded, thrusting the men to the ground. All save the one holding the woman.

Gurgs collided with the man, who stumbled, but remained upright. With a curse, he kicked Gurgs, cracking his ribs and sending him flying. He hit the mud and rolled, but thanks to Balthazar and Mother’s essence, the bones snapped back into place, healing in seconds. He growled, fangs trailing with navy mist.

The warrior stared at him through squinting eyes. “You?” he said, backing up toward the swaying fronds. “I thought I killed you!”

Gurgs squinted. Balthazar gave him a quick spiritual view of the man. He was a Tungsten. The Tungsten. The man who’d finished him off in seconds, only days ago. “Don’t go there!” Gurgs shouted, rising to his feet. “Death in there! Stop—”

The man stomped the ground. A boulder formed from the saturated soil, dripping with mud. He kicked it at Gurgs. It soared toward him, looking like a massive meatball. Gurgs held out his hands. With a thrust, Mother’s night essence sprayed from his palms in a torrent of what looked like navy liquid streaked with Balthazar’s acid green power. It collided with the stone, enveloping and consuming it in a heartbeat.

The Tungsten gasped, taking a step back.

“Drop her!” Gurgs shuffled toward him, back hunched. “Now!” He held out a hand toward him. It radiated with navy mist, glistening, as if taken from the night sky itself.

The Tungsten sniffed, puffing out his armored chest. “You’re just a Steel.” His hold on the woman dangling over his shoulder tightened. She gasped, face twisting in pain. “I ought to kill her for the audacity you—”

A gaping snout shot from the tall fronds and snapped down on the Tungsten’s upper body, severing his legs from his torso. They flopped to the ground, oozing blood as the monster swallowed the man and the Bogyn.

Gurgs’s jaw dropped. The shouts and howls from behind grew silent.

The creature’s narrow muzzle matched the black dogs’, as did its orange glowing eyes. As it burped, it took a step from the fronds, revealing a long tail stretching from the back of its skull. As the tail whipped up and down, it split into three separate tails.

“Thank you for making my job much easier,” the canine drawled, speaking from somewhere deep within its throat. “Now, would you do me a favor and gather all your friends? I’m terribly famished, and I don’t want to have to chase them all over the swamp just to bite them in half.”

“Gurgs?” Balthazar said. “Gurgs!”

Gurgs snapped from his frozen moment of shock, heart pounding. He took a step back, skin radiating night essence.

“Can you talk, little Bogyn,” the canine said, taking another step from the fronds. “Or did one of my own clip your tongue?”

“You don’t belong here,” Gurgs found himself whispering.

The canine’s hairy lips curled in what Gurgs thought was a sneer. Or . . . maybe a disturbing smile? “You don’t belong here, overlander.” The hound stood tall, towering over Gurgs by a good ten feet. “We’ve been bound to the Forsaken Kingdom for far too long, but now the veil is lifting. When Modrea rises, there will be nothing standing in the way of even the mightiest of demons.” His smile widened, revealing yellowed fangs. “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s cut the chitchat. I’m ready to eat. And so are my children.” He opened his mouth and threw back his head, howling.

Gurgs clamped his hands over his earholes, stumbling back. Even through the disturbing, howling vibration, he heard the cries of his fellow Bogyns. Looking over his shoulder, intent on checking on his kin, he was greeted with a far scarier sight. Dead canines stirred. Their pools of black blood slithered back into their wounds, rousing them back to life.

Gurgs’s Bogyn army cried out in fear, retreating to the surface of the lake. “Brothers!” he shouted. “Sisters!” The large hound growled. As Gurgs turned to face it, he watched as all three of its head-tails whipped out, wrapping around three of Gurgs’s brothers. They screamed, scraping the tendrils with their acidic claws. Gurgs watched in rigid horror as the tentacles raised them high, holding them over the hound’s gaping mouth.

Save my children.

Something snapped in Gurgs.

His rigid muscles loosened as Mother’s essence swept through him, empowering him to scream his fear to death. Cycling the essence to his nails, his scream reached piercing heights as he slashed the air in a horizontal strike. Five navy blades tore through the air, ripping through the dog’s tendrils. A pained yelp escaped the monster’s lips as Gurgs’s kin dropped to the mud.

“Run!” he screamed, gesturing for his cousins to split. “Get out of here!” They obeyed as he faced the hound and, with a bull-like snort, lunged forward, trailing night essence as he barreled toward the massive dog.

“How cute,” the dog said, shaking his head. “The mouse wants to play!” He prowled toward Gurgs, grinning wide. Gurgs surrounded himself in a sphere of night essence and jumped toward the creature’s throat, charging up his hands with—

The large hound evaporated, leaving behind black mist.

Jaws came down on Gurgs from behind, snapping hard. He landed on a sticky tongue, but as the night essence expanded around him, it ate through the meaty flab in seconds. A pained howl blasted from the gullet, stinging Gurgs’s ear holes. The dog shook its head, stretching its jaws wide as Gurgs stabbed his claws into the flesh at the bottom of the monster’s mouth. As he burned through the skin, the massive dog shook its head more aggressively, shrieking.

With a final flick of the neck, the dog sent Gurgs flying through the air. He turned, facing a thick trunk. He held out his hands and feet, then landed with a crack. His bones fractured, and he cursed in pain, but they healed in an instant.

When he turned his head to look at the big black dog, he watched as it slammed its head against the mud, scraping its lower jaw. Gurgs looked toward his kin, and his eyes were confronted with a horrible sight. The bodies of both Bogyn and canine lay strewn across the mud; those who were still alive fought desperately, slashing with sharp claws, or biting with fangs.

His blood boiled, and his spirit rent with anguish. “WHY!” Why did he keep failing to protect his brothers and sisters! Why did he let them die like this? He should have never had them follow him into battle!

Howling like a primordial beast, Gurgs crouched to launch from his place on the tree.

“The leader!” Balthazar shouted. “Stop him.”

Gurgs turned fierce eyes on the overgrown mutt. It was still shaking its head, and what Gurgs saw made his stomach turn. New tendrils were growing from the back of its skull, and another tongue unraveled from the flesh at the bottom of its mouth. It looked up at Gurgs with its burning eyes, grinning with sharp fangs.

Boom. The ground trembled, shaking the tree Gurgs was clinging to. Boom. A low grumble echoed through the swamp after each thump. It was a distinct sound, bubbling as if from a muddy brook. Boom. Gurgs searched the swamp, eyes jumping from one tree to another. As the grumble sounded again, he realized where it was coming from.

He lifted his gaze, staring across the lake, back toward where he and his cousins came from. In the distant gloom, two yellow orbs twinkled. They bobbed up and down, looking like stars. Gurgs squinted, trying to get a better view of the beast, but as it grumbled again, he froze.

That call, he thought. I know it . . .

Only one creature sounded like that in all of Fontinova.

“Brothers!” he shouted. “Get out of here!” He looked toward the massive mutt. It narrowed its glowing eyes in the direction of the oncoming beast. With a snort, it turned and lunged, prancing from one spot to another, leaping like a gazelle until he could no longer see it. Its children, or . . . what was left of them, dashed after it.

Gurgs was about to lunge to the ground when light caught something in the far distance. Was that . . . armor? If so, there had to be hundreds wearing the stuff!

He hopped to the ground and found that his relatives were patching up wounds, cradling the wounded and the . . . dead. “No . . .” He shook his head. “No!” He stumbled over to a woman who was missing most of her gut. He placed his hands on the bloody mess, tears stinging his eyes. “Heal her!” he yelled to Balthazar.

He sensed trepidation from the leech. “I . . . can only heal you.”

Gurgs bowed his head, trembled. The ground quaked with every booming step.

“That a crogator,” Mire muttered, striding over like a beastly monkey.

“A adult crogator,” a woman whispered, leaning against a gangly Bogyn.

“We need keep moving,” another said, sounding weak.

“Gurgs?” Mire asked.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet. No matter where they hustled, the crogator would follow. If this was the mother of the one they killed, then it would hunt them down till the end of time, and wouldn’t stop till it killed every last one of them . . .

But, wait; Gurgs was the only one with the scent. His last group had been abducted. He wasn’t sure where they were, so he only had to worry about himself. “Go ‘head of me,” he muttered, looking in the direction he’d seen the armored warriors.

“What?” Mire said, looking down at him.

“The crogator want me. All you go. Keep rescuing slave. Meet me at middle of swamp.”

Mire nodded, but Quag frowned, approaching with a lazy gait. “But who lead us?”

“And what if that . . . dog come looking for us?” a woman muttered, her skin tight against her skull.

Gurgs groaned. Right. Without him, they had no one to protect them . . .

Touch their foreheads, Mother whispered, her statement more of an impression than spoken words.

He cocked his head, twisting it in confusion. “What?”

Balthazar’s brothers live inside of them. None of them know this, which is why their souls are still so young. The time has come for them to carry a portion of my spirit. Gurgs found himself reaching up to tap Quag on the forehead.

“What you do?” he muttered, eyes crossing as they followed his sharp nail.

“I . . .” Gurgs pressed his nail into Quag’s forehead, “want introduce you to someone.”

A rush of energy flowed from a vibrating ball rolling around Gurgs’s chest. It crawled along his arm, then through his fingertip and into Quag’s forehead. The Bogyn straightened. His irises shifted from their vibrant red to the sparkling navy had by Gurgs. Quag shivered, then blinked, looking around in a daze. He frowned, touching the side of his head with his clawed fingers.

“Mother can speak to them,” Balthazar said. “She always could, but now, her impressions are little more certain.”

“What you do to him?” Mire asked, squinting at his brother, cocking his head.

Navy mist trailed from Quag’s skin. The Bogyns gasped, stumbling back. “You give him your power!” a teen shouted, rising to her feet, tightening the rags around her body. “I ready for it! I ready for—”

“Mother’s power,” Gurgs whispered, looking at his sharp nails. Potent vapor trailed from his fingers, sparkling with what looked like glitter.

The Bogyns muttered among themselves.

“Mother?” Quag whispered.

“Queen of Night.”

His kin chattered even louder.

“She has returned?” an elderly Bogyn muttered, hobbling over. Her long armpit hair dragged against the mud.

“She has.” Gurgs pressed a fingernail against the old woman’s forehead. “In us.”

Her irises changed to the hue of twilight. “Oh!” She stammered, trembling as she sank to her knees. “Oh, oh, oh!” Navy vapor radiated from her blue skin.

“She protect you when I go.”

“Where you go?” the teenage girl asked, striding up to him. She walked nearly as good as a human, with only a hint of a crouch.

“I go to drive off crogator. And you”—he looked into each of the blue faces of his kin—“all of you be going to liberate the rest of our kin.” He tapped the teen on the forehead, and she shivered as her eyes changed color. She stiffened, appearing shocked, then laughter burst from her lips as she looked at the mist trailing from her fingers.

“Meet me in middle of swamp when you finish.” Gurgs spent the next few minutes tapping his cousins’ foreheads. When all of their eyes glistened with night essence, he turned to face the distant soldiers. He couldn’t see them now, thanks to dangling ivy, the arching roots, and tall overgrowth. But he knew where they were headed.

Their direction was unmistakable . . .

He glanced up, eyes darting past intermingling branches in search of the sun. Its light was obscured, but easy to find. It was hanging at an angle, and it took him only a few seconds to confirm what he already knew. The soldiers were marching straight for the center of the Fen.

But why so many? A question for another time.

Crawling on all fours, he hustled forward. When he reached a thick root, he started climbing over it, when he heard muttering. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as his kin dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the mud.

His heart skipped. No! They shouldn’t be bowing to him. He was not their god, he was their—

“They’re not bowing to you,” Balthazar whispered, wriggling from his shoulder. The navy blue leech looked at him with his pinprick eyes, circular mouth closed tight. He nodded toward the Bogyns. Gurgs looked, narrowing his eyes. The vapor trailing from their blue bodies was forming into the vague impression of Mother’s feminine form. Her hair swayed in every direction, as if caught in multiple sea currents.

A thrill of chills shot up Gurgs’s spine as he dropped to his knees, bowing before her. With his forehead pressed against the mud, he felt the approaching, booming steps of the crogator. As much as he wanted to kneel there forever, he needed to get going. He rose to his hands and feet, head bowed in reverence to Mother. Who was no longer there. “Brothers!” Gurgs shouted. “Sisters!”

As one, they rose to their hands and feet.

“The time is come! Go!”

With a shout of jubilation, they darted away from him, heading east—away from the dogs, the soldiers, and even the crogator. Gurgs turned to face the root once again. He scaled the bark, then lunged over the root, hitting the mud, running after the distant soldiers.

Chapter 31

The Gaze of Darkness

Week two of our captivity. Four days until Lael’s battle with Saint Zeredathah. Aziroth leaned back, tapping his chin with the pencil. Lael was at the center of the wide glade, surrounded by a crowd of civilized savages and towering trees, staring down his opponent, Kodia. The man wore the pelt of a saber tooth tiger with the hood up. He gripped two spears, one in each hand. He ground his teeth, glaring at Lael, looking eager to tear him apart. Lael’s face, on the other hand, was calm.

Aziroth chuckled, shaking his head, returning to his report. Lael’s improvement has shocked even me. It seems he’s given up entirely on the idea of escape, wholeheartedly committing to train his guts out. He tapped the paper, then glanced up.

Lael was backing away from Kodia, the whites of his eyes going completely black. His irises shimmered crimson, giving him a sinister appearance. Aziroth chuckled again. Don’t think I can ever get over those eyes! They gave Lael a grand advantage over his opponents, intimidating even the stoutest of hearts. Or so he liked to believe. Kodia didn’t seem the least bit fazed; though Aziroth believed that the man’s face was forever twisted in a scowl. He'd look the same no matter who or what he faced. Even the Darkness himself.

“They don’t suit him,” came a stately voice. Aziroth glanced to his left, searching for Olhatha, while sitting with his back against a large root, on the outskirts of the crowd. A nearly imperceptible white mist slithered across the dirt, passing beneath the feet of spectators. When it reached Aziroth, it crawled up his smelly pelt, passing his ridiculous mask. Oh how he looked forward to the day when could finally take a bath!

Olhatha flowed through his skull, entering his mind. “I much prefer the eyes he gets when he’s flowing with Salvefire.”

Aziroth gave a short laughing snort. “You think heavenly eyes’ll strike fear into the heart of his enemies?”

“I think his moves speak for themselves.”

Aziroth gave a curt nod, returning to his paper. Kin helped us purchase a rune-enhanced suit of armor, one that grows heavier the more mana it has. It should give Lael the edge he needs over Zeredathah.

“What are you doing?” Olhatha asked.

“Keeping a journal.”

“Since when . . .” He sighed. “Never mind. I’ve news for you.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“The Saint’s growing restless. Shaisha keeps bugging him about moving the fight to tomorrow.”

Aziroth cocked a brow. “And why’s that?”

“She’s beside herself. Elswyth’s murders . . . er, Elswyth’s mom’s murders . . . Wait, no. Elswyth’s mom’s parasite’s murders have driven her mad.”

“Really? So she’s like Zeredathah now.”

Olhatha shivered. “Worse.”

Aziroth frowned. “In what way?”

“She hides her rage around others, but in private, she slams her staff against the wall, screaming, cursing Elswyth’s name.” Olhatha was whispering now. “I’ve been checking on Elswyth every day since her incarceration, and so far, the woman hasn’t gone in to see her. But I fear that if this stretches on any longer, the woman’s going to take matters into her own hands, and kill . . .”

“Elswyth.” Aziroth narrowed his eyes, watching the fight.

Lael enshrouded himself in black flames as he lunged over Kodia. He landed a good many paces away, turning and pointing his draconic cannon at the man, who was spitting out a stream of curses, calling him a coward. Aziroth smirked. This was Lael’s tactic now—running away, keeping his distance, charging up his cannon. Only, now that Aziroth got a better look at the gun, he noticed something that intrigued him. Heat haze wasn’t radiating from the weapon. Which meant . . .

He isn’t charging the cannon.

If not, then what was he doing? Lael could end this now if he wanted to. Kodia was a Tungsten, but he was no match for the Chosen’s weighty skeleton, the perfect tool for pinning people to the ground.

A black spark popped behind Kodia’s head. The man was stalking toward Lael, oblivious to the flickers popping in and out of existence around his body. Aziroth sat up, heart drumming. Lael had tried to do this before, back in the Fontinovan village. It was an aura technique, one involving the use of Phantomfire.

“He’s going to drain himself dry . . .” Olhatha sounded a little worried.

“Not only that . . .” Aziroth whispered, heart pounding as he watched streaks of fire swirl around Kodia. The man stopped, face twisting in confusion as his eyes followed one streak swirling around his head. When he spotted several more, he growled and slashed one with his spear, cutting it in half. “. . . Kodia’s a drahn above our beloved Chosen, but that attack could still kill him.”

Olhatha cursed. “Aziroth, stop him.”

Aziroth was already rising to his feet, shaking his head. He wouldn’t have to stop him. Lael wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t kill a tribesman in front of the whole clan. Seven Saints, he wouldn’t kill him even if they were in private!

He was a man, chosen of the Light!

Not a monster . . .

Aziroth squinted as he peered into Lael’s distant eyes. They were darker than usual. The reds of his irises, instead of shimmering, seemed dull.

Aziroth’s blood grew cold.

Lael was a complicated knot of emotions. It seemed to take him days to truly process heavy information. Just yesterday, he’d vented something nasty about Elswyth’s situation, hating the way Zeredathah was treating her. Aziroth had managed to calm him down, but the boy simmered.

Modrea was no doubt playing to that rage, as the dark God tended to do.

“Crap!” Aziroth full-on sprinted for Lael.

Cycling Salvefire, he enshrouded himself in a cloak of white flames. He enforced his soul with mana as he called upon Tungsten scales. Pearly white scales covered his flesh, making him glimmer in the light.

“Outta the way!”

Tribesmen and women gasped, stepping aside as Aziroth rushed past.

Lael turned to face him, black eyes tracking his approach. Aziroth lunged, hands outstretched. He collided with the boy, and he might as well have jumped straight into a brick wall. Lael cried out, stumbling. He tried shoving Aziroth to the ground, but the man held tight. Eventually Lael tripped. Aziroth landed on top, pinning Lael’s arms down. Sweat dripping down his face. Heavens above! The boy was hot as an oven.

Lael thrashed, screaming in rage.

“Lael,” Aziroth said calmly. When the boy continued his tantrum, he yelled, “LAEL!”

Lael froze, looking straight into Aziroth’s eyes.

Aziroth matched those otherworldly globes of his. This close, he could just barely see Lael’s irises. A bead of sweat slid down Aziroth’s nose, tickling it. It dripped from the tip, splashing against Lael’s cheek. The boy flinched, eyes fluttered. His chest heaved up and down, up and down.

When he blinked again, the darkness in his eyes began to fade. “. . . Aziroth?”

Aziroth nodded, forcing a smile. “It’s me.”

Lael nodded, looking away. When he noticed the crowd, his cheeks burned red. Aziroth leaned back and rose to his feet, then reached out a hand to help the boy rise. Lael was closing his eyes, no doubt burning with shame. “Come on,” Aziroth whispered gently.

Lael opened his eyes. When he noticed the outstretched hand, he clasped it. Aziroth had to reinforce the muscles in his legs and arms as he helped the boy to his feet. Even then, he struggled to help him rise. Lights and moons, the kid was heavy enough to make even him, a relatively clean-mouthed individual, spout a stream of new cusses!

“Uh oh,” Olhatha thought.

“What?” Aziroth said, wiping his hands as Lael stood beside him, rubbing his temples.

A wispy tendril poked from Aziroth’s ear, pointing over a stunned crowd. Shaisha rushed up the boardwalk spiraling around the Saint’s tree. Her cat ears twitched, and her walking staff clicked against wooden stairs. Before long, she was out of sight, hurrying to face Zeredathah.

Aziroth gave a solemn nod.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, and although it was his general rule of thumb to always assume the best in people, he had a hard time believing Shaisha had their best interest in mind.

“Come,” he said, placing an arm around Lael and guiding him to the edge of the crowd. People were already leaving, muttering to one another and casting wary looks in their direction. “We have some . . . final preparations to make.”

“I’m sorry,” Lael whispered, head bowed. He brushed brown locks from his eyes, the rest of his hair skirting his shoulder. “I . . .” He shook his head, appearing disturbed.

“No apologies. Talk to me as we go along.” Aziroth glanced at the Saint’s giant tree. Shaisha was already halfway up the winding gangplank, and all he could think of was Olhatha’s description of the hurt, angry woman bashing her staff against the wall, screaming bloody murder . . .

“It happened again,” Lael said, voice shaking.

Aziroth glanced at him as they started up a path winding around another massive tree.

“He spoke to me . . .”

Aziroth wanted to ask, Why did you give in? but that wouldn’t help the situation. “You have power over him,” he whispered, climbing up wooden stairs. Lael nodded, but he didn’t respond. He was shivering, as if coming down with a cold.

Aziroth bit the inside of his cheek, brows knitting together. He had no experience in dealing with this sort of issue. At that moment, he wished he were more of a praying man. The Light’s intervention would do wonders with—

He snapped his fingers. The Light. Lael had yet to tap into the God’s distant power, but he was getting close. Olhatha’s illusionary fight had been the closest thing to getting the Chosen to access Jeh’va’s influence. Modrea knew that, which was why the wretch was working double time on Lael.

Lael was cocking a brow up at him. “Where are we going?”

“To your room.” The armor Kin bought for him was up there, as well as that red potion. Lael had already slurped down the mana slugs, and it seemed that green elixir he’d ingested was already working wonders. Aziroth tapped Lael’s cheek and was shocked at just how hard he was!.

Lael’s head was bowed, brow scrunched. “You think something bad’s going to happen?”

“Just a premonition.”

“A very good premonition.” Olhatha streamed from Aziroth’s head, making him shudder. Why was the spirit always so cold? The ghost formed into the shape of an eye above his shoulder, staring at Lael. “It’s better to be prepared for a battle and not have one, than to have a battle and not be prepared.”

Lael’s eyes were wide. He seemed to understand. “Saints.” He shook his head, taking a shaky breath. His face resolved into a fierce expression. At first, Aziroth thought he was losing his temper. But then he realized that the look he was giving was one of determination, not anger.

Aziroth opened his mouth, but what was there to say?

Nothing more.

The boy knew what might be coming. And it was his job to make sure he was prepared.

Chapter 32

Inside Information

“You’ve let a family of demons into our home!” the woman yelled, slamming the butt of her staff against the leafy ground. Ice spread across the leaves, freezing them, and the wood beneath.

Vaaloo watched Shaisha through the spiral of one of his soulbound spirits. The little green spirit stood on its tippy toes, balancing on the pointed tip of Vaaloo’s hat. It rested its folded arms on the windowsill, unconcerned with being seen.

“The Chosen is not who you think he is.”

“Please, Shaisha,” Zeredathah grumbled. He was sitting on his throne, stroking Stormhammer’s spiky spine. His bubble was nowhere to be seen, but that was no surprise. It kept a constant watch on Lael, and a good thing too. If it tagged Vaaloo as dutifully as it did the Chosen, he’d have had no chance of sneaking up to this window.

“No. You’ve seen it for yourself.” She touched her piercing, feline eyes. “The eyes, Zeredathah.” She shook her head, furry ears twitching. “He’s a child of Darkness, not Light!”

Zeredathah sighed, stroking his voluminous beard.

“Justice cannot be stayed any longer. Face him, so we can punish the shadow and avenge—” Her voice caught, tears streaking down her face. A terrible rage twisted her features as her cheeks grew red. “We buried Hannia and the others this morning.” She sniffed.

Zeredathah nodded, shoulders slumped, as if carrying a great invisible burden.

“Their blood cries out for vengeance. They cannot wait any longer. Answer their—”

The Saint hammered his armrest, cracking it. Shaisha perked, not looking the least bit scared. After taking three deep breaths, Zeredathah rose from his throne. His eye was on the open doorway, appearing distant. Without a word, he lumbered toward the doorway, Stormhammer padding along behind him.

Vaaloo’s spirit was quivering. He called his soulbound friend back. The spirit sank down into his hat, entering his soul, joining the others. The planks below Vaaloo shook with each of Zeredathah’s booming steps. Was the Saint going after Lael? Was Shaisha’s pestering persistence finally getting to him? Was he going to do as she asked? Or had he simply left, to blow off steam?

If Vaaloo had to describe Zeredathah in one word, it would be unpredictable. The Saint could be heading out to do any number of things, and one of those activities might very well involve attacking Lael.

Vaaloo took a deep breath, sucking in the aura. It was saturated with the essence of the ocean, thanks to the Saint’s overwhelming presence. When Vaaloo exhaled, water flowed from his soul, saturating his already damp clothing.

The boom, boom, booming steps of the Saint were growing dim, but Vaaloo wanted to wait a while before he acted. Even though he had the Saint’s favor, it was always wise not to push his luck.

But he didn’t want to wait too long. Especially if Lael’s life was on the line.

Chapter 33

Amendments

They were nearly halfway up the tree, and Lael was already panting. And that was saying something, considering he was a Steel.

He leaned against the wooden railing. It creaked beneath his weight. He kept his mana cycling, burning to keep the weight of his bones from overwhelming him. His channels tickled, and for a moment he wondered why.

It didn’t take long to remember.

He nearly gagged at the memory of swallowing an entire bottle of slimy slugs. He could still feel the sticky lumps sliding down his throat. And now, they were slithering through his channels. It was weird, to say the least, but Kin was right. The slugs radiated mana, giving him an extra wave of spiritual energy. The potion master had even claimed that the creatures bred, so he wouldn’t have to worry if he sacrificed them for a burst of mana.

But they were nothing compared to that defensive elixir he’d downed. He wasn’t sure if it had completely soaked into his system, but over the past couple of days, Lael’s skin and organs had toughened in ways he never dreamt possible.

“Lael?”

Lael looked to see Aziroth. He was twenty paces ahead of him, looking over his shoulder. The man quickly closed that gap, standing over him with hands on his hips, staring down at him with a masked face. “Tired?”

Lael took a deep breath. “Doing better.”

“Stay strong . . .” Felsacor grumbled.

Lael grimaced. He’d had bits of conversation with his draca over the past couple of days, and from what it sounded like, he was holding back Modrea from straight up assaulting Lael. Not that the Darkness could hurt him without his consent. The worst the dark God could do was tempt him. And tempt him he did. Saints, the spirit wormed his way in at times, hitting him in moments of emotional duress.

“Here, let me carry you,” Aziroth said, opening his arms, as if he were going in for a hug.

Lael shook his head, feeling uncomfortable.

“Fine, then a piggy back ride is in order.” He turned and knelt. The action, oddly enough, reminded Lael of Gurgs’s worshipful behavior . . .

Gurgs . . .

Where was the Bogyn right now? It wasn’t unusual for him to get lost, so Lael tried not to worry. But it was hard not to. And what about Jynzo, and Jrenlla. Where were they? And his mother. Was she all right? Yes, she was a spirit, but Reapers had a way of messing with the dead.

“Come on,” Aziroth said, appearing cheery. “I can’t kneel like this all day.”

Lael’s hearts tugged, and he stood with a straight spine. This man . . . he was like the father he never had. Saints, if this ex-slave could travel thousands of miles just to find him, Lael could walk a couple hundred feet up a tree.

“I can walk.” Lael helped Aziroth to his feet. The man sighed, shrugging as he brushed the sleeves of his pelt. Lights above, why was he still wearing that ridiculous foxtail? “Let’s go.” Lael tromped up the steps, his weight bending the wooden stairs under his feet.

They walked in silence for a moment, the air abnormally still. And not between them—Lael was used to the man’s presence, so silence wasn’t awkward—it was the overall lack of noise that disturbed him. The Saint’s civilization was usually a lively place . . .

“How’s your Advancement going?” Aziroth whispered, hands behind his back, watching the glade below.

Lael perked. As he homed in on the tingling, burning sensation at the soles of his feet, he frowned. The sensation was expanding, crawling up his legs. How long had that been happening?

“My legs. They feel like they’re on fire.”

Aziroth looked over at him, pupils aglow. “Mm. Good.” He nodded.

“What is it?”

“Let it burn.”

“What?”

“You’re close, my friend.” He nodded, probably smiling beneath that round mask. “Tungsten is almost upon you.”

Lael’s hearts fluttered. “Do you think I’ll—”

“Break through before the Trial?” Aziroth shrugged. “Most likely.”

A sigh of relief passed Lael’s lips, but before he could say anything, an earsplitting clap rang from below. A blast of air shot past Lael, rustling his hair; Aziroth stumbled back, losing his mask and the band holding his messy hair together. Shaking his head, he rushed to the edge and leaned over the railing.

Lael blinked, then strode over, looking down as well.

“People of the Clan of the Sea!” Zeredathah boomed, raising his bulky hand. If the people surrounding him were ants, he was a toad in comparison. “Four days from now, the Chosen will enter the Trial of the Black Deep. Him, and the murderer.” The crowd was dead silent. “She is sanctioned to die. But the Chosen . . . What of him?” He opened his one arm, looking from one face to another. “Will he make it out alive? If not, what then? Is there any hope for our world?” People bowed their heads, others keeping their eyes fixed on the Saint.

Lael hearts began to beat fast.

“Is he ready, do you think?” Zeredathah continued, his mighty voice shaking branches. A tiny leaf alighted on Lael’s head. He whacked it off, eyes glued to the meeting below. People were walking from tents, gathering with the group surrounding the Saint, arms folded. “Why did he not take the full four weeks to prepare?” The Saint continued. “Why challenge me, a Saint? Why help a murderer? Should he have merely left her to die?”

“Why is he saying this?” Lael asked, Soulfire pumping through his veins, cheeks burning red.

“I’m . . . not sure.” Aziroth smirked. “If you haven’t noticed, our dear Saint is a little . . .” He pointed to the side of his head, twirling his finger.

“Is the Chosen who we think he is?” Zeredathah’s booming voice continued. “Or . . . is he a fraud?” He let the silence linger, glancing from one man and woman to the next. “Would a follower of the Light fight for a murderous savage? Would he not see to it that justice was delivered? If he is truly who he claims to be, let him come forth, prove himself in the field of battle!

People were yelling their agreement. Lael, on the other hand, was watching with a hanging jaw, shaking his head. This was ridiculous. The Saint had already agreed to fight him in four days! He didn’t have to prove anything. “Come on,” he muttered to Aziroth, turning to walk up the stairs. He wasn’t about to step into this—

“Tonight, the Chosen is to fight the weakest among us, all the way to the greatest we have to offer! To the death, if necessary. If he succeeds, then, and only then, will he be sanctioned to challenge me . . .”

“What?” Lael shook his head. “What?” He hurried to the railing, clutching it with his hand and the jaws of his draconic cannon. “Saints, that’s not what he promised!” Phantomfire bled through his pores, popping out in tiny sparks of blackness. A swirling force at the center of his chest buzzed with alarm as Felsacor stirred in his gut, emitting a pleasurable grumble.

“If he has an issue with this amendment,” Zeredathah said, “let him come forth, and bring his complaint before the body of the clan.”

The wooden railing snapped in Lael’s grasp. Bring it he would. He spun, marching across the landing.

“Uh, Lael?” Aziroth said, rushing up beside him. “What are you—”

“I’m not going to let him get away with this,” Lael said, words dripping with malice. He stumbled, touching his throat, shocked at how deadly he sounded.

“Lael, listen to me.” Aziroth stood in front of him, placing hands on his shoulders. “Are you listening?”

Lael nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re not going to be able to persuade him. You know how irrational—”

“I’m going to persuade him.” Phantomfire crackled from his skin, his eyes going inky black, his irises fading from violet to red. “. . . The same way I persuaded Blaise.” He opened his right-hand heart, fusing Salvefire with the dark flames rushing through his channels. They mingled, shifting to a shimmering silver.

He walked around Aziroth, and started down the steps, when he was confronted by an unexpected sight. Vaaloo was rushing up the stairs, leaving wet footprints in his wake. When he spotted Lael, his glowing brightened. “Lael!” He came to a stop in front of him, drenched from hat to boot. “Be careful.” He noticed Aziroth and nodded toward the man. “Both of you. Go. The Saint’s patience is scant. I’d have you follow me, but I fear what’ll happen if you make him wait too long.” He rushed past him.

“Where are you going!” Lael asked.

“To get your armor!”

“Ooh!” Aziroth said, stepping up to Lael’s side. “Felsacor, how nice of you to join us!”

Felsacor? Lael whipped his head to look at his shoulder. The draca was perching there, half the size of Lael. A burden. What in the Saints’ eight holy names! When was the last time he’d come out like this?

“Fels?” Lael asked. The draca seemed . . . off. He was staring straight ahead, teetering to one side, eyes half shut, as if on the verge of falling asleep.

What the Nether.

“He . . . looks like he’s trying to tell us something,” Aziroth said, leaning in.

Lael ducked his head, ear facing the draca.

“. . . here to help . . . here to help . . . here to help . . .” he chanted.

This only twisted Lael’s gut. Here he was, about to confront the Saint, and his draca was insane. Not only that, but Elswyth was on the verge of execution. And he didn’t even want to think about the others . . . Fiora . . . His mom. Were they all right?

Lael stared at his muttering draca. “Did Modrea break him?” he whispered.

“Based off what we know,” Aziroth said, standing up straight. “I’d stay Fels is still holding him back. His influence, at least.”

“How can we heal him?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Aziroth muttered, narrowing his eyes. “His ailment is . . . unique. Not only that, dracas are a strange breed. Part spirit, part mortal, bound to a human soul.” His face twisted in confusion. “Which reminds me.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Najala’s still missing.”

“I thought she went with my mom.”

“She did. But a few days ago, I sensed her approaching. Now . . . I can’t place a finger on where she’s at.” He scratched his chin. “Oh, well, something to look into after we’re through with . . .” He cupped a hand over his ear. After listening for a second, his smile broadened. “Ah, wonderful!”

“What?”

“Escorts!”

Lael frowned, then his ears perked at the sound of a steady tromp, tromp, tromp, marching just around the corner of the descending staircase. Blue-painted tribesmen, with streaks of red lining their cheeks, were ascending. Their icy spearheads glistened in the light.

The foremost soldier looked up. His eyes bulged and he stumbled back. “Chosen!” Men bumped into him, nearly losing their balance. “Saint Zeredathah—”

“Take me to him.” Lael started toward the group.

They backed up, pointing their spears in his direction.

He frowned.

“There’s a dragon on your shoulder,” Aziroth whispered from behind.

Lael glanced at Felsacor. Not only was the dragon perching, gazing like a drunken sailor, but silver flames sparked from his shadowy scales. Lael narrowed his eyes. Shadowy? Why were they . . .

He huffed. There was no point in wondering. Yes, the creature used to shimmer in the light, but he also used to talk like an intelligent being. Lael’s hearts tightened, and he looked away from his dragon friend. It felt like he was losing him.

“Come, Chosen . . .” The foremost tribesman reluctantly lowered his spear and nodded down the stairs. “Zeredathah awaits you.” He hesitated, as if unsure whether to wait for Lael to say something or turn around and walk away.

Lael made the choice easy for him by descending. The group of soldiers quickly turned around, bumping into one another as they hurried down the steps. Why were they so afraid of Felsacor? Saints, why were they so afraid of him? But it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to this. The people of Hidden Valley had treated him far worse.

The only things that kept him sane back then were his mother and sister . . .

Chills crawled up his spine as his chest tangled up in knots. Felicity was a spirit now. Fiora was imprisoned. And Elswyth was on death row. What if everything, and everyone he loved, was taken from him?

Lael clenched his jaw, frowning with a look of fierce determination. He wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t! If he didn’t go through with the Trial of the Black Deep, Elswyth was dead. His family was dead. And the only thing standing in the way of that was a big fat oaf named Zeredathah.

* * *

“No,” Zeredathah said, picking his ear. He flicked the earwax. It blew a small crater in the earth. “My decision is final. You can’t challenge me unless you face my champions and fight your way to the top.”

“And what if I say no,” Lael said, fighting to keep his voice even. He tried to keep Phantomfire from leaking into his veins. Tiny sparks popped from his skin as his eyes grew black, his irises blood red.

“Then, your friend will be executed, and you will never leave this place.” Zeredathah crossed his legs. He was sitting on the back of his chameleon, at the center of the glade. His entire army, lined up in neat orderly rows, surrounded them. Kodia, that bear of a man, was standing in front of one of the platoons with Lyreen, the woman with the reptilian armor. They watched with serious expressions, though Lyreen’s lips quirked, as if she were fighting to suppress a smile.

Lael took deep breaths, swallowing a few choice words. He didn’t want to say anything he’d regret. Especially in front of a Saint . . . but part of him didn’t care anymore. He was tired of jerks like this bossing people around.

Staring up into that ugly, one-eyed, bearded mug, he pictured what he imagined Dharamadeva to look like. What he was like. People said he was awful, and if that was true, then Lael would do anything, anything, to grow into the kind of person that could take him out.

“Your face, Chosen,” Zeredathah said with an amused tone. “It looks ready to pop.” People chuckled at that. “Do have something to—”

“Bring me your champion now!” he shouted, spitting black sparks. Tribesmen gasped and many flinched, clutching weapons.

Zeredathah leaned forward, stroking his great beard. The chameleon beneath him watched Lael with both of its eyes, still as death. Maybe it was dead. With Zeredathah sitting on him, he wouldn’t be surprised if the creature flattened out in the next five minutes.

“Well?” Lael said, opening his arms and looking around. He met each person’s eye. They bowed their heads, refusing to match his gaze. Only Kodia and Lyreen looked fixedly into his eyes. Were they his champions? Would he have to fight both?

“Send them out!” Lael yelled, looking to Zeredathah. “I’m ready.” He was breathing heavily, out of breath. Saints, his hearts were going to burst from his chest.

“So eager to fight,” Zeredathah muttered, narrow eye watching Lael. “So . . . aggressive.” His expression was sobering. “So much like . . .” He trailed off as his eye flicked to Felsacor. The draca was still perching on Lael’s shoulder, burdening him. He wanted to soak the creature back into his soul, but if he did, would he ever come out again?

Lael was taking steady breaths through the nose, trying to calm his nerves, but he couldn’t stop shaking. His teeth were chattering, and he wanted to punch a hole through something.

The reality of his situation was finally catching up. The stakes were high—Elswyth would die if he didn’t win this and get the Nether out of here. The Light would, what, fade away if he didn’t hurry? Had He already faded away? Was there still time to reach the temple, after he Advanced?

Yes . . . a distant voice seemed to whisper, though he could have been imagining it.

“Light?” he prayed, shaking. As soon as he thought the name, he felt foolish. Trying to talk with the Light felt futile. Sometimes He spoke back, sometimes He didn’t. And although Lael yearned for the God to give him something—some hint of calm and peace—he felt nothing.

The sphere within his chest buzzed distantly, and a hint of reassurance passed through him. It reminded him of that glorious moment, back in Hidden Valley, when the Light had spoken from a heavenly gate. The amount of love and power radiating from the deity was unmistakable.

But where was that now? Weren’t followers of Jeh’va supposed to be supported every step of the way? Why, then, did it feel like God was getting farther away the harder this was getting?

“Chosen,” Zeredathah rumbled.

Lael matched the Saints one-eyed gaze, biting his lip, holding back tears of frustration. Felsacor swayed on his shoulder, as if losing his balance. He hunkered down and clawed into his shoulder, stabbing through his clothes, nails tearing through flesh. Lael straightened his back, a tear sliding down his cheek.

As Zeredathah watched him, he thought he saw a hint of compassion pass that oceanic gaze. For a moment, relief swooped in, but it was shot down as Zeredathah snorted and spat to one side. His spittle snapped a twig in half. “You’re no Chosen.”

Lael frowned, eyes fluttering. “What?”

“There is darkness in your soul . . .”

Lael expected the spectators to murmur at that, but they didn’t. Even the chirping, hooting wildlife seemed to quiet, as if holding its breath.

“I’ve seen this before.” Zeredathah rose to his feet. His chameleon took a deep breath, chest expanding. It blinked, as if waking from an unconscious stupor. “Your eyes, Chosen. They can’t hide who you are.” He cocked his head, then glanced over at his bubble. It bobbed up and down. “You were right . . .” he whispered. “She was right.” He slowly shook his head, and Lael’s dread began to bubble up. “The Trial would only destroy you.”

“At least let the boy try!” A voice called from the crowd. Aziroth stepped forward, mask in place, wearing the pelt of a fox. “Who’s to say he won’t overcome the—”

Zeredathah flicked a pebble. It smashed into Aziroth’s mask, splitting it in half as he stumbled to his rear. “You can’t deceive me, prisoner,” Zeredathah said as tribesmen pointed frosted spearheads at Aziroth, who raised his hands in forfeit.

Lael started charging up his cannon. How many Bindings would he have to activate? It took four to take out Blaise, but Zeredathah was stronger than a Topaz. He had to be. Lael already tried checking but couldn’t discern the Saint’s rank. Technically, he should be at the level of a Saint, but those jagged stakes piercing his body sapped energy from him somehow . . .

Zeredathah’s eye turned to Lael; the pupil was so small, it was practically invisible. The color of his iris tossed and turned, like the waves of a stormy sea. And yet, he grinned. Lael wasn’t sure if the man was seriously upset, or . . . unsettlingly happy?

Zeredathah jumped from off his chameleon’s back. When he landed, the earth trembled. He loomed over Lael, grinning as he stared down at him.

Hearts hammering, Lael straightened his back. He tightened his fist, forcing himself not to shake. With Phantomfire and Salvefire swirling through his veins, charging up the Binding in his cannon, it was easy to keep himself calm. “Send me to face the Trial.” Sweat slid down his back. “I will pass.” He was just buying time. Meanwhile, he racked his mind, searching for a way out of this mess. Going to face the Trial may very well be his and Elswyth’s only chance of escape. But what about the others . . .

“I can’t just send you off,” Zeredathah rumbled, his eye going completely blue. Flames flickered from his empty shoulder. “You still need to prove you are worthy of it.”

And here they were again, back to this. “Then let me face your champion!” He opened his arms. Flames flickered from one arm, while his draconic cannon radiated with heat haze. His Soulfire was charging up the second Binding. “Where is he?”

Zeredathah’s blue flames morphed into a muscled arm. A broad sword extended from his hand, blade rolling like the waves of the sea. The Saint crouched, tensing his face, shaking. It looked like he was trying to lay an egg. Without warning, he sprang into the air, flying high.

Lael backed up, enveloping himself in a flaming cloak. When Zeredathah landed, a shockwave exploded from the earth. It passed Lael, and he stumbled but kept his footing. It tossed everyone else back, knocking them to the ground and throwing them against tents.

Zeredathah pointed his flaming sword at Lael. “Prepare to die.”

Kodia rounded the Saint’s right side, wielding a frozen spear, wearing the hooded pelt of a tiger. Lyreen came around the other side, bow in hand, liquid arrow nocked. The great chameleon Stormhammer stepped up beside her, smirking as its hide changed from briny blue to a raging red. A bubble hovered above the reptile’s horned head, watching Lael with its unseen eyes.

Lael crouched, taking up a fighting stance he’d learned from Aziroth. Phantomfire flowed through his left arm, turning his left eye black. Fused Soulfire surged through his cannon, his right eye swirling silver. The second Binding was completely charged up. He was now working on the third.

Lael looked from Kodia and Lyreen to the chameleon, then to the bubble, and finally the Saint. “Who’s your champion?” At first, Lael thought that the Saint was going to fight him. But with so many facing him, he wasn’t sure who . . .

Kodia started toward him, and at the same time Stormhammer stalked forward, bubble above its head. Lyreen pulled her bowstring back, aiming at Lael while Saint Zeredathah raised his flesh arm, summoning liquid flames above his palm.

Lael’s guts sank, and he almost peed.

No . . .

Chapter 34

Execution

Elswyth lay there shivering, smothered in black slime, cycling to Advance. There was nothing else to do in this Light-forsaken cell! She turned on her side, clutching the band around her left thigh. It was the only thing keeping her from breaking through to Tungsten. It was also preventing the shadow from completely taking over . . .

There was precious little keeping her from tearing it off right there.

Taking a deep breath, she held back, humming quietly to herself as mana flowed in loops around her soul, dragging the Scythe’s essence through her channels, preparing her spirit to break through to the next drahn. This had been going on for days now. If it weren’t for Reanna, she would have gone bonkers by now. To her disappointment, though, the woman had recently fallen silent, refusing to speak.

Which was why it surprised her when her mother started whistling to the tune she was humming. It didn’t take her long to realize why. The song was a lullaby. Her lullaby. Reanna used to sing it to her every night before bed. And in those ensuing years, after her family was murdered, Elswyth sang the song to herself, whenever she was lonely or scared . . .

Her heart stirred, and her vision grew bleary. The wave passed quickly. Which was good, because she wasn’t in the mood for crying.

Her belly jiggled. Huh? A belly jiggle? Elswyth smirked, a tear sliding down her face as she looked at her stomach. A draconic snout was tearing through the black layer enveloping her gut. “Danbala!” Elswyth clutched her belly, tearing at the slime. Danbala tumbled out, rolling across the floor. This was the first time her draca had emerged in . . . how long?

As she wiped her eyes, leaning in to clasp her friend, a great crash shook everything. Elswyth gasped, going stiff. An earthquake? Another subtle tremor shook the walls, causing the bone bars to creak.

She held her breath, fearing that everything was going to cave in.

Her skin was tingling—the black layer enveloping her athletic form was rippling. When it didn’t stop, she lifted her arm and looked at it with concern. Was her Scythe in shock? Her mother?

“Someone watches . . .” Her mother whispered.

Elswyth’s spine tingled. She glanced around the empty cell, half expecting a monster to be waiting in the shadowy corners of the room. When she didn’t find anything but roots poking from dirt walls, her attention turned to the hallway beyond the ivory bars. A woman in a white, tattered robe stood just out of reach. She was leaning against a staff tipped with a rose made of ice. Her blue lips, usually curved in a frown, were a straight line. Her vertical, slitted pupils thinned when Elswyth made eye contact. Her irises seemed to glow yellow in the dimness of the hall.

“Shaisha?”

“The funeral is being held this evening,” Shaisha said, her voice ice.

Elswyth shivered

“I have convinced the Saint to offer you a new punishment. You will watch the funeral proceedings and help bury the dead. Once completed, you will be executed in front of the whole clan.”

Elswyth’s stomach sank. “Executed?”

“Yes. The relatives of those you killed will perform the execution.”

The earth shook, knocking Elswyth off-balance. Shaisha didn’t move, staring with that piercing gaze. Elswyth looked away, unable to bear an unexpected, burning sense of shame. When the quaking subsided, Elswyth sat up, staring at . . . no one. Shaisha was gone. She shook her head, but the world seemed to be pressing in around her. She’d . . . killed people? She’d killed people. Tingles raced up her spine, making her shiver.

A scuff against stone startled her. She expected to see the priestess hurrying back, glaring with those awful eyes, but the woman was racing to the right, practically running across the hall. She exited through a metal door a moment later, leaving Elswyth to reel in disbelief . . .

Execution?

Tonight?

Her clutch on the leg band tightened. What would happen if she tore it off now? Would the Scythe completely take over? What if it didn’t? She’d have a sudden spike in power, one that would give her an edge over everyone, excluding Shaisha. She was a Quartz, so it was in Elswyth’s best interest to flee this place. With Lael and whoever else was here, of course.

Elswyth’s grasp on the leg band tightened.

“Hold off,” her mother said, voice lucid. “The Scythe is waiting to strike. Continue cycling. It’s giving me a better grasp on the creature.”

Elswyth nodded absently, her brief encounter with Shaisha making her feel oddly . . . defeated.

I . . . killed people. Had she killed the acolytes? The Tribal warriors? The former were just girls, no older than herself. And I killed them . . . The haunting cry of her family rang in her ears, reminding her of another time when innocent lives were taken away.

* * *

Fiora set her stencil down, and wiped sweat from her brow. She massaged a cramp forming in her palm, just beneath her thumb, as she surveyed her work. Five rows of cobblestone tiles bore runic symbols. They were small enough to remain inconspicuous, but big enough to deal real damage.

She brushed a curly lock behind one ear, taking in a satisfying breath. Her attention turned to the ivory bars, eyes narrowing.

They were her next project.

Whenever the guards came to deliver their daily meals, they activated runes etched into the ivory, causing them to bend apart. After examining the scripts, Fiora found that, with some effort, she might be able to jimmy rig them to open at her command.

The sound of squeaky hinges, followed by a slam echoed through the hall. Fiora started, and scuttled backwards, curling in a dark corner of her cell.

Sniveling, followed by light footsteps, drew near.

A woman in a white, slightly tattered robe glided past. Her lips were vibrant, her eyes striking. Tears streamed down her cheeks, though the woman’s expression was stoic.

In an instant, she was gone.

When another door creaked, then slammed, Fiora relaxed.

Until the ceiling started trembling. Tiny rocks and dirt clods dropped from above, hitting her head. Fiora wrapped her arms around the back of her skull, protecting her brain. When the trembling passed, she released a breath.

What was happening up there?

As she sat up, brushing dust from her hair, she heard a cough. She spun to find a draca slipping through the bars. “. . . Danbala?” Her scales were splattered with black slime. The ooze rolled down her face, dripping from her snout. “Dan . . .” Fiora gasped, looking toward the runes on the cobblestone. “Stop!” She held out a hand.

To her surprise, the draca obeyed. It struggled to lift its head and meet Fiora’s gaze. One of its reptilian pupils glinted red, the other was its ordinary black. “Elswyth,” she muttered, speaking as if with a mouthful of gunk. “Help . . .”

“Elswyth?” Fiora crawled toward the draca, scuffing the knees of her prison garb. “Which cell is she in?” Danbala nodded off to the left, and stumbled to one side, as if drunk. She muttered something as she turned around and exited the cell.

“Wait! What’s wrong with Els?” Fiora pressed her face in between the opening of the bars, watching the dragon leave.

“Execution.” Danbala strolled down the hall, teetering left, then veering right.

Execution? They wanted to kill Elswyth? But why! Her breath caught. Were they wanting to kill Lael, too? Why hadn’t they locked him away yet? Or had they? Was he down here?

This was shifting her thinking.

Instead of waiting to strike, she needed to act. Now. Picking up her stencil, she walked on her knees toward the ivory bars near the center. She carefully pressed the tip of her pen against the rune locking the bars in place, unsure where to start.

No time for hesitation, she thought, studying the rune. Just draw! With the scratch of her stencil, she got to work.

Chapter 35

Death’s Door

Lael slammed into a root, snapping it apart, dropping to the dirt. With his Steel scales in place, he felt no pain from the impact. He kicked to his feet, shaking out his hand and cannon, nerves jittering.

Aziroth was jumping off Saint Zeredathah’s head, doing a backflip through the air. A tongue whipped out at him, but he spun, slapping it aside with his sword. With the Saint and his pet chameleon distracted, all Lael had to worry about were Kodia and Lyreen.

Kodia was charging toward him, the hood of his pelt flying off. Mouth open wide, he gave a battle cry. Lael jumped forward, Salvefire bursting from his soles. His boost was a little too strong, because instead of shooting straight for the man, he arced over him. Spinning, he swung his cannon to whack the man in the back of the head.

A liquid arrow smashed against Lael’s chest. An explosion of blue sent him flying, his translucent scales took the brunt of the impact, draining him of mana. He smashed into another arching root, snapping it apart. A torrent of sappy water spilled over him.

“Watch out,” Felsacor grumbled, voice distant. But the words carried more than a simple warning. Lael sensed a spearhead coming down on him. He rolled off to one side and heard a thunk where he’d just been.

Lael wiped his face of sap as a crackling snap pained his ears. He looked to find ice rising from where the frozen spearhead had landed. The fountain of sappy liquid, pouring over the weapon, was freezing over. Kodia tried pulling back, cracking ice, but the spear was stuck.

Lael took advantage of the moment and scrambled to his feet. Racing forward, he lunged, fire bursting from his feet. He collided with Kodia an instant later, the weight of his metal bones snapping ribs. When they landed, Lael’s weight cracked more of the man’s chest. He screamed in pain, but as Lael walloped his skull, he shut up, going limp.

“Arrow coming.”

Lael dropped to his back as an arrow whistled by. He rolled over, then jumped to his feet. He shivered as he sensed the mana slugs sliding through his channels. Mana radiated from their slimy bodies, recharging Lael’s spiritual energy at an ever increasing pace.

Lyreen was pointing another liquid arrow at him. It wriggled on her bowstring, as if anxious to fly. Far behind her, Zeredathah and Aziroth were trading blows. The Saint’s massive blue sword came down in a diagonal arc. Aziroth’s flaming blade met the blow. Blue and white fire exploded from the impact.

Zeredathah pushed down, grunting. Aziroth pushed back, arms trembling, a wild grin on his face. White vapor flowed from his ears, arcing up to the eye hovering above his scalp. Lael wasn’t sure how much mana Aziroth had left, but when it ran out, he would no longer fight with such finesse.

Lyreen let her arrow fly. Lael gasped, shifting his torso to let it fly past. He faced Lyreen, who was nocking three arrows. He wasn’t sure how many she had left, but it was obvious she wanted to kill him from afar.

Just the way he liked it.

Lael tapped into the aura above his head. Felsacor, who was clinging to his back, crawled to his scalp. He was still uncertain what to think of his draca’s return, and his lazy, almost drunken demeanor. But the creature was here to help, and that was all that mattered.

Lael was about to cycle Phantomfire to his scalp when he felt a click in his cannon. The third Binding had just finished charging. His draconic blaster seethed with heat haze, the cavities of its six eyes glowing silver.

Lyreen took a deep breath, eyes going blue as mist of a similar color radiated off her skin. When she exhaled, the mist flowed into her arrows. They tripled in size, squirming like enlarged worms. She let them fly. Lael jumped, flames blasting from his feet, but one of the arrows veered toward him, smashing him in the gut.

It cracked his Steel scales as it carried him back, smashing him into the hide of a giant tree. The bark snapped. As Lael dropped through the air, the liquid monster tried burrowing into his scales. He screamed, then landed on his back. Eyes going pure black, he vomited Phantomfire, burning up the worm. It hissed as it burrowed further, breaking through his scales and tunic, biting his toughened flesh.

Black flames surged from Lael’s mouth as his cry grew more intense. Without Kin’s skin and organ enhancement, the worm would have torn through his flesh in an instant. Instead, it bit down, unable to tear through. His gut bruised, but the creature shrieked and boiled as Lael’s dragon’s breath completely vaporized it.

Mana slugs shrank as their essence poured into his Lael’s soul, charging him up at a rate that made his skin crawl. They were sure to perish soon, but they were doing their job, keeping him from completely tapping out.

His Soulfire, on the other hand, was dwindling—more so his Phantomfire, thanks to the stunt he’d just pulled. Before he could rise to his feet, a bare foot kicked him on the side of his face. It was strong enough that without his metal bones and defensively enhanced skin it would have cracked his skull and broken his neck. He expected another kick, but when he looked over at Lyreen, she was hopping backward, clutching her foot, wincing in pain. Her ankle was broken, foot hanging at an odd angle.

Lael rolled to his knees, focusing on the aura above his head. Felsacor’s presence helped him cycle Phantomfire to the energy field, and in a matter of seconds, a dark flaming cloud hovered above his head.

He tried rising to his feet, but his mana was low, making his body and everything in it a burden. He could pull on the energy of the slugs, killing them, but he didn’t want to do that. Not yet. Leaning on one arm, he looked to Lyreen just as an arrow thunked against his chest. He gasped, but it hadn’t pierced skin. Not completely, at least. It hung there, wriggling to burrow through his flesh.

He gritted his teeth, focusing on the aura around Lyreen’s hands and feet. She was sitting down, her foot twitching. A menacing expression twisted up her painted features as she pulled back another arrow, letting it fly. It stabbed into Lael’s shoulder, but he ignored the worm.

He could sense the energy caressing her feet, and her fingers. Tapping into it, he forced Phantomfire through the field, and into the aura shimmering around her hands and feet. Black flames burst around her fingers and toes, catching them on fire. She screamed, dropping her bow as she waved her hands. Blue vapor flowed from her arms, wrapping around her hands, but it hissed when it touched the fire.

As Lael struggled to sit up, the slugs within him evaporated, leaving behind the last of their mana, charging his reserves back up. It was like taking a breath of fresh air. He whispered praises to Kin Kinboa, and the slugs that sacrificed their lives. He could sense their eggs clinging on to the inner lining of his channels. If he understood the potion master correctly, it would take days for them to hatch.

He couldn’t rely on them any longer.

A searing pain overwhelmed him, and he cried out. Looking down, he saw two liquid arrows spinning, biting into his flesh, drawing blood. Lael tapped into his Phantomfire, willing it to envelop him in a flaming cloak. His left heart clenched. He gasped. Saints! He was out of Phantomfire . . .

“Fels!” Lael called, looking up as he grabbed one of the arrows and tried tearing it from his skin. He bit down as blood dripped from the wound. “Fill me up!” The draca took a deep breath, still perching on his head. His scalp grew warm as Soulfire flowed from the dragon, sliding down his spirit. Black flames burst from his skin, enveloping the liquid arrow worms. They screeched as they burned to vapor.

Lael looked up at Lyreen. She was crawling away, shouting in panic. Her hands and feet were no longer there—a good portion of her limbs were charred and eaten up.

“AHHH—OOF!” Aziroth landed in front of Lael, rolling.

Lael flinched, but before he could do anything, a voice whispered to his mind . . .

“You cannot win . . .” Felsacor thought.

Lael started, but he couldn’t waste a breath. Zeredathah was striding toward them, eye alight with fire, arm blazing blue, mighty sword raised to strike.

Where was the chameleon?

Far behind him, the creature hobbled over, hissing in anguish. One of its arms was severed, while its back foot was chopped apart. It glared at Aziroth with bared teeth, mouth foaming.

“Hey,” Aziroth said, panting as he looked to Lael. “Have any mana you could—”

The Saint charged, flames bursting from his back as he lifted his blade high.

Sitting down, Lael cycled Salvefire to his feet and stomped Aziroth’s chest. An explosion of white fire sent Aziroth flying in one direction, and Lael in the opposite. As he flipped through the air, he turned to look at Zeredathah.

The Saint had stabbed the ground, right where Lael had been. He grinned at Lael, his eye burning bright. The bubble floating by his head bobbed up and down, flickering as if filled with blue flames.

Lael jumped to his feet, stumbling back a few paces. Using the last of his fused Soulfire, he began charging the fourth Binding.

“Is this the best you can do?” Zeredathah boomed, striding toward him, chainmail clinking. “Just . . . run away?” He spat to one side, then gestured for Lael to approach. “Come on. Show me what you got, Chosen.” He said that last word as if it were a curse.

Lael glanced at Aziroth. The man was shakily rising to his feet, brushing where two footprints scorched his pelt. He gave Lael a wan smile, then his eyes flicked to the crippled chameleon. It shrieked, hobbling toward him, lips dripping with foam. Aziroth faced the reptile, holding up his fists, as if ready to spar.

Lael noticed that all the tribesmen and women were hiding behind roots, or standing on the pathways spiraling up the six trees, leaning against the railing, dead quiet. He spotted the potion master, stroking his ivy-strewn beard, large eyes watching him from way up high.

“They’re here to see . . .” Zeredathah said, a dozen paces away. He stood still, holding the blade of his sword across his chest.

See what? Lael thought, marveling at all the eyes peering at him from the very heights of the trees. Who wins?

“If you truly are the One.” Zeredathah took one stomping step toward him. “There are many who still believe. Shaisha thinks you’re a demon, like that other girl. And I . . .” He took another step toward Lael. The ground shook. “. . . I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

He crouched, then lunged, arcing toward Lael, holding the hilt of his blade with both hands, aiming the point of the sword down at Lael.

“You are going to need help,” Felsacor whispered in his ear, sounding as if his throat was charred. A pulse of Phantomfire flowed from the draca, entering Lael’s left heart. “And not just from me.”

Lael lunged forward, somersaulting as Zeredathah landed behind him. A deafening crack pierced Lael’s ears as the Saint sent a wall of water that collided with him, throwing him across the glade. He smashed into a tree. Pain shocked through him. But as he fell to the ground, he blessed Kin’s name for the second time that day.

Nothing, not even his skin, was broken.

He landed on the ground, dripping wet. Aziroth lay next to him, soaked to the bone. His eyes were wide, and he stared up at the sky. Lael rose to his feet, facing the distant Saint. His cannon rumbled, steaming like a cauldron.

Zeredathah was still crouching, his back to Lael. As he rose, he slowly faced him, holding out his blue flaming hand to one side.

Where was the sword?

The water dripping down Lael’s face rippled. Then, his wet clothing flapped. Around him, water pounced toward Zeredathah, flying in his direction, pulling Lael along with it despite his extra weight.

“What?!”

The bearded man grinned, reaching out his flesh hand, as if to grasp him. When his hand formed a fist, he tugged. Lael lurched forward, crying out as he stumbled to the dirt and rolled toward the Saint.

* * *

While the battle raged below, Vaaloo was standing in front of Lael’s red armor, drawing a complex rune. As he hurriedly sketched the glowing symbol—and despite the stress he felt on Lael’s behalf—he appreciated the armor’s aesthetic design.

The helmet was crafted to look like the roaring face of a dragon; spikes jutted from the shoulder pauldrons; and the torso plackart resembled a reptile’s belly. Scripts were etched deep into the armor’s plate, spiraling along the legs, looking like flames, giving the suit an archaic appearance.

Vaaloo finished his rune. It hovered in the air; a compilation of squares and circles glowing bright. Opening a gloved hand, he reached out and grabbed the rune. His glove shone. When he pointed at the armor, a line of light shot from his finger, stabbing into the metal torso.

Light diffused across the armor, enveloping it till it shone with exceeding luster. Vaaloo lifted his finger. The armor followed his point, hovering above the wooden floor. The mana flowing through his soul burned fast. He was Quartz now, and had energy to spare.

But it wouldn’t last forever.

Turning, he moved the armor through the air. When he faced the open doorway, he picked up distant shouts and cries, but there was no movement in the corridors. Hurry, he told himself. Hurry! He took steady steps forward, exiting the doorway, shaking with concentration. The armor hovered ahead of him, looking as if it were held by the end of a glowing rod.

When he reached the railing, he glanced down at the distant glade below. It didn’t take his shimmering eyes long to find Lael. He was standing near a tree, Aziroth lying beside him. On the other side of the glade, the Saint crouched with his back to the Chosen. As he rose to his feet and turned around, he reached out to Lael. By some force or power beyond Vaaloo’s knowledge, Lael started sliding toward him.

With a deep breath, Vaaloo pulled his hand back. The armor drew close. With a shove of his pointed finger, the armor shot forward. He called off the rune’s power, leaving the armor to the whims of gravity. As it fell to the earth, Vaaloo took several steps back.

With an exhale of blue and green mist, he charged forward, kicking off the ground, landed on the railing, then jumped off the edge, falling to the glade below.

Chapter 36

Soon to Collide

Felicity hovered high above an army of Volmorrian soldiers, watching them march through the swamp. Their sharp-edged, sinister armor made them look like thousands of scuttling black beetles. At the head of the procession was a silver-clad general with a fox sitting on his head. And not just any fox.

The fox.

She was guiding the army, leading them toward Felicity’s son, the Chosen.

They were heading southwest, and had been for the last two days, giving Felicity the time she needed to make sure they weren’t going to change course. She was planning on racing ahead of them, to reach Lael long before they did, to warn him of their steady approach.

Zarra spiraled toward her, his serpentine body uncoiling when he reached her face. She stopped short, not wanting to collide with the spirit.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I’ve been waiting on you.”

He nodded, then shot away, dodging hanging vines. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped by a purple vine and turned to face her, giving her a sharp nod. Felicity returned the nod, taking an unnecessary breath to calm the nerves she didn’t have. For the past two days, she and Zarra had been practicing a more advanced Goldfire technique.

Well . . . advanced to her. Zarra reassured her that it was simple compared to what she’d eventually be able to do. According to the draca, the place she called heaven was a massive pocket dimension created by the Light and Isanath, Saint of Hope. She’s the one who touched your hand, the draca told her, back when you first died.

That made her spirit tingle, sending chills up her spine. She first died back in Hidden Valley, having succumbed to withering carro. She still remembered that crack hanging above her head, leaking golden light. To think that it led to another dimension, created by both a God and a Saint . . .

“Ready?” Zarra thought.

Felicity shook, as if waking from a dream. After giving a sharp nod, she cycled Goldfire along her arm and pointed at the draca. When the flames flowed through her finger, the tip of her finger glowed.

She jabbed the air, pushing into what felt like packed snow. The harder she pushed, the more it gave way. Eventually, she tore through, forming a tiny portal rimmed with golden flames.

At the same time, Zarra morphed into a miniature replica of the conduit.

Felicity dragged her finger down, burning mana and emptying herself of Soulfire as she tore through the fabric of existence; Zarra copied her, elongating. When the portal was roughly her height, she pulled back.

It snapped open, like the lids of a great eye. She peered through, staring through the opening Zarra had formed. The purple vine was right in front of her now. She would step through, but her draca had warned her about the cost of spatial travel. Even from this short distance, it would probably drain her of half her mana. So instead, Felicity snapped, and the portal closed.

Zarra was by her side a second later. “I think you’re ready.”

Felicity nodded, wiping her forehead, ridding it of the sweat that wasn’t there. “If you think so, then go.”

Zarra nodded, then zoomed away, flying in a southwesterly direction. He would reach Lael faster than she ever could. And once he did, he would let her know, then she’d teleport to his position, reaching her son in time to warn him of . . .

Emotion swept through her. Tears glistened from her eyes, evaporating to ethereal mist. She wiped them, thinking of her son’s shattered bones. Even if she did reach him, how would he be able to escape with that awful handicap? Was this quest of hers a failure? Would they ever be able to find Kin?

She shook her head, clenching her fists in frustration. Something black flickered in her peripheral vision. She turned. A shadow hovered ten paces away, writhing like a boiling bowl of soup, widening into a portal of blackness. Two skeletal hands stretched out, waving as if to show they were unarmed.

Felicity reared a hand back, golden flames forming above her palm.

“Don’t shoot!” a familiar voice shouted. “Don’t!” A skull peeked out, dry sockets bearing two human eyes. It was Cal! “Not here ta hurt ya, girl.” He folded his arms and leaned against the bottom edge of his portal, making it look like he was leaning out a window. “Have ya had a chance to read over the proposal?”

“Proposal?”

He pointed to Felicity’s hip. The tip of a scroll poked from a pocket. Her face hardened. “No.” She chucked the fireball at Cal. He ducked back into the portal as it vanished, and the flame rushed through the air.

“Just a warning, girl,” Cal said from behind. She spun around, summoning two more fireballs. Cal was peeking from his portal. “Sharaharashara is not happy.”

Felicity was about to chuck her flames but stopped. “. . . Who?”

Cal adjusted his black hood. “Sharaharashara. Leader of the Reapers. Right hand man to the Dark—”

“Him! I didn’t know he had a name.”

Cal chuckled. “Well.” He opened his arms, sleeves flapping. “Now you do!” He pointed to the scroll in her pocket. “And he’s offered a proposal you might want to—”

Felicity pulled out the scroll, sliding it open.

“There ya go, atta girl,” Cal said. “Take your time to . . . Wait, what are you doing!”

Felicity grabbed the center of the parchment and crushed it in her grasp, igniting it with the golden flames of Hope.

“No!” Cal grabbed his head.

“Tell your master,” Felicity said, “to come to me if he dares.”

“Won’t have to . . .” He retreated into a portal opening behind him; he dipped his head in respect and vanished. Felicity’s spine tingled as she felt someone appear behind her. She whirled around and found the crimson robed Arch-Reaper hovering ten paces away. His skull was black, and red lights flickered in his eye sockets.

“You’ve been allowed to roam for far too long . . .” His words flowed from his clamped jaw, sounding like a harsh winter wind. “. . . And you just burned your only chance of survival.”

Felicity squeezed her hand, crushing the crisped ashes of the scroll.

“It is time you joined the rest of your kind . . .” He hovered toward her; his black chain necklace glistened. Shadow swirled within a crystal ball dangling from the chain.

Reapers appeared around her, each holding a long black scythe.

Felicity sensed Zarra’s distant alarm. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Felicity said, enveloping herself with Goldfire. “Keep with the plan. Tell me when you’re there and I’ll portal over.”

“Okay . . .”

Felicity watched her opponents as they lazily approached. She didn’t know any new attacks, but she could teleport short distances. That would work to her advantage, even if all she could do was launch Goldfire.

“Modrea’s rising,” the Arch-Reaper Sharaharashara said. “Suffering will end . . . Pain will cease . . . All will bow before their true God . . .”

“You’re a convoluted pig,” Felicity shouted, raising her flaming hands. Sharaharashara grinned, hands behind his back. She wasn’t sure what was running through the ghost’s mind, and she wasn’t in a hurry to find out. This was the leader who captured spirits and fed them to Darkness! What kind of messed up soul sought the end of suffering but caused so much of it himself?

“Are you ready to join your husband?” Sharaharashara whispered.

Felicity flinched, but before she could respond, the Arch-Reaper lunged, pulling out his scythe and swinging it in a horizontal strike. Felicity leaned back, dodging the blade as she spread her awareness to the aura behind the phantom. Enveloping herself in Goldfire, she vanished, traveling through the energy field. In an explosion of Goldfire, she reappeared behind Sharaharashara, then spun around, throwing out an arcing blast of golden fire. He was gone, but the flames traveled far. Reapers raised their scythes, spinning them to ward off the fire. As they protected themselves, more appeared, flowing from portals forming all around her.

“You cannot win this time . . .” Sharaharashara’s voice echoed all around as Reapers summoned scythes, hovering toward her, skeletal faces locked with hers. “You cannot win . . .” Sharaharashara appeared in front of her, his eyes burning bright, the crystal hanging from his neck glinting. “You will join the final sacrifice . . .” He formed two scythes, one in each hand. “You will—”

Felicity screamed, punching a stream of Goldfire from her fist.

* * *

Gurgs lunged through the underbrush, prancing with the speed of a stag. He rounded a massive trunk, the ground boom-boom-booming. The crogator didn’t roar, or shriek, or howl. It merely grumbled. The resonant rumble echoed throughout the swamp.

Gurgs gave a quick glance over his shoulder, white hair whipping his face. A gigantic reptilian snout peeked from around the trunk. Its yellow eye searched for him, swiveling this way and that. When its vertical pupil locked on to Gurgs, it dilated. With a puff from its nostrils, it hurried around the trunk, six legs working in fluid coordination.

Gurgs whipped out his tongue, grinning with an open mouth. With the crogator catching up, it was time to kick it up a notch. Again. He ducked his head as he charged forward. With his tongue flapping beside him, he picked up on several scents. The own reek from his body, strong with the pheromones of the baby crogator, nearly overwhelmed his senses. But there was another scent permeating the air.

One he’d tracked for days . . .

He hadn’t seen the soldiers, but their smell was undeniable.

If it wasn’t for Momma back there, he would have caught up to them by now. He glanced over his shoulder. Momma crogator was big, but the trees were massive. She lumbered along, squeezing herself between two trunks, getting her feet stuck in arching roots.

Gurgs had to wait at times, but now wasn’t one of those times.

He raced past puddles, the presence of Mother surging through his soul. The longer he relied on her stamina, the darker his skin grew.

“Don’t let it get too dark,” Balthazar had warned.

“What’ll happen?” Gurgs asked.

“I’m . . . not sure. It’s sapping your mana, but that doesn’t seem to be the issue . . . It’s your spirit. It’s growing less substantial.”

Gurgs ran on anyway, relying on Mother. Because if he didn’t, Momma Gator back there would have a tasty morsel to munch on.

He was heading straight for a shallow pool, and was set on barreling right through it, but when his claws scraped the surface, it grew black as night, solid as cement. He raced across, the pond sparkling as if reflecting stars.

He reached the other side, racing across dirt once again. He dove through a bush, snapping twigs, rolling like a ball. When he tore through the other side, he bounced to his hands and feet, skidding to a stop.

The center of the swamp stretched before him. Muddy islands bulged from pools of stagnant water harboring clouds of mosquitoes. Massive tents, and spiked domes made of black stone, dotted nearly every dry surface. What was missing, though, were the people. It was the middle of the day, so they obviously weren’t sleeping.

Where was everybody?

Gurgs licked the air; the taste of sweaty armor permeated the atmosphere. On the far side of the territory, the scent continued in a southwestern direction. Gurgs’s stomach sank, but he gritted his sharp teeth, face hardening in resolve.

The ground trembled with the approach of the momma crogator. Gurgs huffed, and as he hustled forward, he caught sight of . . . movement. Trees, on the far side of the swamp, trembled. Great bushes, bordering the territory like a hedge, shivered. A long reptilian snout tore through the branches. Its neck stretched and turned while its eye jumped from one domed structure to the next.

Gurgs stumbled back.

How?!

The momma was behind him! She couldn’t have possibly . . .

The earth continued to boom, boom, boom. When he looked over his shoulder, he peered through leaves blocking out the swamp. The looming form of the momma gator was lumbering toward him.

No . . .

He looked back at this gator. Its eyes were bright blue, unlike momma’s brilliant yellow. So, this was . . . Poppa? As if in response to his thoughts, the father reared its head and opened its jaws, shrieking.

Momma Gator grumbled in response, tearing through branches and bushes, snapping at Gurgs. He lunged forward and hit the ground rolling. When he reached a stagnant stretch of water, he bounced to his hands and feet, racing forward.

The water darkened, glistening with what looked like stars as he rushed across its surface. The world around him dimmed slightly. Little by little, it was getting harder to see. But what he could see frightened him. He was heading straight toward Poppa’s gaping mouth. The crogator was staring at him with his blue eyes, as if expecting him to climb his tongue, and slide down his throat.

The creature hunched its shoulders, muscles tensing.

“Gurgs!” Balthazar’s tone remained posh and dignified, despite the urgency. “It’s going to spring! Dive underwater.”

Poppa’s eyes expanded.

“Now!”

Gurgs pushed down, but instead of tearing through the surface, it bent like rubber.

The poppa lunged forward.

The surface beneath Gurgs snapped back into place, launching him into the sky. He chuckled, arcing over the reptile. It opened its mouth, as if to snap him up, but he was too high to reach. As he started down, his chuckle devolved into maniacal laughter. He’d always dreamed of flying! Now, he was experiencing it firsthand.

Balthazar jumped from his chest, rippling beside him like a worm, searching the ground with his pinprick eyes. “Land on the water!” he yelled.

Gurgs leaned toward another stagnant stream. When he landed, it bent even deeper this time. Instead of aiming upward, he leaned forward. As the surface snapped, he shot straight ahead, whipping through the air like a human arrow. He tore through bushes, snapped twigs, and ate leaves. Chewing, he swallowed the greenery before arcing down.

Slamming his hands and feet into the dirt, he took off running, allowing his momentum to carry him forward. The bellow of both crogators echoed behind him, and he knew they weren’t done with him. Summoning more of Mother’s essence, his skin almost completely blackened, and he zoomed like a hyperactive jackalope, rounding trunks, leaping streams, ducking roots.

If he kept this up, his plan to rescue Lael would work out perfectly.

He glanced down at his dark flesh, wincing.

Almost perfectly.

* * *

Victoria crouched, reinforcing her armored legs with mana as she glared at an oncoming airship. It was flying at them with reckless speed, intent on hammering them with their bowsprit. It has to be one of Father’s mercenaries, she thought, gritting her bloody teeth. No other ship would be foolish enough to collide with hers.

Victoria was about to lunge through the air when a woman in the crow’s nest gave a cry.

“Stop!” she shouted, lowering a telescope. “It’s one of ours!”

“What?” Victoria’s all-white eyes rolled in their sockets until her pupils were back in their proper places. Now, she could see clearly. The enemy vessel was leaning to one side, smoke drifting from its hindquarters. Its mainsail was torn to shreds, its Flaming Nimbus dissolving to essence. “Pick up speed!” She yelled. “Go faster, rammit!” She turned to face the three women at the helm; one at the wheel, another shifting a lever, and another held in reserve. “Faster, you—”

The Flame keeping the vessel airborne vanished. For a moment, it hung suspended in midair. Then, it dropped. Terrified shouts rent the air. Victoria cursed, racing toward the edge of her ship before taking a mighty leap. Wind tore past her armored frame, whipping her bloody hair. She sensed her crimson children running after her, leaping through the air.

She arced down, passing thick branches, and dangling vines. She landed with a boom, blowing a crater in the earth. Blood-forged doppelgängers dropped to the ground around her, looking up at the falling ship, fanged grins creeping on their otherwise featureless faces. As one, they crouched, then lunged upward, reaching with splayed claws.

They smashed into the hull, slowing the vessel’s fall, but not by much. Victoria raised her gauntleted hands, reaching for the falling ship, enforcing her soul with mana and blood essence. Ichor oozed from her pores, enveloping her exposed face and armored torso.

As the ship fell, it collided with branches, snapping them apart as it lurched this way and that. Women tumbled off the side of the ship. As they screamed, falling to their deaths, the blood-forged soldiers crawled along the hull. They hopped like crickets, diving for the falling women, catching them before they hit the ground.

The bottom of the vessel collided with Victoria’s outstretched hands. The impact cracked her bones and shoved her halfway into the earth . . .

Victoria held the boat in place, staring up at splintered wood with an emotionless expression. Frowning, she took a deep breath. Why . . . couldn’t she feel pain? Her arms were broken. Or . . . were they broken? As she exhaled, thick black smoke drifted past her lips.

A horrible realization twisted up her face.

I can’t let my daughter die, Modrea whispered. Not when the chosen one is this close.

Victoria’s arms were shaking. Black mist swirled along her armored arms, seeping into her armor. When it touched her skin, goosebumps rose. As it seeped into her flesh, enveloping her bones, her arms went numb. With a crack her bones mended. She screamed, arms trembling beneath the weight of the airship. Before they gave in, she tossed the boat. It slammed into a trunk, then eased to a rest on its side. She shivered, slapping her hands against the earth, and pushing herself out. Kneeling, she hugged herself, teeth chattering.

“Lady Victoria!”

She looked up to see her blood-forged child setting an armored woman on the ground. The lady—her armor dented, her face scraped—ran over to meet her. “Lady Victoria.” She dropped to one knee, bowing. “We know where he is.”

Victoria’s heart skipped. She wasn’t excited, though. Part of her seemed to be . . . missing. A piece. A vital piece, though she didn’t know—

“Where is he?” a masculine voice spoke through her. Blood rushed from her face as black vapor trailed from her skin. She tried speaking, but her tongue was frozen. Her muscles were frozen. Her spirit was frozen.

“The Volmorrians here tried to eradicate us. They’re heading toward the Chosen now, and if you bring me aboard your ship, I can lead you to—”

Victoria’s hand whipped out, grabbing the woman by the shoulder, squeezing her dented pauldron. She flinched, but before she could say anything, Victoria lunged through the air, heading toward a massive trunk, the soldier dangling from her hand.

. . . No.

This wasn’t her. She was watching through her own eyes, but Modrea was in control now, using her like a puppet. She managed to gnash her teeth and curse, fighting for control. Modrea gave an amused chuckle. “You’re mine, daughter,” his soothing baritone whispered to her mind.

Her vision darkened, her consciousness ebbing.

Emotions dull, she lost the drive to fight, giving in to her master’s influence . . . Everything went black.

Chapter 37

War is Upon Us

Vaaloo dropped through the air, the brim of his hat flapping in the wind. Below him, red armor rocketed headfirst to the ground, landing a few paces from Lael. The boy was rolling across the glade, groping for anything. As he passed the armor, his face lit up, and his hand shot out, clutching the metal for dear life. It anchored him in place.

“Put it on!” Vaaloo yelled, landing twenty feet away, facing Saint Zeredathah. The mountain of a man towered over Vaaloo, glaring down at him with an all-blue eye. He was reaching his arm of flesh out toward Lael. Water was flowing toward it from everywhere, forming a liquid bubble around his fist.

“Step aside, mage,” the Saint whispered.

Vaaloo held up his hands. One glove radiated blue mist, while the other flowed with green vapor. “No.” He drew a quick script, then slammed it with his palm. It flashed once. A torrent of liquid blasted from the rune, draining Vaaloo of mana and ocean essence. The geyser collided with the bubble surrounding Zeredathah’s hand, feeding into it, causing it to expand. In a matter of seconds, it enveloped the Saint, but he didn’t seem to care.

He merely watched Vaaloo with a flat expression, his long beard swaying underwater. He shook his head, his face hardening. Fine, it seemed to say. Have it your way. He threw out his arms, and the bubble exploded.

* * *

Lael was strapping on a gauntlet when a wave of water hit him. He rolled for what felt like a minute, coming to rest on his belly. He pushed up, brushing sopping hair out of his face. He turned to find Vaaloo surrounded by a glowing orb. He drew something on the ground as Zeredathah reared his sword. As it came down, Vaaloo pressed his hand into the soil, melting into water.

The Saint’s blue blade sliced earth, throwing out an arcing flame. Lael rolled to the right, dodging the arch. When he looked back at the Saint, he saw the man glaring at him. “Enough games,” he grumbled. A green glowing symbol shot at Zeredathah from the side, colliding with his shoulder. It crawled along his muscled arm, growing tendrils of ivy. They wrapped around his arm, but he didn’t seem to care as he marched toward Lael.

Another green symbol lit up his back, then another exploded against his calf, each one growing what looked like green tentacles.

“AHHH!” Aziroth ran toward the Saint, raising his sword, dirty locks streaming behind him like a banner of war. “AHHRRRMOR! Put it on, Lael!” He lunged toward the Saint, Olhatha hovering above his head. The Saint swatted, as one would a fly, but Aziroth ducked the swipe, swinging his sword and slicing the man’s leg.

Zeredathah didn’t even seem to notice.

Lael ran toward the armor. He pulled off a vambrace, then dropped to his knees and peeled back the chest plate. A satchel rolled out, startling Lael. A satchel? He narrowed his eyes, recognizing it. Kin had given it to him. He opened it to find a fist-shaped bottle filled with red, fizzing liquid.

Lael’s hearts pounded, glancing up at the approaching Saint. He didn’t have time to put on the armor. But he did have time for this! He unstopped the cork and downed the liquid. It scorched his mouth and burned the lining of his throat, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

The Saint was coming.

He burped, clutching his tingling gut. The elixir boiled in his belly, spreading through his system fast. But not only that; something else was happening. His legs felt like they were on fire. The burning sensation climbed his spirit while the roiling elixir spread throughout his body. His skin flushed, brightening from its usual fair tone to an alien red. He started jittering, bouncing up and down.

The Saint was cursing. He swung a fist down on Aziroth, but the man stepped to one side, slashing a muscled arm. Olhatha was fading, which meant Aziroth was overdrawing his power.

Now was the time to act.

Lael crouched, legs coiling like two great springs. He lunged forward, zipping through the air, rearing his fist. Before he could punch, he collided with the Saint headfirst. The man stumbled back as Lael dropped to the ground, skull ringing, stars swimming in his vision. What had he been thinking? More importantly, why hadn’t the potion worked? Wasn’t it supposed to give him strength beyond all reason?

His muscles and insides were still roiling like a boiling torrent. But that’s not what held his attention. That flaming sensation was burning up his soul! Without warning, it whooshed through his body like a refreshing breeze.

As it evaporated, Lael blinked, stars vanishing.

He was staring the Saint in the eye. The man was holding him by the scruff of the neck, his warm breath smelling of rotten eggs. “Pitiful,” he whispered, face hardening. “Dark.” He shook his head. “You are no savior.” He reared his blue, flaming sword.

Lael’s steaming cannon clicked.

The fourth Binding had just finished charging.

Lael shoved the barrel in the Saint’s face and released the dragon! Silver flames exploded from the skeletal mouth, crashing into Zeredathah’s bearded mug, like a wave of the sea hitting a boulder. He stumbled back, screaming; his hold on Lael’s shirt tightened.

The force of the flame was pushing Lael back. The scruff of his tunic stretched, then tore apart. He flew backwards, shouting in shock, holding his cannon steady. The silver geyser shrank as he collided with a trunk, its bark cracking. When his flames puttered out, he dropped to the ground, flopping to the ground like a lifeless doll.

Only this time, his bones were intact. And although he was out of Soulfire, mana continued trickling through his channels.

That startled him.

Hadn’t he been empty? Saints, how had he fired that much silver Soulfire in the first place? That should have burned beyond what little spiritual energy he’d possessed, killing him in the process!

“You are no longer a Steel . . .” someone grumbled.

Lael looked to his right. Felsacor, now as big as he was, stood over him, wings outstretched. His scales shimmered, though they were muted by a dark haze enveloping his body. Before anything else could be said, a terrible scream rent the air, shaking the earth.

Lael turned to face a horrible sight.

The Saint’s voluminous beard faded to silver dust, as did his one working eye. The skin on his face had melted, clinging to his skull. His chainmail remained intact, and the rest of his body looked relatively unharmed.

But that face.

A bubble floated beside his head, fading from blue, to purple, to bright red.

Zeredathah stood there, stunned. Then his deformed lips curled into a grin, showing his teeth, making him look like a skeleton wearing a malformed mask of flesh. He took one step forward, and an arrow zipped toward him. He caught it with his blue arm, burning it to crisps. Slowly, he turned his head in the direction the arrow had come from.

Lael frowned, ears perking.

Was someone . . . shouting? No. Not someone. He cast his eyes toward the distant swamp, staring past the trunks of the great trees. What was that, approaching on the horizon?

It looked like black ants marching toward them, their shells glistening in the sunlight. There were hundreds, maybe thousands.

“The Volmorrians!” someone shouted from the great tree nearest to Lael. “The Volmorrians are upon us!” Like a hive of bees, every tribal man and woman kicked into high gear. From the pathways spiraling up each of the massive trees, warriors hustled down, wielding icy spears, or drawing back the strings of their bows. In an instant almost too fast to register, the glade’s borders filled with masked savages, their torsos protected with blue-painted wooden armor.

Zeredathah was turning his head, his red bubble pivoting along with his face. His expression was impossible to read, but his bubble darkened to a deep shade of crimson. “Chosen . . .” he whispered through gritted teeth, the word echoing with malice. As he turned to regard Lael, the bubble turned black. “You set us up.” He clenched a shaky fist, veins bulging from his burned flesh. “YOU DID THIS!” He kicked off from the ground, throwing up a blast of dirt as he soared toward Lael.

Felsacor lunged, clutching Lael as he soared. The Saint screamed, colliding with the trunk, cracking its hide. But, despite his rapid wingbeats, Felsacor couldn’t fly far with Lael in tow. His metal bones weighed him down.

“It’s fine! Let me go!” Lael dropped to his feet, swaying to one side. Aziroth was running over to him, yelling something, but the shouts and clamor surrounding the glade swelled.

The black-armored Volmorrians finally reached the glade, and, to Lael’s horror, were surrounding them on all sides. They clashed with the tribesmen, stone swords meeting icy spearheads. Blue arrows zipped through the air, colliding with dark armor, tearing through it with ease.

Aziroth was tugging Lael. He pushed him in between two giant roots, out of sight. “Listen,” he said, grabbing Lael’s shoulders, hands shaking. His skin was two shades too pale. “When those Volmorrians break through, we book it!”

Lael didn’t need to ask why.

When the battle spread throughout the glade, there would be so much movement and chaos, it would be all but impossible for Zeredathah to find them. It was the perfect plan!

Except for one thing.

“What about Elswyth? And Fiora!”

Aziroth scratched the back of his head. “I—”

“Leave them to me.”

Lael and Aziroth turned to face the monotone voice. It belonged to a tribesman, wearing animal furs and a mask without eyeslits.

“Back off!” Aziroth shouted, stepping in front of Lael.

The stranger slipped off his mask, revealing . . . another mask. One with a reptilian eye carved into it.

“Jynzo!” Lael and Aziroth said at the same time.

“You better get going,” he intoned, using his spear to point at something in the air. Lael lifted his gaze, and found a black bubble hovering high above his head, looking down at him.

“Uh oh . . .”

Chapter 38

Cornered

Elswyth braced herself against the ivory bars of her cell. Everything was shaking, and it didn’t let up for some time. When things calmed down, the ceiling continued to tremble. It was as if every tribal scum decided to dance right above her cell.

Was everything going to cave in? Dirt clods dropped from above, as did a bunch of loose rocks. If this kept up, she’d be buried in minutes! “Help!” she screamed, shaking the ivory bars. “Lael!” She reared her hand, forming flaming claws. When she slashed the bars, runes lit up, shocking her. “Gah!” Growling, she punched one of the bars. It wobbled. Grabbing the bone, she shook it violently.

“Ebadaglumbda . . .”

Elswyth froze, looking down. Danbala was curling around her feet, black slime dripping from her mouth. “Danbala?” Elswyth shook her head. “Danbala, what are you doing?” The draca mumbled gibberish, sounding like a boiling pot of tar. And, ew, now she was vomiting . . .

Elswyth narrowed her eyes.

The bottom of her feet were tingling. She curled her toes, then gasped. Black slime flowed from her soles, forming a nasty puddle. “Ugh!” She stumbled back, leaving icky footprints in her wake.

Danbala curled around the puddle. It undulated, rising and forming into a head with long strands of hair. Two glowing eyes blinked. Elswyth blinked in response, recognizing the face despite its otherworldly appearance.

“Mom.”

She nodded, opening her mouth, but before she could say anything, a distant door slammed open. Elswyth flinched, crouching and holding out her claws, baring her teeth. Armored soldiers ran by. “. . . Huh?” Volmorrians?

As the last of the men hustled past her cell, he slowed to a walk, glancing toward her. He perked. “Hey guys! There’s someone—”

Elswyth lunged, thrusting her hands past the bars. He yelped, stumbling back as her claws raked through the air, missing him by inches.

“Nice doggie!” he said.

“I’m a human!” she barked.

Another soldier stepped up next to the first. He was broader, but both wore helmets and sinister black breastplates. “Take her,” the newcomer said, voice deeper than the first. “Anyone down here’s worth keeping.”

Just try and take me. Elswyth stalked back, summoning her Scythe’s essence. Black slime covered her arms and torso, climbing along her face. Her sclerae glimmered red, her irises fading to two black rings.

Her mother rose up next to her, completely black, wearing what looked like a robe made of ink.

The men gawked.

A frigid breeze passed by. Frost formed on the ground, crawling up their armor. They started, glancing down as they backed away from the creeping chill. A sudden burst of icy wind shot through the hall, freezing the soldiers.

Elswyth gasped, heart pounding. She glanced at her mother, and gave her a serious look. Why wasn’t the woman talking? Scat, this was weird, standing next to her mom. Er, well, a shadow of her, at least.

Shaisha glided into view, clutching her staff in two hands. The crystal flower on top radiated light. She regarded her frozen prey with vertical pupils, her furry ears twitching. Acolytes in white robes followed behind her, their hands glowing light blue, flecks of green dancing around their fingers.

“There has been a . . . change in circumstances,” Shaisha said, tapping one of the soldiers with her staff. After regarding him for a second, she nodded, turning her piercing gaze on Elswyth. "Your execution happens . . . now."

The young acolytes, girls no older than she, started drawing circles in the air. One was wearing a hood, while the other didn’t. She was bald, and her expression twisted with a look of complete disgust.

“I would do it myself,” Shaisha said, regarding her crystal nails. “But I thought it was more appropriate for two of my best students to kill you. Plus, I have Volmorrians to take care of.” She winked. “Give the Underlord my regards.” She hurried after the soldiers, and Elswyth’s attention turned back to the acolytes.

One had formed five sharp, icy blades. They hovered around her hand in a circle, pointing at Elswyth. With a thrust of her palm, they shot forward. Elswyth was about to lunge when her mother jumped in front of her, arm forming into a massive slimy shield.

She heard the blades go thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk.

Reanna’s free arm formed into a whip, but as she raised to strike, the hooded acolyte blew an icy wind from her lips. It froze the front side of her mother, slowing her movement down.

Elswyth raced around her mom, rearing her inky arms back, enforcing them with mana. With a thrust of her fists, her arms stretched. But she didn’t aim well enough. They punched against the ivory bars. As her arms snapped back into place, both of the acolytes formed dozens of icy blades. With a quick shove of their palms, the blades shot forward.

Elswyth gasped, lunging to one side, but several of the blades tore through her legs. She cried out, landing hard. Ten more ice-knives shot from the acolytes, piercing Elswyth’s stomach and chest. She screamed and blood seeped from her wounds, intermingling with the slime.

“Cowards!” she screamed. “Bloody cowards!” The blades were melting into her, freezing her. “Cowards . . .” She shifted to rise. Pain stabbed through her organs. She cried out, clenching her teeth.

The acolytes were forming another twenty blades. Their hands were covered in frost, which climbed up their arms. Their cheeks were losing color, their lips turning blue, and even their eyes lost their humanity, swirling with what looked like a white mist.

Was this it?

No . . .

It couldn’t be! Dying in a cell? Losing to a couple of girls? This wasn’t her fate. She wouldn’t allow it.

She wouldn’t.

She pushed up with her arm, leaning on it despite the pain screaming through her body. She grew lightheaded, and glanced down at her torso. She was lying in a pool of red and black. Had she lost that much blood? Scat, and she was still losing more.

A shadow passed over her.

She looked to see her mother standing in front of her, facing her enemies, arms outstretched. Elswyth bit down, squinting, squeezing out tears of pain. “Fight . . .” she tried shouting, but it only came out as a plea. “Fight . . .” Why wasn’t her mom fighting?

Elswyth couldn’t see it, but she heard icy blades stab into her mother’s torso in rapid succession. But the woman didn’t move. She stood her ground, still as a statue.

Elswyth’s eyes blurred with tears, darkness encroaching on her vision.

The manacle around her leg burned.

She drew in a breath, glancing at the pantleg covering it. She could see the imprint of the manacle. Hundreds of black tendrils, rising from her torso, pushed at the tartium. She found herself reaching for the shackle, red claws glowing eagerly. As clutched it, and as her consciousness ebbed, she pulled with all her might, tearing the metal apart.

* * *

“Come here, pretty little girl,” a soldier with long, oily hair said. He clutched an ivory bar and pulled. It bent, and the runes shone brightly. But because Fiora had tampered with them, they didn’t shock the man.

Pity.

The bar snapped. He chucked the pieces off to one side, then pushed against another bar. When it shattered, he slipped through. “Aren’t I in luck? It’s not everyday you—” He stepped on Fiora’s line of leech scripts. They lit up immediately, glowing a sickly green. “Huh?” Mist flowed around his armored foot. “What the—” He started convulsing. He tried pulling back, but it was as if his foot was stuck to the ground.

Fiora skirted the edges of the cell, and slipped past the thrashing man, backing away. Heart pounding. She brushed wavy hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear as she turned around.

“Oof!” She bumped into a solid chest.

A soldier towered over her. All she could see were his eyes through the slits on his helmet. She turned to flee but he caught her by the shoulder, holding her in place.

“H-hey!” the thrashing man shouted. “She’s m-mi . . . mi . . .” He dropped to the ground, clattering like a cymbal.

Fiora cursed her bad luck.

Trembling, she stood where she was, the grasp on her shoulder tightening. Why wasn’t the man pulling her away? Or saying anything?

She dared a glance over his shoulder.

He was opening a pocket on his armor. He pulled out a piece of parchment. After studying it for a moment, he glanced at Fiora.

She stiffened.

“You’re . . . related?” He showed her the parchment.

It had an inked bust of Lael. At the top was written the word, Wanted, Slightly Dead or Alive. Below the drawing were the words, Reward: one billion gold clippings, a lifetime supply of elixirs, real estate within the wall of the capitol.

Fiora found herself nodding.

The soldier seemed to relax, After rolling up the parchment, he patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “You’re in good hands.” He pulled her towards one of the exits. As she followed along, she bit down on the stencil in her mouth.

This wasn’t over yet.

* * *

“Modrea wants you,” the Arch-Reaper rasped, holding up his scythes. “He wants all of you.” He swiped one of the blades. Felicity ducked, then shot backwards, dodging the second stroke. As she flew away, she heard a distant bing.

“I’m ready for you!” Zarra thought to her.

Felicity enveloped her hand in Goldfire. Turning, she stabbed her finger into the air. She pushed through an invisible resistance, burning mana and Soulfire. Her finger tore a small portal, which she widened by dragging down.

It snapped open, revealing a horrible sight.

Far below, within a glade surrounded by six enormous trees, war raged. Black armored Volmorrians fought men and women wearing animal pelts and masks. As she watched the carnage, her stomach sank . . .

Too late, she thought, shaking her head. I’m . . . too late.

Gritting her teeth, she jumped through. Mana burned from her soul, exhausting her strength, but she pressed on. Lael was on the other side of this portal! He was down there somewhere. There had to be a way she could—

Someone grabbed her leg.

She yelped, glancing back. The Arch-Reaper, with his crimson hood and black skeletal features, squeezed her calf. “Where do you think you’re going?” He pulled back.

Screaming, she kicked, trying to summon Goldfire. Her channels tightened, and her heart clenched. She gasped. “No . . .” Her mana was completely gone. “No!”

The Arch-Reaper’s chain necklace shivered. The crystal hanging from it radiated blackness. Felicity thrashed as shadows swirled around her leg. It went rigid, as did every part of her body. She watched in wide-eyed horror as the shadows enveloped her torso, climbing to touch her face. She started flowing into the crystal hanging around the neck of Sharaharashara, Lord of Reapers. His bony grin broadened, the red flames in his eyes burning bright.

“Good night, Felicity,” he whispered. “Enjoy the nightmare.”

She screamed as the crystal sucked her in.

Chapter 39

The Blood of Saints

Lael was running toward his red armor at the center of the glade. Armored Volmorrians and masked tribespeople fought around him. A chain whipped through the air, cracking the wooden chest plate of a spearman. A liquid arrow zoomed over Lael’s head, colliding with the faceplate of a soldier. Women screamed and bled; men cursed and stabbed; dead bodies lay forsaken.

Lael hopped over a partially frozen corpse. Vaaloo hurried beside him, purple mist flowing from his hands, entering Lael’s back. Without the mage, Lael wouldn’t have been able to sprint like this. What little mana he’d had would have gone to supporting his metal bones…

But then again, he was a Tungsten now.

He didn’t need to burn mana in order to carry his skeletal burden. Yet, he did it anyway. Better to be safe than dead.

Zeredathah roared. The ground trembled, and Lael enforced his ears with mana to keep them from bleeding. He was tempted to look over his shoulder, but he kept his eyes on the red armor. As the roar persisted, he gave in.

Zeredathah was spinning, his flaming arm stretching long and far. It burned everyone surrounding him, both Volmorrians and tribespeople. The Saint took a deep breath, then vomited a spray of liquid fire.

It almost burned Felsacor, but he dove, dodging the attack. Aziroth was kneeling on the draca’s back, hugging his neck. A black bubble darted after them, following closely behind the draca’s tail.

Minutes ago, Aziroth struck the bubble, then hitched a ride with Fels in order to distract the Saint.

And so far, it was working . . .

After he put on the armor, he would sprint for the dungeon, and rescue Elswyth and Fiora.

* * *

Victoria balanced on the tip of the airship’s bowsprit, looking across a sea of green. Up ahead, six enormous trees towered above the rest. The arboreal giants surrounded a warzone, watching hundreds bleed out their lives. Thousands of warriors fought, screaming and shouting.

The Darkness pulsing through her soul vibrated. The corner of her bloody lips quirked into a smirk. Not that she had any say in the matter.

From within, she screamed.

Modrea had her now.

“He’s down there,” he whispered through her lips, black smoke trailing from her mouth.

There was only one problem . . .

A hulking figure stood out amidst the chaos. Blue flames spouted from his mouth, scorching the air. Victoria blinked, scanning the figure’s soul. He was a Saint, though tartium spikes drained him of his power, reducing him to the level of a Sapphire.

She would have to deal with him with swift efficiency. When this weakened Saint was out of the way, there would be nothing preventing her from taking Lael . . .

The Chosen.

“Dock the ships above that glade!” she shouted, looking over her shoulder. Every one of her soldiers saluted, their crimson cloaks flapping in the wind. Her blood-forged children eyed her warily, lips curled into a frown.

Her real self, the soul trapped within the body, screamed for them to help. To save her. To stop him. But her voice was silent. No one could hear her . . .

Not even them.

Victoria turned, crouched, then lunged through the air, arcing toward the war-torn glade.

* * *

When Lael dropped to his knees in front of the red armor, he was shocked to see that his skin matched the metal. Saints! How long would that potion last? A day? Didn’t Kin say he’d weaken as time went on?

All the reason for him to hurry.

A Volmorrian screamed, running at Lael with a raised stone sword. Vaaloo stepped in front of him, thrusting his hand toward the man’s face. A liquid jet blasted from his palm, exploding against the warrior’s nose, cracking it. He cried out, dropping to his back, and Vaaloo ran toward him.

A rock exploded against the back of Lael’s head. He frowned. His skull should have cracked. And he should have felt pain. And he should have lost consciousness.

But none of that happened.

Lael rubbed the back of his head, glancing over his shoulder.

Another Volmorrian, this one wearing stone armor, ran toward him, summoning another rock above his palm. A stony draca hovered over his head, shrieking. I don’t have time for this! Lael jumped to his feet and ran at the soldier. The man threw his soulforged stone, but Lael ducked and threw a punch. The man sidestepped the attack, but Lael followed up with a thrust from his metal cannon, landing a blow in the man’s gut.

Lael’s skin brightened as the man flew back, bowling over several fighters before crashing into a root. Lael gawked in awe, then glanced at his cannon. The draconic face seemed to say, What did you expect?

Lael spun around and dropped before the armor once again. With Vaaloo covering him, he managed to get his legs and his hips armored up. He was working on fixing the gauntlet on his arm—a difficult task for someone with one hand—when an explosion boomed and the ground convulsed.

Lael lost balance, dropping to his back, remaining motionless until the tremoring settled down. The air was deathly still. Had everyone died? He turned his head, eyes roving the battlefield. Everyone was either on their backs, sides, or bellies. The fallen were difficult to discern from the living, but those who were alive stared in shock at something . . .

Lael turned his head even more, to discover what they were gawking at.

A woman wearing crimson armor crouched at the center of a crater, her fist pressed into the ground. Corpses surrounded the edge of the crater. As she rose to her feet, she blinked all-white eyes. Crimson, liquid hair undulated, as if caught in an invisible current. A bloody stinger stretched from her back, arching over her head.

“Victoria?” Zeredathah said. The Saint hobbled toward her, his melted face a horror to behold. At least he was smiling. Right? “Victoria . . .” He opened his one muscled arm. “It’s been too long.”

“Where is he?” the . . . woman said. But that was a man’s voice? A familiar man’s voice. Black smoke trailed from her mouth, flowing from her nostrils. Lael shuddered, rolling on his belly and ducking low.

“Who?” Zeredathah asked, his black bubble floating beside his shoulder.

“The Chosen!” She stomped her metal boot. The ground trembled.

“Ah . . .” Zeredathah nodded. “You see, I can’t help you there.” His grin broadened. “I’m trying to find him myself. Care to join me?”

She stared.

Lael blinked.

The woman had already jumped, and she was halfway toward the Saint, flying through the air, stinger poised to strike. The Saint jumped back, throwing up a wave of dirt. Victoria stabbed the ground where he once was, watching him soar through the air. He collided with a tree, clutching to the bark, and said, “You’ll have to be faster than that, you—”

Victoria blasted forward, streaming black mist. She collided with the Saint almost instantly, tearing through the tree. A massive fissure cracked open the trunk, splitting the air like a thunderclap, jostling the silent giant. Great blue leaves rained from branches, drifting from the sky.

“Now’s the time!” Vaaloo said. “Get the rest of it on!”

Lael glanced at his armored legs, then his gauntlet, then looked at the rest of the plate. He didn’t have enough time. “No.” Lael turned to face a massive tree on his far right. This one led to the prison below. “I’m going after Els!” And Fiora. They needed saving. Now!

He jumped to his feet and raced toward the trunk, leaping over soldiers and tribespeople alike. They were still lying on the ground, no doubt in shock. But Lael’s action must have roused them, for people shouted as soldiers rose to their knees and summoned stones. Liquid arrows shot through the air, and tribesmen crawled to intercept their prey.

A horrible shriek echoed from the wooden gateway leading to the prison. Lael slowed to a stop, hearts pounding. Soldiers ran from the opening, some yelling, others screaming. A few were tugging white robed acolytes while one was cradling . . .

Was that Fiora?!

A piercing shriek tore through the air again, snatching Lael’s attention. Two bloodred pinpricks shone within the darkness of the opening. A shadowy hand with crimson claws reached out, clutching the soil and pulling itself forward. Hair like strands of ink danced from the creature’s scalp. It grinned, revealing row after row of bloody fangs. It emerged further, revealing six tendrils stretching from its back. They were tipped with curved blades, reminding him of . . . scythes.

Lael’s stomach dropped.

No . . .

That couldn’t be her. This thing was the size of a horse! She couldn’t have—

The creature took a sharp breath then shrieked. Everyone fled.

“Elswyth . . .” Lael whispered. His stomach sank, and he had to fight to keep himself from dropping to his knees. What happened?!

Elswyth lunged at a nearby group of soldiers, slashing at them with her claws. Blood spattered as they dropped to the ground. Her six scythe tendrils stretched and swiped through the air, cutting down tribesmen and beheading archers. “Elswyth!” Lael ran after her. “Stop!”

“Lael, no!” Aziroth tackled him. He only stumbled, but the man was stronger. He held him in place. “We need to leave! NOW!”

“But—Elswyth!” Saints, and where was Fiora?

“We need to go!” Aziroth tugged at him, pulling him toward the edge of the glade. But Lael fought back, staring at Elswyth in horror. She was massacring everyone in her path, making her way to the forest. Saints, Saints, Saints! He needed to help her! Needed to stop her! Needed—

An anchor slammed into the ground. Lael flinched back, eyes going wide. That almost crushed him. He looked up, following the chain. An airship hovered high in the sky, reminding him of Blaise’s vessel. Only, there were three. And people were sliding down the chain. A couple dozen brave souls were skydiving, and Lael wondered how they could possibly—

The soldiers landed, almost without a sound. The metallic scent of gore permeated the air, and as they rose to their feet, Lael understood why. These weren’t humans at all. Their hair, their faces, their armor—it was all made of blood.

One of them turned to face Lael, an unsettling grin on its otherwise featureless face. The corners of its lips stretched all the way to where its fangs should be, revealing hundreds of long fangs. It licked out a long tongue, as if tasting the air.

“Lael,” Aziroth whispered. “When I say jump, you—”

Felsacor swooped in, tackling the bloody warrior.

“Jump!” Aziroth wrapped his arms around his waist and lunged forward as Lael jumped over the heads of the horrible fiends. When they landed on the ground, they stumbled forward, and took off running.

Lael glanced back.

One of the bloody horrors was pinning Felsacor to the ground. Its haunting counterparts were racing over to him, claws reared to strike. Felsacor roared, bursting into white and black flames. They shot toward Lael, colliding with his back, filling his soul.

“Run!” Felsacor roared, and for the first time, Lael realized just how lucid the draca was.

“Fels!” Lael yelled, pumping his heavy legs, ducking a liquid arrow and jumping over a bloody corpse. He tried not to let the carnage get to him, but he couldn’t help but feel nauseous, especially when he spotted dead women. “Fels, are you back!”

“I’ve always been here!”

“That’s . . . not really true.”

“I’ve been holding back that stupid spirit for you these past . . . how long has it been?”

“Weeks.”

“Weeks? It feels like it’s been months, or years!”

Despite the surrounding chaos, Lael’s hearts stirred, a tear streaking down his cheek. “I thought I lost you.”

“Of course you didn’t. Enough talking! They’re coming.”

Lael was about to look, but Aziroth shouted. “Eyes forward!” Lael did glance to the side when another anchor hit the ground to his far right, and then another on his far left. Armored women wearing crimson cloaks bearing the symbol of a white scorpion tail slid down the chains, dropping to the ground, joining the fight. Though they looked about, as if searching . . .

For him.

He and Aziroth were almost to the edge of the glade, but once they broke through, they would be easy targets. A flash of blue lit up the world to Lael’s right. He glanced to see Zeredathah flying through the air. He hit the center of the glade, and a circle of dirt exploded away from him, throwing people to the ground.

Victoria landed right next to the Saint, radiating black mist.

Felsacor shuddered. “That’s him!” he screamed. “The Darkness!”

“That’s a woman!” Lael shouted.

“He’s inside of her!”

As he was staring at her, he noticed the party of bloody soldiers racing after him. They were running on all fours, teeth bared. To Lael’s surprise, they were way behind. Saints, he wasn’t even burning mana to manage his metal bones, and he was still outrunning a pack of hounds! Aziroth was ahead of him, but not by much.

Someone blindsided him. He staggered to one side, his assailant’s claws digging into the skin on his head. He tripped and dropped to the ground, landing on his back. Looking up he found a bloody soldier on top of him.

Saints, how had he not seen this one?!

It reared its claws and started slashing his face. Lael screamed, but after several swipes, he noticed something. He wasn’t feeling any pain. Nor was blood sliding off his face. Nor was his skin torn to ribbons.

For the who-knows-how-manyth time that day, Lael blessed the name of Kin for his potions.

His potions.

Lael’s skin was still bright red.

As the creature continued slashing his face, Lael accessed his Steel scales. Translucent scales covered his skin, but an instant later, they turned black, shimmering with a metallic sheen.

“Not Steel scales. Tungsten,” Felsacor thought to him, as if they were sitting down for a cup of tea, seemingly oblivious to the bloody warrior trying to tear his face apart. Speaking of the warrior, Lael could no longer feel the claws scraping his skin.

Getting his arm out from under himself, he reared up and punched the warrior in the gut. She yelped and went soaring through the air. As Lael sat up, he found Aziroth standing off to one side, hands on his hips, tapping his foot.

“Ready?”

“Seriously?” Lael said. “Why—”

“Hold that thought.” He pointed. “We have visitors.” The other bloody soldiers showed up, circling them like wolves. Why were they coming for him! Even though Aziroth was in the circle, they all glared at him with their eyeless faces. As one, they started chanting.

Lael rose to his feet, pointing his cannon at the monsters, pivoting in place. He was back-to-back with Aziroth. The man was holding two small Soulfire balls above his palms, though to do so must have cost him dearly, for he broke out into a sweat. That fight with Zeredathah had drained him dry . . .

Victoria was holding Zeredathah by the throat. The man was slack, like a puppet without strings. Despite his natural distaste for the man, time seemed to slow when Lael noticed him. He could hear his heartbeats, taste the dryness in his mouth, feel the tension in the air.

Victoria cocked her head, turning to face . . . him.

Her eyes were completely black, and patches of her skin looked bruised. Smoke trailed from these patches. Her lips curled into a smile. Even as they did, her brows puckered. She glanced down at the ground.

The trembling ground.

An earthquake? Saints, why now?

A grumble and a harsh roar echoed through the air. And somewhere in the distance, someone was crying out. Lael turned left, to face the noise.

A lone figure was darting toward the glade, running on all fours.

Lael narrowed his eyes, trembling from the shock of . . . everything. This was too much for him! First the Volmorrians show up, then this bloodthirsty woman and her demons, and now this?

“Lael!” the distant person shouted, his words barely discernible. “Lael!”

Far behind him, a massive reptile tore through the swamp. “Oh my Saint . . .”

Wait.

As the oncoming stranger continued shouting, Lael’s hearts soared, his eyes brightening with realization.

He knew that voice.

“Gurgs!”

The bloody warriors lunged at Lael, grabbing his arms, shoulders, hair. Lael punched, blowing one’s head off. He kicked, splattering another’s torso across the ground. He managed to grab bloody hair, and with a thrust to the right, he spun the warrior around, whacking her against the others.

Victoria grabbed his shoulder, stopping him short. Lael looked up into her horrible eyes. She grinned, smoke trailed from her lips. “It isn’t too late for you to join me,” Modrea’s rich, fatherly voice intoned.

Lael’s chest clenched up. The Light’s sphere, usually at the center of his chest, seemed nonexistent.

“There’s room for me now,” he said, reaching out to touch his chest.

Aziroth pulled Lael back, throwing a fireball at Victoria’s face. It splashed like water on a stone. Someone yelled, throwing an icy spear. It cracked against her armor. Lael looked to find Jynzo standing afar off, surrounded by bleeding Volmorrians and armored women. He dropped to one knee, and that’s when Lael realized that he too was bleeding.

Gurgs screamed, racing like the wind. He lunged for Victoria, claws splayed, his fanged mouth open wide, his face twisted in rage. Victoria, without taking her eyes from Lael, raised a hand. Black mist caught Gurgs, holding him in place.

This gave Lael a good look at the Bogyn.

To his utter surprise, the creature was no longer blue. He was almost black, his skin sparkling, as if powdered with glitter. Mist of a similar nature spread from Gurgs’s chest, pushing against the black fog.

Victoria frowned, cocking her head, pivoting to regard the Bogyn.

He clenched his jaw, as if concentrating his mind.

“Modrea,” a feminine voice whispered. The glittering mist spreading from Gurgs formed into slender hands, pushing against the hellish fog.

Victoria stumbled back. “Area’an?”

The hands shoved.

Victoria stumbled again, but this time, she raised her hands and pushed back. More glittering mist flowed from Gurgs as the two forces pressed against one another. Victoria trembled, and Gurgs shivered, sweat sliding down his hide.

“Run, Lael!” he said in his phlegmy voice.

Lael nearly dropped in astonishment. Since when did he call him by his first name?! Lael blinked, taking several steps back, but the roar of the giant lizard beasts called to him. He looked and found them ravaging the glade, picking up Volmorrians by the mouthful and swallowing them whole. There were no Tribesmen and women in sight, other than the ones who had died. He searched for Elswyth, but she was nowhere in sight. Had she run off?

Female soldiers wearing the red cloaks were running toward Lael, wielding blades made of blood. Lael cursed, turning to run. Vaaloo appeared as if from nowhere, racing beside him. Aziroth stared at him in shock, but when he noticed Lael sprinting, he joined him.

They would be able to stay ahead of the army, but they couldn’t run forever. And what about Gurgs? Saints, what about Els? And Fiora? And his mom! Was he just going to leave everyone behind? Saints, how he hated running!

Lael tried charging his cannon, but only a woeful trickle of Soulfire flickered through his channels. He clenched his fist, staring at his red flesh.

No . . .

His red gauntlet. It matched his flesh, and as he glanced down at the armor covering his legs, an idea hatched in his mind. He’d purchased this armor with the intent of overpowering Zeredathah with his weight. Charging the runes etched into the plate would make them terribly heavy. And if he could use it to knock Victoria off balance, he could help Gurgs and . . . whatever spirit he’d managed to pick up on his adventures through the Fen. But any spirit was a good spirit who hated Modrea!

Before Lael could bring up the idea to his companions, he noticed something that made his hearts stop. An army was running toward them from up ahead. They crawled on all-fours, their skin the shade of the night sky. Lights above! Was this ever going to end?

Aziroth slowed, noticing them as well. Lael stopped beside him, as did Vaaloo.

Lael turned to find twenty armored women charging from behind, raising their crimson weapons. The rest of them were fleeing from the massive gators—one of the creatures was chewing on an anchor, pulling down one of the ships.

Gurgs continued struggling against Victoria. Darkness enshrouded him, black mist flowing from Victoria’s palms.

Aziroth took a deep breath, sitting down and crossing his legs. “Vaaloo, how much mana do you have left?”

“Enough.”

“Fill me up. Lael? I’m going to distract these buffoons. Run, okay? I’ll catch up.”

Lael didn’t respond. He was stepping in the direction of Gurgs’s struggle with Victoria. He took off his gauntlet, and stuffed it into the mouth of his barrel. He cycled mana along the blaster, filling the runes marking the red gauntlet. As they started to shine, Lael raised his blaster, but another idea hit him . . .

It struck Felsacor at the same time.

The draca climbed his soul, filling his head. In an instant, he sensed Felsacor’s aura surrounding him. Not just his scalp. Him.

“Yet another blessing of a Tungsten soul.”

Lael nodded. The only problem was his lack of Soulfire . . .

Which Felsacor took care of instantly. Phantomfire flowed from the draca, entering Lael’s left heart. It didn’t fill up completely, but there was enough to make this work. As Lael watched the oncoming women, he wondered if the blazing vortex would work better to hold them back. Or should he use it on the dark blue warriors coming up from behind?

He shook his head.

He needed to hit Victoria. If she managed to kill Gurgs, Lael’s death would soon follow.

Lael focused on the aura surrounding Victoria. It was unsteady, filling him with a brush of hopelessness. He made sure not to touch the darkness flowing around Gurgs. It was the source of the horrible dread. And besides, it wasn’t his target.

Victoria was.

Taking a deep breath, Lael cycled Phantomfire through his channels, to his head. When he’d filled it to the brim, he forced the fire through the energy field, toward the aura enveloping Victoria.

It slipped right through, and sparks began to dance around the woman. She was too focused to notice.

Perfect.

The aura surrounding the woman was already swirling like an invisible cyclone.

“Let it go.” Felsacor shouted. “Now!”

Lael obeyed, releasing the Phantomfire. It exploded around the woman in a tornado of black fire. She screamed, and the black mist surrounding Gurgs faltered. He flopped to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Lael gasped, but his heart clenched. He dropped to his knees, and Felsacor groaned. Lael blinked back stars, staring past the oncoming female warriors, gawking at Gurgs. The Bogyn wasn’t moving. And Saints, Lael felt like throwing up.

Had he overdrawn his mana? Of scatting course!

Saints!

He really was starting to sound like Elswyth. But that only made his insides sink, and he trembled, pressing his hand and the barrel of his cannon into the soil. Darkness encroached on his vision, which was why he was absolutely confused when Aziroth laughed heartily.

Had the man lost his marbles?

No, he was already insane.

Had he delved beyond insanity?

“Look!” Aziroth shouted, pointing toward the blue swarm.

Lael glanced back to see a host of Gurgses racing toward him, then past him. There were female Gurglings wearing rags, and bulky males wearing nothing but loincloths. They clashed with the female soldiers, punching them down, biting their necks, tackling them to the floor.

“Time to go!” Aziroth grabbed Lael’s hand, pulling him to his feet. Lael tried standing, but his legs shook and his vision swam. Aziroth picked Lael up, cradling him. Vaaloo was crouching on Aziroth’s head, pressing his gloved hands against his scalp, purple mist flowing into the man’s soul. The mage turned his glowing eyes on Lael, raising a hand. Green mist trailed from his fingers, entering Lael’s nostrils.

His head buzzed, and as he blinked, everything grew clear.

Noises sharpened—cries of pain, screams of terror, shouts of rage.

Scents grew crisp—the scent of fresh blood, the stink of the muggy swamp.

Feelings more noticable—the aches of his channels, the burning of his left heart.

Someone jumped over Aziroth, landing in front of him. Aziroth gasped, but before Lael could turn and see who it was, a metal foot kicked Aziroth in the face. He dropped Lael, flipping through the air, colliding with the ground.

Lael rolled to his back, trying to move fast, but his channels twisted and screamed. He clenched his teeth as someone knelt beside him.

Victoria reached out a charred hand, grabbing his neck, squeezing tight. Her face was one big bruise. Black smoke, like the tendrils of a dying fire, flowed from her skin. Phantomfire crawled along her armor, burning it to a crisp.

“Let me in . . .” Modrea whispered, voice edged with murder. “LET ME IN!” Victoria shook Lael by the throat. If he had been anything less than Tungsten, his windpipe would have collapsed.

Lael bit down, glaring up at the Darkness in defiance. Though a part of him wavered. If the Light was gone, what did he have to live for, who could he really trust? But it wasn’t as if the God was dead! He had to be out there! In His Temple! There was no proof other than Aziroth’s word, but so far, the man hadn’t let him down.

A bubble drifted down from above.

It was so black it made Lael shiver just looking at it. An overwhelming malice radiated from the orb, and for the first time, Lael saw the spirit’s eye. It was bright red, the color of rage. The pupil was vertical, like a dragons, and it glared down at the murderous Victoria.

Its bottom opened like a mouth as it dropped, enveloping the woman’s smoky head. She screamed, scratching the smooth confines as the bubble drifted up, pulling her with it, legs dangling. She thrashed to one side, then the other, kicking like a disobedient toddler.

What was it . . . doing?

Lael narrowed his eyes, and though his mind spun, he noticed that the eye was staring off in the distance, toward the glade. Lael turned his head, staring past the war between the Bogyns and the armored women. There, at the center of the glade, Zeredathah was leaning on his flesh arm. He was pointing his flaming hand in Victoria’s direction. Trembling, he summoned his massive blue sword and roared.

The air shook as his shoulder caught fire. The flames crawled across his chest and his face, then down his torso. In an explosion of blue, his sword shot off, zipping through the air. It speared through Victoria’s chest as the bubble popped.

Her screech rent the air as she dropped. When she hit the ground, she exploded in a puff of smoke. It rose into the air, evaporating. Leaving behind the Saint’s flaming sword. Lael stared at the flickering flames, feeling nothing, his emotions an empty shell.

His vision blurred as someone grabbed his arm, dragging him, yelling something. It must have been important, but he couldn’t focus anymore. With a deep sigh, he drifted off into oblivion.

Chapter 40

Finally, Reinforcements

“Oh good, reinforcements.” Kiyish was juggling three rocks, peeking from the relative safety of her tree. After that monster of a girl broke loose, she decided to stay back, and watch the show. It was quite the entertainment!

Too bad it had to end.

But hey! At least reinforcements were here, right?

She cast her large Fontinovish eyes on the massive airship hovering above Victoria’s tiny boats. It made her vessels look like canoes in comparison.

Three gleaming figures dropped from the sky.

Before hitting the ground, they slowed their fall, alighting with all the grace of a swan. They looked around, examining the hundreds of bloody corpses. The man on the left wore a cobalt blue metal helmet and shoulder plates. A cloak curtained the rest of his body. The woman in the middle, and the man on the right, were dressed similarly, except the woman was wearing all white, while the man had on viridescent apparel.

Kiyish rose to her feet in salute, then glanced over her shoulder. There were a few soldiers hiding behind her. These men had managed to take several people hostage, and she’d heard that one of the prisoners was related to Lael, the Chosen.

She’d considered going after the boy herself, but after witnessing what he’d done to Victoria, she decided to keep her distance. Better to leave a kid that deadly to someone . . . a little stronger.

Like these wonderful people.

“You there!” the man in blue, on the left, pointed a gauntleted finger. “Approach.”

This was Kyiin, one of Dharamadeva’s trusted underlings. And he was pointing at Kiyish. If she didn’t want to get crushed by this Archdiamond, it was in her best interest to obey. She marched from the tree, dropped to her knees, and bowed.

“Report!” His voice echoed across the desolate glade, bouncing off massive trees.

Staring at the soil, Kiyish smiled. Report? she thought, nearly chuckling. Oh, I’ll do more than that. Dream essence flowed through her channels, and with a flourish, she spread her hands, presenting her visitors with a visual of the glade in miniature.

“Let me start from the beginning . . .”

She shared everything she knew, presenting the war with the power of her illusions. It took longer than she’d planned, but the Archdiamonds seemed intrigued. But they could have been utterly bored. It was impossible to gauge the interest of an audience concealing their emotions, and most of their body language.

It wasn’t until she reached the part about Victoria’s demise that she got a reaction—they gasped, all three of them, at once. “The Chosen did this?” the woman wearing white asked. This was Jiuul, representative of the fallen Saint Ashish.

“Along with the help of Zeredathah, Saint of Fallen Pride.” I twirled my finger, and caused the visual aide to rewind, then played the part where Lael burned Victoria’s flesh, distracting her while Zeredathah aimed and skewered her with his sword.

The Archdiamonds were silent for a time. They glanced at one another, as if their eyes could communicate. “And . . . why did you not try to stop him?” the man in green intoned. What was this guy’s name again? Kiyish cocked her brow, realizing something. This was the first time she’d heard three council heads speak, one after the other. It disturbed her just how . . . similar they sounded.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyish said, calling off her illusion. “But, I mean, it’s kind of obvious.” She chuckled, but before she could continue, the aura pressed in around her. It clutched her neck, stopping up her airflow. She dropped to her knees, grabbing her neck.

“When I ask a question . . .” the man in green whispered, striding toward her. She couldn’t see his feet, because of the curtain surrounding his body, so, as he strode forth, it almost looked like he was gliding, like a ghost. “. . . you answer.”

Kiyish nodded, and the aura eased up around her. She took a deep breath, keeping it quiet, trying not to appear weak. She stood back up on her feet, keeping her head bowed. “If the Chosen could take out a Sapphire, what am I in comparison? A gnat on the wall! He would have crushed me . . .” She bit her lip. They weren’t saying anything, so she decided to share her plan. “But! I have prisoners. People close to the Chosen.” She gestured to the soldiers standing behind me, waving them forward.

The dark-armored soldiers marched out from the cavity of the tree. They were a motley crew—most weren’t even wearing helmets, and all of them had armor that was scuffed and dented. Except for one. He was beastly, still wearing his helmet, and without a scratch on his armor. He cradled a girl in his arms, one that looked strikingly similar to Lael. She was shivering, closing her eyes.

“This is his sister,” Kiyish nodded, then pointed to a man wearing the mask bearing a reptilian eye. “And this is one of his close followers.”

“Who’s the woman in the robe?” Kyiin, the man in blue, asked.

Kiyish glanced over. The lady with the cat eyes and ears glared at her. “No idea . . . She just seemed important.” There were others dressed like her, younger girls. And a couple of Bogyns. Everyone was wearing tartium bands, the metal restricting their spirits . . .

Everyone, except for that one Bogyn. The one who had faced off with Victoria, and held his own. There was something about that one, and she just had to know what it was. Someone in the back was holding him bound up, tied in a sack. She shrugged. Who knew, maybe one day, if she managed to open up a circus again, he’d join.

The council heads were talking with each other. They glanced heavenward and Kiyish followed their gaze. And she nearly staggered back. Dozens of airships hovered around the massive one, each sporting a different design.

“You and your prisoners will report back to Volmorra,” Kyiin said. “Time is short, so hostages are pointless. But we could always use more slaves.” A narrow aircraft was descending. The bow was carved to represent the gaping mouth of a shark. “Thank you for your service.”

She was about to ask where they were going, but it wasn’t her place to ask, so instead, she said, “I want to help!”

The green-armored man crouched, as did the white-cloaked Jiuul. The two of them lunged upward, shaking the earth. Kyiin watched Kiyish, silent for a moment. “We will be hunting down the Chosen. You will report back to Volmorra. There are enough of us here as it is.” He crouched, then jumped, soaring toward the massive airship.

Kiyish stood there, slightly stunned, but she allowed the men from the narrow shark vessel to escort her aboard. Was it . . . right for her to be going home? Did the empire need her there? Would she be sent elsewhere?

Questions for later.

The reality was she was going home. To her husband. To her daughter.

After so, so long . . .

Chapter 41

The Time Has Come

Briar screamed as he stabbed down on the skeletal dragon’s heart. The orb cracked, releasing a gust of red mist. It blew over his armored face, wind sneaking through chinks in his armor, refreshing against his sweaty skin.

He knelt there on the creature’s sternum, breathing heavily.

Mind numb with disbelief.

After six months of fighting, sleeping, eating, and fighting, fighting, fighting, he had finally done it. He’d passed the final test. Briar shakily rose to his feet, trying to pull the sword from the motionless creature’s heart.

It was stuck.

“Leave it,” Elavendhan said.

Briar turned to find the Saint standing on the undead’s outstretched arm.

“Come.”

Briar nodded, using a ribcage as a bridge. He was still trembling from the fight. He’d challenged this same room over a hundred times. He’d stopped counting when he reached his two hundredth try. And now . . .

He was done.

Briar hopped to the sand, hustling over to the Saint. Elavendhan watched him with glowing eyes. His long white hair, which reached his feet, undulated even though he stood still. It contrasted with his dark skin, matching his shimmering white tattoos. The chains wrapping around his torso were almost entirely beneath his flesh.

Briar grimaced, hating to think that he’d been the cause of that.

“Congratulations, Briar Lightsworn, son of Onido, child of Hidden Valley.” His resonant tone was soothing, like that of a caring father’s. “Your work here is done.”

Briar took off his helmet, dropping to one knee before the Saint and bowing in full armor. It was crimson, the color of Elavendhan’s Soulfire. What he would give for his father to see him now. Here he was, prostrating before a Saint, like one of the holy men from the legends.

“Six months have passed down here, Lightsworn. But up above, it has been weeks.”

That still amazed him. Weeks! How was it possible? That would have held his attention, but he was more excited about what he’d receive from passing the final room. Every test came with a reward. It’s how he’d built the armor he was now wearing.

“Rise.”

Briar obeyed, watching as the Saint stretched out his hand to one side. A flaming sword formed in his hand. The fire evaporated, leaving behind a massive blade. He raised it high, then stabbed the ground in front of Briar.

Briar had guessed this was coming. Still, he couldn’t help but shake with excitement at the prospect of wielding the weapon of a Saint!

“Grab the hilt.”

Briar wrapped his fingers around the hilt. It pulsed with warmth, like the beating of a distant heart. Elavendhan placed his hand on the pommel, closing his eyes. His tattoos shone bright, pulsing in time with the sword.

Briar’s hand burned, but it was painless. The back of his hand buzzed. The sensation crawled along his forearm, wrapping his bicep, then ending at his shoulder. When it vanished, Briar narrowed his eyes.

His spirit was pulsing in time with the sword’s heartbeat.

Elavendhan took a deep breath, removing his hand. He opened his eyes, blinking, as if waking from a dream. Briar stared at the man, narrowing his eyes. Where were his tattoos? They were gone. All of them.

“She’s yours now,” Elavendhan whispered, barely audible. He lifted his gaze to Briar, and even that seemed to take some effort. “Listen to her. I’ve given you the foundation of your path; she’ll help you build on that foundation.”

The sword. He was talking about the sword. “She’s . . . alive?”

“It’ll take time for you to tune in to her voice. But to answer your question, yes. She’s alive.” Elavendhan sat down on the skeletal arm, slouching, hands on his knees. “Go.” He stomped his foot. The ground trembled, and the wall behind Briar cracked. He turned to find it crumbling, rocks falling on the lifeless heap of draconic bones.

As the dust settled, Briar raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light. An ascending staircase led to land above.

“Head north. You’ll reach the Fen of Fontinova. By then, you should be tuned to Honor’s voice. She’ll direct you to the Temple of Light . . .”

Briar’s heart skipped, chills crawling up his back. There, he would petition God to revoke his sins. And there, he would be given the chance to help Lael, Chosen of the Light, liberator of this world. But . . . how? He was still Pathless, and a Saint’s sword didn’t change that.

“There is a sword at the heart of the Temple,” Elavendhan said. “It was crafted by the Saints and blessed by the power of God. Only a pure-hearted Pathless can wield the weapon.” The Saint leaned in close. “And with it, he has the power to slay even a God.”

Briar nearly dropped to the sand, so forceful were the Saint’s words.

“Go, Briar. Find the Temple of Light. Petition God for forgiveness. Then, and only then, will you have the authority to wield Holiness itself.”

“I will!” Briar shouted.

Elavendhan nodded, bowing his head. His long hair draped to the floor, and he . . . appeared frail. Briar bit his lip, armor rattling. By the gods, why couldn’t he stop shaking? He swallowed, watching the motionless Saint.

So this was it?

After six months in the presence of one of the most powerful men in the world, he was supposed to leave? “Elavendhan?”

The Saint didn’t answer.

Briar’s face tensed with emotion, and he dropped to his knees, bowing before the Saint. “I won’t fail you!” he shouted. “I will find the Light, beg for forgiveness, and help Lael slay the devils of this world!” Tears blurred his vision. He wiped them with his gauntleted hand, smearing grit across his face.

When he glanced up at the Saint, he gasped.

The man was gone.

Briar jumped to his feet, spinning around, searching with his golden eyes. Elavendhan was nowhere to be found. After taking a few deep breaths, balancing himself, he placed his helmet back on. He put one hand over his pocket, sensing his sister’s crystal prison. They’d talked a lot these past several months, her presence a comforting blanket. At least I won’t be doing this alone. Facing the opening, he hustled toward the ascending staircase, trying to ignore the conflicting mix of painful emotions . . .

The Saint had done his work.

It was time to get things moving.

Chapter 42

Determination

Lael was startled awake. He took a shaky breath, blinking as a droplet of water slid down his cheek. His eyes darted from the left to the right as he tried taking in his surroundings, but he could hardly see anything. Why was it so dark? Where was he? A drop of water splashed against his forehead, rolling down his face.

He looked to find a green spirit with a blue spiral on its face staring down at him. It raised a fingerless hand, spreading its palm. A droplet dripped from its palm, splashing on Lael’s nose. As another drop plopped against his face, he strained to see what the spirit was sitting on.

A tiny, rocky shelf jutted from an earthen wall.

Was he in a cave? His eyes roved the ceiling, spotting roots poking from dirt surfaces, confirming his suspicions. He turned his head, looking toward an opening that looked out on skyscraping trees. Their bark reflected soft moonlight.

Lael groaned, trying to sit up, but it felt like his bones were made of . . .

He snorted.

Metal.

But they weren’t the problem. It wasn’t something else. Something deeper. When he tried to move his arm, his bicep cramped. He bit down hard, trying to keep from yelping. He shifted his leg, and he experienced the same painful phenomenon.

“What the Nether . . .”

Something in his peripheral shifted. “Lael?” a familiar voice whispered.

“Is he awake?” the wind seemed to breathe.

“I think.” Aziroth leaned over him, hair draping. “Lael?”

“I’m . . . awake,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. Saint, the lining of his throat felt raw. “Where . . .” Ugh. He couldn’t talk anymore. He wouldn’t be surprised if he coughed up blood.

“We’re still in the Fen,” Aziroth whispered, kneeling beside him. “Far from the warzone, mind you. We’re almost free of this disgusting wasteland.”

“How long . . . have I been . . .”

“Out? Days, I think.” He jabbed a thumb toward Vaaloo. “Without him, you might have been out much longer.”

“And you’re probably wondering why you can’t move,” Vaaloo whispered, walking up beside Aziroth. He cast his glowing eyes upon Lael’s face. “That’s the side effect of the potion.”

“Which . . . one . . . ?”

“The red one,” Aziroth said.

“Shaped like a fist.” Vaaloo clenched his gloved hand into a fist.

“You should start feeling better in a few days. In the meantime, I’ll be your personal escort.” Aziroth flashed him a grin, but even in the dimness of the cave, Lael could see just how forced it was.

Water dripped on his face, rolling into his eye. He blinked, but instead of stinging, it actually felt good. As another drop fell from the spirit’s palm, it reflected pink moonlight, looking almost red. Like a drop of blood.

He could almost hear the screams of the tribespeople as sword tore through their chests, tearing out their hearts. One would think he’d be used to bloodshed by now, but how could anyone grow apathetic to beheading and dismemberment?

What’s worse, he’d lost his friends.

Elswyth. Where had she run off to?

Gurgs. Was he dead?

Was Fiora still in prison?

Where in the seven Saints was Mom?

And what about Jynzo? And Jrenlla?

“Don’t forget about Najala.” Felsacor peeled from his soul, crawling out of him like a butterfly from its cocoon. “Dracas are people too.” He turned and met Lael’s gaze with one blue one red eye.

White mist was poking Lael’s ears. When he noticed it, it recoiled.

“Sorry,” Olhatha said in his highly dignified way. “Aziroth asked me to.”

To do what?

“Read your thoughts.” Aziroth squinted in pain. Precious seconds passed, and his lips quivered, as if refusing to cooperate. “We’ll . . . find them, Lael . . .” His tone was one of hesitancy.

Lael opened his mouth and caught a drop of water. He swallowed, and to his surprise, it soothed the lining in his throat like a gentle salve. “What happened to them?”

Aziroth glanced at Vaaloo. The mage shook his head.

“The Volmorrians have them,” Felsacor grumbled, pulling at a root. He tore out a purple vegetable and chewed on it. “I’d bet my wings on it . . .”

But that was only a guess. What if they’d died? And what about Elswyth? The overlord’s men couldn’t stand against her! If she slaughtered her way to freedom, then where’d she run off to?

Lael closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

His brows furrowed.

The Light had helped him fight Blaise. Where was He now? Saints, he couldn’t even feel the glowing orb inside of his chest anymore. “Where is He . . . ?” Lael’s words were so soft, even he barely heard them. “Why didn’t He help us?”

Aziroth chuckled, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “The Light? If anything, I’d say He outdid himself back there.”

“But I . . .” Lael’s frown deepened. “I didn’t feel Him. When I fought Blaise, I felt like I could do anything. Back there, all I felt was terror.”

“And yet, you survived the Darkness himself.”

Lael grimaced, suppressing a shudder. Why couldn’t the Light possess him like that? Was Modrea right? Was God losing His power? “Is He already gone?”

“Who?”

“Jeh’va.”

“He can’t die.” Aziroth straightened. “Lael. If you want to know what’s the best thing to do right now, I’ll tell you. Follow through with what you promised Him. Fusing with Jeh’va will do more good for your family and the world at large than anything else you could do.”

That’s right. Lael was a Tungsten now. “What will happen? Once I do?”

“Miracles. There are only legends regarding the fusion of a God and a Tungsten, but from what I know, it’s anything short of astounding.” Aziroth was shaking his head. “Anything Modrea told you is a lie, Lael. God’s power isn’t dimming. It’s rising. Because of you.” He opened his arms. “Because of us!” His shout echoed around them and he slapped a hand over his mouth, glancing over his shoulder toward the mouth of the cave.

“Don’t bark like this guy,” Olhatha hovered over Aziroth’s shoulder. “Keep your voice down.” He blinked, nodding toward Lael. “Not that you have to worry too much about that.”

“Are there guards nearby?”

Aziroth shrugged, shooting Vaaloo a glance. “Probably. Let’s just say stealth is our greatest ally. Besides God.”

Lael took a deep breath.

“Rest now, Lael,” Aziroth whispered. “Tomorrow evening, we move again.”

“North.” Olhatha bobbed up to Aziroth’s scalp.

“Northwest. The Light’s temple is . . . well, in a rather obscure location.” His smile broadened, and this time, it was genuine. Lael’s hearts warmed, and that energy seemed to swell, filling him from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Hope.

He still had hope.

Even if he didn’t completely understand why he needed to fuse with Jeh’va or how the God would work through him, what he did know was that in order to stop the most powerful Soul artist in all of Wyvden, he needed to join forces with the Light. And if that gave him the power to stop the killing, the oppression, the heartache, he had to do it.

For his family’s sake.

For his friends.

For the world.

Epilogue – A Son’s Revenge

Fiora leaned against Jynzo, hugging herself, shivering in the cold wind. He placed an arm around her, holding her close while Gurgs guided him forward across a dusty wasteland dotted with leafless shrubs of thorns. Hundreds of slaves ambled in front of them, most staring at their feet. There were no guards to whip them into shape and hurry them along. These people were already broken. They knew their place. To them, resistance was futile. Death was inevitable. And life was a miserable stretch of pain.

She felt sorry for them; they had no reason to live.

No reason to hope.

But I do, she thought, teeth chattering. Hope in this world’s salvation, that would be brought about by the hand of her brother, glowed within her soul. She needed to live, no matter what she faced!

Lael would eventually come; slay Dharamadeva; and save them all.

“Watch your footsies,” Gurgs muttered, gesturing to the ground. “Pokies here.” Dried ivy coiled along the dusty surface, prickling with thorns.

“Guide me,” Jynzo intoned. His mask was gone, leaving his unsettling face exposed. Both of his eyes were sewn shut, as was part of his mouth. His skin was tan, like Jrenlla’s . . .

Fiora’s heart rapped with a surge of anger, but she shoved it down.

It was pointless to get mad at the woman.

She was gone, never to be seen again.

As Gurgs stepped over lines of bristling ivy, guiding Jynzo and Fiora forward, she rolled her tongue, playing with the stencil in her mouth. She still hadn’t told Jynzo about it. Once they reached the privacy of the mines, she’d reveal it. Until then, it remained hidden.

A drop of rain dripped against her forehead, sliding down her freckled face. Another hit her hand. Seconds later, it started to drizzle. Their forward progression was painfully slow, and it was dreadfully cold—the rain only made it worse. She almost started screaming. They needed to get below ground as soon as possible! Despite all the horrible things she’d heard about the mines, she was certain they were nothing compared to this wretched weather.

She glanced over her shoulder, looking across the blighted wilderland, trying to distract herself. An imposing tower, like a sinister staff, stood like a foreboding sentinel. Miles away, spires poked toward the heavens, scraping a suffocating blanket of clouds. This place was supposed to be depressing, but to her, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Just knowing that Aziroth had once lived here, and escaped to find her brother, brought a warmth to her beating heart. It spread from the core of her chest, diffusing through her soul, fighting against the cutting wind and foreboding atmosphere.

Still, she wanted to get out of it. “H-how much longer t-to the mine?”

“Mile or two,” Gurgs said, helping Jynzo over the last stretch of barbed ivy.

A mile or two? Torture! She cast her eyes on the road ahead, and noticed a fissure on her far right. There was another on her left, though this one looked more like a cracked hole. It was as if a meteor struck the ground at an angle.

“There are ways to enter the mine right there, and there!” She pointed to both openings. “Why not climb down one of those, and gather our daily quota?” The Volmorrians expected every slave to fill a bag with tartium ore by sundown. Gurgs was dragging the sacks with one hand, completely oblivious to the thorns now poking through the fabric.

“What you think?” Gurgs glanced back at Jynzo, whose sewn eyes were . . . well, not staring at anything.

“Whatever’s practical,” Jynzo muttered, teeth chattering.

“Then why not head for that one?” She pointed to the hole that looked to have been blasted out by a falling star. Whatever hit it must have done so at an angle, for there was a rugged decline leading into the depths of the earth.

Gurgs shrugged. “Why no that one?” He pointed toward the fissure up ahead. The chain dangling from his manacle tinkled.

“It l-looks like we’d have to scale the wall to get to the bottom.”

“Then let's go for the other one,” Jynzo said.

They parted from the ambling group of slaves, hustling toward the vast opening. As soon as they descended into its depths, leaving the howling wind behind, Fiora gave a final shudder, a smile spreading across her face. Praise the Light. Warm air brushed past her, flowing from deep within the tunnel.

Gurgs shuffled through one of the sacks, pulling out a lantern. Fiora noticed that it was scripted with a rune of light. “You need.” He handed it to her. As she cycled her sluggish mana into the symbol, it grew bright. He also pulled out a small pickax, holding it up. “Hold,” he told Fiora.

She took it, grasping it like a sword.

The mines beneath the capitol were rife with tartium ore. Not only that, but she heard that, even deeper, there were treasures beyond imagination. These tunnels seemed to lead to a place similar to where Lael had gone, back in Akkesai. Of course, he’d nearly died delving down there, so she was hesitant about their little excursion. But what if she found some sort of treasure that could get them out of here? Or upgrade her power? Or reveal secrets about runesmithing?

Gurgs grabbed Jynzo’s hand and shuffled forward, leading them along, and Fiora had to wonder if that much crouching hurt the Bogyn’s back. Why didn’t he stand, like them? Had their spines adapted to support such curvature?

The ground trembled. Rocks cracked off the wall, dropping and tumbling. This didn’t come as a surprise. She was coming to realize that earthquakes were a common phenomenon out here. This was the, what, thirtieth tremor? In two days!

“Modrea,” Jynzo muttered.

Fiora shuddered, despite the warm breeze stroking her face. The Darkness dwelt in these lands, imprisoned by a force she didn’t understand.

Minutes passed in silence.

They reached an opening that ended in a steep drop into a spacious cavern. Most of the rugged room was blanketed in darkness. Fiora lifted her lamp, cycling more of her mana into the script. It brightened, casting away shadows. She grew light headed and leaned against Jynzo. He supported her while the uncomfortable sensation passed.

“There,” Gurgs pointed.

An angled crevice, like a pocket in the earth, was at the center of the room. It looked much like the hole they’d entered to get here, and though they couldn’t see much, Fiora’s lamplight leaked into the fissure, reflecting against glittering veins of—

“Tartium.” Gurgs swung off the edge and started scaling down the wall.

“You’re going to have to climb,” Fiora muttered to Jynzo.

He looked hesitant.

“It’s only a few feet.” She shrugged. “More like thirty.”

He nodded as she helped him to the edge, where he crouched and felt around. After feeling for a second, he carefully let himself down over the edge and began climbing down. When Fiora glanced at his face, she felt a pang of pity. She knew that without his wooden mask and its scripts, the aura of his surroundings was too much for his spiritual senses.

“Catch,” she whispered to Gurgs. The Bogyn, having just reached the ground, looked up. She tossed the lamp to him and then her pickax. He let the pick fall, not wanting to risk it; the bands squeezing his wrists made him weak.

Fiora swung her wooden legs over the edge, and when she found a foothold, she started down. It took minutes for her to reach the bottom, then she brushed the dust off her drab tunic, which made her sneeze. It echoed through the dark cavern.

Gurgs tugged Jynzo forward. Fiora picked up her pickax and lantern and followed. As they neared the angled fissure, she gaped at just how much tartium it contained! The walls were lined with sparkling veins. In less than an hour, they should be able to fill up all three of their bags, and head back before noon! But what then? What would the overseers think of their speedy excursion? Would they force them to go get more?

Fiora sneezed again.

Someone sneezed in response. It echoed from above. Fiora frowned, looking up. The ceiling was shrouded in darkness, but as she squinted, she thought she could make out two green pinpricks. A smile spread beneath the eyes, revealing a glowing set of fangs.

Fiora’s heart leapt in her throat. “Guys!

Jynzo froze and Gurgs spun to face her, red eyes gleaming.

She pointed, but as Gurgs cast his gaze toward the heavens, searching the darkness, he frowned. Fiora searched for the pinpricks, and that unsettling smile, but . . . couldn’t find it.

Crash!

The ground shook and she yelped, spinning around and raising her lamp.

Two faceted, emerald eyes stared down at her. Dozens of lids parted on the hairy face, revealing fifty glistening eyes as the creature’s fanged grin spread wide. He stretched his coarse arms to either side, splaying his claws; eight bristly legs shifted in disconcerting coordination as the demon advanced toward them, its bulbous thorax held high behind its torso.

“Run!” Fiora screamed, spinning and pushing Jynzo forward. Gurgs was glaring, baring his own fangs. He started towards the monster, but Fiora dropped her pick and grabbed his arm, yanking him into the hole.

“Where are you going!” The spider thing slammed its teeth together, chattering. Following them. He was a little too big for the tunnel, but he squeezed through, squirming toward them. “I’ve been waiting for people to play with!”

Jyzno clutched Fiora’s wrist with one hand, and Gurgs’s wrist with the other. In a gust of speed, he raced forward, tugging them along, practically dragging them. Fiora glanced over her shoulder. The monster slammed one of his claws into the wall on his right, and another on the wall to his left. He pulled himself forward, dragging his body after them. Grinning like a maniac, his many eyes glistening.

After squeezing through a particularly tight spot, the creature lunged forward, scurrying like the insect he was. Fiora screamed, chucking the lamp. It smashed against his face, glass shattering into a thousand shards.

Spider Creep howled, shaking his head and scratching his eyes. Dozens of them had cracked and were now dripping green ooze. “PAIN!”

Jynzo’s speed redoubled as they delved into darkness, leaving the light of the broken lamp behind. “Keep run forward!” Gurgs shouted. “No rocks, no obstacles!”

Fiora frowned, wondering how the creature knew that—

She shook her head.

Gurgs could see in the dark. And she blessed the name of the Light for such a gift.

The monster’s wailing persisted, then it cut off suddenly. Fiora’s pounding heart lurched, her stomach dropping. The tap-tap-tap of many legs skittered far behind, drawing closer.

“Wall ahead!” Gurgs shouted.

Too late.

Fiora collided with the wall. Stars burst in her blind vision as she hit the ground. Blinking, she groaned. The front of her body throbbed, but it was her skull that gave her the most misery. It throbbed with each hurried pound of her heart.

“Dead end,” the creepy freak whispered.

Fiora looked up to see glittering eyes, and a shimmering grin, hanging over her head. It lowered toward her, biting up and down, chattering like maracas.

Orange light flashed in Fiora’s peripheral. Heat passed over her and fire exploded against the side of the monster’s head, catching it aflame. It howled, rearing back and scratching at the flickering flames. Another blazing ball burst from the deadend, flying into the creature’s gaping mouth. Its head combusted, crackling in a saffron inferno. With a high-pitched squeal, the beast slammed against the wall, tearing its burning head apart with its wicked claws. It teetered, then slammed against the ground, the rest of its body igniting.

Fiora gawked at the flaming demon. She backed away, wincing at the heat. She looked at Gurgs, who was lying on his side, holding a hand up to his face, wincing against the light of the fire. He couldn’t have done this, not with those bands on his arms. She turned her eyes to Jynzo. The man was lying on his back, breathing steadily. Unconscious? His forehead was bruised. Fiora winced. Must have hit the wall with her.

But if it wasn’t Gurgs, and it wasn’t Jynzo, then . . .

She lifted her gaze.

A man, hanging upside down in a thick vein of tartium ore, glared at her with flaming irises. She gave a sharp gasp, sucking in spit, coughing as she backed away, unable to tear her gaze from the oddity in the wall. Orange hair jutted from his scalp, like shafts of ember. The brand of a fist looked to have been burned onto his gut, and his pants were scorched in several places. His glare was tense, his tan skin stretched tight against his skull. Muscles bulged on his arms, chest and gut, but he looked sickly, like he hadn’t seen food in years. His voice sounded like gritty rocks scratching against each other when he spoke, but his words were even more shocking.

“WHERE . . .” he said through clenched teeth. “. . . IS . . . LAEL?”

The Dragon in his Soul:

Aziroth’s Liberation

Novella

Click here to get it for free.

Lesser Souls:

Cultivating Chaos

Novella

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In Which I Ask for a Review . . .

Will you please give this book a review? It will help me out more than the written word can express, and I would deeply, deeply appreciate it.

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Also by D. R. R. Hatch

The Dragon in his Soul

Quest for the Tears of the Gods – Book 1

Journey Beyond the Vale of Shadows – Book 2

The Blood of Warriors and Saints – Book 3

Book 4 (2023)

Book 5 (2023)

* * *

Lesser Souls

The Path of Celestial Thunder – Book 1

Book 2 (2023)

Book 3 (2023

Book 4 (2023)

About the Author

Hatch here! By way of introduction, I’m a Progression Fantasy novelist intent on writing at least six books a year. I’ve written four novels and two novellas already, but they’re in another genre entirely. I steer more towards the epic side of things, thanks to my love of Tolkien and Sanderson, but every one of my books are, at their core, progressive.

Reach out if you have any questions, or if you want to talk. Here’s my website: drrhatch.com. I’d love to hear from you.

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