“W e shouldn’t stay here.”

I drew the back of my hand across my forehead, squinting

towards the horizon. I was not made for this. I’d even take the swampy humidity of Ara’s summer over this heat so intense it threatened to cook you on the street.

Our boat had landed in central Threll, in a city I couldn’t pronounce the name of. Threllian architecture was beautiful, all crafted from white stone, so when you stood at the coast and looked up, the view that greeted you looked like a painting of various gleaming ivory strokes laid beneath striking blue. It was late in the day. The blue was starting to tinge pink.

Sunsets are beautiful in Threll, I thought, which surprised myself. I didn’t realize I had been to Threll.

“We won’t,” Brayan said. “Threll is a mess right now. The less time we spend here, the better. We’re lucky our boat didn’t get shot to the bottom of the sea.”

“Would the Fey or Threllians bother with a civilian ship?”

“Everyone wants to kill everyone here right now,” Brayan said. “Rebels, too, fighting against the Threllians. It reminds me of the Threllian wars fifteen years ago. Everyone fighting everyone. But… at least that means everyone out here is so confused they shouldn’t be looking too hard for us.”

I pieced together the fragments of memories I did have. Nura had a presence in Threll—I had heard her discussing that with Vardir many times. The Fey did as well, via their Threllian allies, which was why Threll was never on my list of “places to go if I manage to escape.”

I nodded to a stable up ahead. “We should see if we can get some horses. I’m not made for that much foot travel.”

Brayan agreed, and we ducked into the horse trader, who was largely selling nags that he probably bought half-dead, fed for three days, and sold for a disgusting profit. Brayan pointed to two horses. “How much?” he asked, in Thereni.

In Thereni.

And I understood him.

That was interesting. I turned to the marketplace streets, listening. Mostly, I heard a garble of sharp sounds I didn’t understand. But here and there, when people were speaking slowly enough, I could make out a few phrases.

I grasped a sliver of memory—the rise and fall of a voice, a melody of Thereni saying something I couldn’t make out before it slipped through my fingers.

“Max!” Brayan barked, impatient. He gestured to the horse to his left— a grey, lumbering thing who already looked equally irritated with me. “Let’s go. We can make it out of the city before nightfall.”

My horse gave me a disapproving grunt and snapped at me as I swung over its back, barely missing my backside.

“That was uncalled for,” I grumbled.

The horse gave me a harrumph that said it disagreed.

“Wait.” Brayan stopped short, just as we were able to leave. “How much is that?” he asked the shopkeeper, pointing.

I followed his finger to a small, rusty sickle hanging on the wall. The shopkeeper, caught off guard, named some absurd price, and Brayan paid it without complaint.

“Here.” He handed it to me as we left the stables. “I’m not about to risk the attention or the time of seeking out a weapons shop, but you should have something to defend yourself if needed.”

I eyed the rusted sickle as it hung off my saddle. It was intended for cutting wheat, not flesh, and I suspected it was probably not very good at that, either.

But Brayan was right. Something pointy was something pointy. I’d take what I could get.

“Don’t tell me you can’t wield it,” Brayan said, sharply. “I spent fifteen years training you. You can wield anything.”

Was that a compliment?

“I agree,” I said. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Thank you.”

A fragment of memory—Brayan handing me a weapon, very different from this one. Happy birthday.

Gone before I could make sense of it. “You speak Thereni?” I asked.

“I lived out here for a few years,” he said. “When I was with the company.”

It came back to me after a moment—the Roseteeth Company, a prestigious private army. Right. I did remember, vaguely, Brayan’s time with them. He returned because… was it because the Ryvenai War broke out?

“You fought in…”

“Essaria, mostly. They secured us to help conquer those little nations— Deralin, and all that. I left before they ran out of money and the Threllians turned on them, too.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a stronger military. The Threllians knew how to win a war.”

A sour taste filled my mouth.

My old memories brightened with spots of color, as if dust was being swept away. The Roseteeth Company was considered prestigious, and Brayan’s position there was a source of great pride for my father, the sort of thing that earned impressed eyebrow-raises from other lords and military leaders. But I remembered now what I used to call it to get under Brayan’s skin—“overpriced mercenaries.”

“How much does it cost to hire someone to conquer a nation for you?” I asked.

He shot me a glare. “I’m so glad that your sense of moral superiority has survived, even if you can’t remember anything else.”

I shrugged. “Just a question.”

He scoffed and nudged his horse into a trot. “It’s better not to talk about those sorts of topics here.”

The sky lit up in brilliant magenta, then violet, and it was all fading into dusk by the time we made it past the outskirts of the city. The main road bent west, following the cost, while a much smaller trail arched north into dense woods.

We halted at the junction.

“Let me guess,” I said. “We should go through the woods and battle mosquitos and wild animals all night instead of staying on this lovely, paved road.”

“The woods go north. We’re going north.” “Fantastic.”

My horse let out a grunt that echoed my enthusiasm.

“You’re smarter than to complain about going somewhere remote right now,” Brayan said, nudging his horse forward.

I paused a moment longer, looking at the dark trail.

My grumbling aside, I knew Brayan was right—it was in our best interest to stay out of sight right now, and to get out of Threll as quickly as possible. But when I blinked, visions from Ilyzath lingered behind my eyelids—visions of dark forests and the monsters that lurked within them, of reaching hands that looked like they belonged to corpses. Of someone calling me.

I extended my hand and rubbed my fingertips together, calling to magic

—calling to flame.

Once I didn’t even have to try. It was another part of me, like a limb. But now, even that tiny request of my magic was met with an impassable wall.

I gave up and reached for the lantern dangling from the saddle instead, pushing my horse forward.

“Oh, please,” I muttered, when my horse released another loud, frustrated groan. “It isn’t that ominous, is it?”

It was indeed that ominous. I think the horse knew it, too.

THE DARKNESS ENVELOPED US. The road here was not completely deserted, but close to it. There were a few small buildings nestled in the forest— stores, perhaps, or hunting outposts, and a few supply shops closer to the main road—but soon those grew fewer and farther in-between. Our lanterns cast garish shadows and bloody-red streaks over the palms and leaves. Brayan rode ahead, his sword close to his grasp, shoulders square.

We were half an hour past the last dregs of civilization when I heard the sounds.

I pulled my horse to a stop.

I didn’t need to say a word to Brayan. He did the same. We sat in the silence, listening. I heard distant sounds from the last outpost in the distance

—a mill. Rustling from creatures in the wood. The wind caressing the leaves.

No. I’d heard something else. I knew I did.

Brayan and I exchanged a look. No words, but effortless communication. Silently, he drew his sword. I unhooked my ridiculous sickle from my saddle.

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, echoing through the trees:

“Maxantarius Farlione and Brayan Farlione, you are wanted by order of the Queen of Ara. Surrender, and you will not be harmed.”

That, obviously, was out of the question. I gripped the handle of my weapon, turning slowly.

Nothing but shadow.

Wielders. I couldn’t judge how many. It would only take one to disguise them in the trees and obfuscate the direction of their voices, but it was a guarantee that there were more ready to apprehend us.

It was the unknown factor sitting between “more than one” and “a small army” that concerned me.

My horse snorted, uneasy. Brayan and I circled, falling into formation to cover each other’s blind spots.

“This is your final warning.” This time the voice came from a single direction. The underbrush to our left rustled, shadows moving between the tree trunks. Brayan turned to face it, sword ready.

No. Too easy. Too obvious, for magic users capable of stealth and misdirection.

I faced the opposite way, watching the still silence of the forest. “Careful, Brayan,” I muttered. “These are Wielders—”

I didn’t have time to finish. The figure came at us so fast that it was a smear of shadow and glinting steel, lunging for Brayan.

I moved faster.

Our bodies collided, my horse letting out a screaming whinny. Pain nicked my knuckles as I threw up my sickle to divert a sword, barely succeeding.

Behind me, I heard the clatter of steel.

They descended upon us all at once, from every direction. I had no time to do anything but react.

To my left, a flash of white—a Valtain, silver hair glinting in the darkness. A stab of pain in the back of my head, a burst of wind so strong I had to fight to stay on my horse.

Shadows deeper than the darkness of night surrounded us, moving too quickly for my eyes to track. I blocked and dodged blows as they were fractured seconds away from my flesh.

A wound opened on my shoulder. I retaliated, bending around the blow.

My sickle sank into something hard. A voice let out a wheezing cry.

I couldn’t see. Couldn’t rely on sight. Ascended fucking above, what I would do to get my magic back right now.

My horse let out a shriek and suddenly, I was going down.

I threw myself from the saddle, hit the ground hard. Rolled and immediately scrambled for my weapon’s handle.

Just in time to block a blow above me. Blood rained over my face.

I found myself looking up at Brayan from atop his horse, his sword skewering my attacker’s throat.

“Take the axe,” he rasped, before his horse, too, went down.

I grabbed my attacker’s axe from his death-stiff hands, abandoning my sickle. I didn’t like axes—they didn’t move as fast as I did—but at least the thing was sharp.

I whirled around just in time to catch the shoulder of a man swinging for Brayan. He screamed. The force of the blow nearly took off his arm.

Yes, this would do.

I bought Brayan seconds to get to his feet, barely avoiding the thrashing hooves of his panicking horse.

“Get over here,” I panted. The two of us naturally fell into position— easier, now, with us both on foot. We couldn’t rely on sight, not with Wielders in play. So we had no choice but to make sure we left no slivers of vulnerability anywhere.

Fifteen years, Brayan had trained me.

My broken mind had understood this in a distant sort of way, but it was only here, in action, that I realized exactly what it meant. It meant that his fighting style and strategies were tattooed as deep into me as the Stratagrams all over my skin—deeper, even, because while there was no

doubt in my mind that I would have been utterly screwed if I had been magic-less by myself, Brayan and I fit together so well that we became a machine of pure, efficient death.

Our fighting styles complemented each other perfectly—Brayan’s movements powerful and definitive, all sheer strength, while mine were lighter, faster, more precise, even with my ill-suited weapon. We found a rhythm, three of my strikes to one of his, protecting each other in our vulnerable seconds.

We began to move, pushing our way forward through the forest, still maintaining our formation and staving off our attackers.

One final swing from Brayan’s sword, and block from mine, and another body fell to the ground, joining the growing pile of corpses around our feet.

I finally allowed myself to think, We’re actually going to make it out of this.

Then, the ground trembled.

Brayan and I, as we ran, exchanged a glance—one that mutually asked each other, Did you feel that, too?

It came again, this time harder. My eyes scanned the darkness. There was nothing out there.

Until, suddenly, there was.

A flash of light arced across the sky, blinding me. My back slammed against something hard—a tree, then underbrush, then the ground.

For a moment, everything was hazy. I was somewhere else, in a field of flowers, nostrils burning with the smell of citrus.

Get up, May-oocks.

My back was definitely fucking broken. I couldn’t move. My chest rattled when I inhaled.

GET UP GET UP GET UP—

My eyes snapped open.

For one second, I saw a person—creature? Thing?—so horrifying that I thought I had to be hallucinating.

And then I forced myself to leap out of the way just in time to avoid a streak of lightning.

I fell back into the shadow of the trees, looking for Brayan. The creature turned, and my stomach roiled.

Holy fucking hell.

The first thing I noticed was the legs. It had four of them, long, spindly appendages of vein-covered, bone-white flesh. Those legs alone were taller than any man, even by a margin of several feet, and had several joints that bent the wrong way back.

They all culminated at a single point. A… person. Or maybe something that had once been one. Because it looked more like a corpse than a living being, dangling there as if hanging from its flesh-colored stilts. It was naked. One arm was missing, torn off at the elbow, as were its feet. A massive, singed wound tore from the base of its throat all the way down to its pelvis, like an incision that had not been allowed to heal. Within it was simmering white light, lightning cracking at its edges.

But it was the face that paralyzed me as the thing staggered, turning back towards me.

It had once been a face, at least. I could make out the shape of a humanoid skull, a brow bone, streaks of long dirty red hair, and—were those pointed ears?

But the eyes were nothing but pits of torn flesh, crackling with the same light as the wound down its abdomen. And the entire lower part of its face, mouth and jaw, were missing, as if hacked away and discarded.

Its face snapped towards me.

I dove, and a split second later I felt it land behind me.

Where was my axe? I’d dropped it somewhere when I lost consciousness, but Ascended knew where.

I caught a glimpse of gleaming metal and dove for it.

…only for a sudden pain to light up across my back.

I stumbled. Lurched around. Another soldier was there, sword drawn and bloodied. Fuck, how many of these people were there?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the creature lurch. It moved strangely, like a puppet controlled by too-long strings.

A flash of steel. Movement in the woods. Brayan, diving at the creature.

That’s a terrible fucking idea, you idiot, I wanted to yell at him. Brayan was never good at knowing when he was outmatched.

I kicked my attacker down, buying enough time to grab my axe.

A second more and I would have been dead. Instead, I was just fast enough that it was my weapon buried in the man’s neck rather than the other way around.

But I was injured. When I tried to get back to my feet, I stumbled, and the world tilted. Blurred.

A garden. A stone house. A single green eye.

Get up.

I did, somehow.

That creature was not looking at me. No, it was facing away—and that somehow managed to be twice as terrifying, because if it wasn’t coming for me, it was going for Brayan.

I forced myself into a run.

That thing—that monster—would kill him.

It was standing still. White magic snapped in unnatural fissures in the air around it. It was looking down.

I ran faster.

I raised my palms. I was close enough to smell the stench of rotting flesh.

It was going to kill my brother.

Get up, Max.

Do something. Act.

I opened my palms and released a wall of flames.

The creature let out a terrible, human-sounding scream of agony. Its too- long legs tangled as it tried to face me.

At first, I didn’t notice the pain. But I looked down and saw my skin bubbling, the ink of the Stratagram tattoos burning into me like acid.

My legs gave out.

The creature pinned me. The tips of its limbs were exposed bone, bloody. One went straight through my forearm.

Slowly, it lowered. It was making sounds. Speaking? If so, in a language I had never heard, though the cadence of it sounded like a plea.

The fire was running wild, now. I should have been able to control it.

But when I reached for my magic, once again, it evaded me.

The creature drew closer. I realized that it was decomposing in real time

—one ear now falling off, skin rotting, burning eyes drooping.

My vision faded just as I heard voices in the distance, approaching fast: “Call that thing off before it kills him!”

That was all.