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Chapter Text

 Callum’s stomach heaved as he studied the carcass of the white-tailed stag. Shriveled and desiccated, its skin hung in brittle folds between the bones of its skeleton. There was none of the oily, clinging stench common to corpses, although it was clear the body had lain there for some time. Corvus could have told him precisely how long, but the crownguard was off scouting ahead. He would be reporting back soon, but this bore closer inspection.

The deer lay across the bare roots of a large, ancient pine. Its posture was almost peaceful, as though it had merely fallen asleep, but its eyes told a different story. Their fleshy whites had fossilized into a glassy stone, with veins of black corruption creeping beneath the surface where blood had once flowed. Like pale marbles, the slightest push could have sent them tumbling out of the creature’s skull. Its lips had pulled back, leaving its mouth frozen in a final, silent scream.

Rayla knelt beside the animal and gripped the pommel of one of her butterfly blades. With the other hand, she gently brushed the moss growing on a root beside the carcass. It disintegrated at her touch into a black powder that fell like sawdust between her fingers. She looked up at Callum, eyes narrow and murderous.

“This… wrong.” She was still learning Katolish sign language, which was already challenging for people with five fingers. As an elf, Rayla had to adopt a hybrid dialect commonly practiced in Evrkynd. Much of it had been invented out of necessity by his aunt and her wife, but neither woman was particularly scholarly. That was to say, the language was poorly documented at best. Callum supposed that was another thing he would have to work on when he had the time, which seemed to be never. Even so, Rayla’s persistence was adorable. Therefore, despite the situation, Callum smiled back at her. That only seemed to darken her scowl.

Callum pointed at the branches overhead, which seemed to curl up and away from the body of the dead animal. “It’s not natural,” he agreed – slowly, so that Rayla could follow his words. “There’s something else, too. I don’t know how to describe it.” He thought for a moment, reaching out for the familiar presence of the Sky Arcanum. It was still there except it was… “…muted,” he continued. “The Sky is around us, but a part of it feels like it’s missing.”

“I feel too,” Rayla replied, nodding towards the crescent moon visible in the afternoon sky. She drew up a fat wad of spit and spat it to the side in disgust. “Took magic.” Consumed it.

“We’re going the right way.”

As if to confirm this, Corvus dropped down from the forest canopy, landing without a sound. “Due east,” he reported, signing quickly. “No more than an hour ago. Be ready.”

There was a loud snap up above, and Soren came tumbling after. His armor protected him from the worst of the fall, but the steel plates crashed and clanged together loud enough to wake shellfish in the Frozen Sea. That wasn’t even considering his sharp yelp of surprise before he hit the ground.

“So much for sneaking up on this guy,” Rayla groaned aloud. “I told you not to wear that on the hunt.”

“Hey,” Soren protested, cheeks burning with embarrassment, “this armor has kept me alive through more fights than I can count – more than you can count, I reckon!” He suddenly realized that he had landed a mere hand’s breadth away from the deer carcass, and bolted to his feet in disgust.

“Against swords and arrows, maybe,” Corvus argued. “But this is a dark mage we’re dealing with. Armor will only slow you down.”

Rayla agreed. “The moment he starts slinging spells, that armor will be as useful as horns on a human.”

“Oh yeah?” Soren huffed, “Well, what if the mage has a sword?”

“The sword wouldn’t be the problem,” Callum replied grimly, gesturing to the shriveled corpse at their feet. That effectively killed the conversation, and a moment of silence hung over the group.

“What kind of man would do that to a living thing?” Soren grimaced.

“A dark mage,” Rayla answered as though it were obvious. “You grew up with two of them.”

“Three,” Soren corrected, nodding to Callum. “But that was always done with a purpose. You may not have liked that purpose, but there always was one. It was methodical. This, on the other hand…” his voice trailed off.

It was as though it had been done for sport. “Whatever his reasons, none of us can leave until he has been dealt with,” Callum answered. “There haven’t been any killings… yet, just a few sightings from frightened herdsmen. So far, he’s remained here in the wilderness, but that could change at any time.”

“There are some homesteads not far from here,” Soren agreed. “I don’t know what to think about what he might do to those families if he ever found them.”

“But can we really condemn a man over crimes that he might commit?” Corvus asked. “As dangerous as he is, the only thing he’s guilty of right now is poaching, which is not punishable by death.” He looked at Callum. “At least, not since your brother became king.”

“He’s a dark mage,” Rayla scowled.

“That’s not a crime either,” Corvus reminded.

“That’s why we’ll take him into custody alive, if possible,” Callum decided. “But if he attacks us, we all have the right to defend ourselves.”

Rayla grimaced and shook her head, but offered no argument. It wasn’t a vote of confidence, but at least it was a step in the right direction. Callum knew what he was doing.

Breaking into a loping pace – slowly, for Callum’s benefit – Corvus led the team along the trail left by the dark mage further into the forest. The path reminded Callum of one a dog might take when it was out exercising, stopping here and there at random, benign locations to examine something. Withered leaves and scorched trunks marked where their quarry had released a blind torrent of dark magic, like a child playing with a toy. There didn’t seem to be any pattern or reasoning to any of it, and that troubled Callum.

They were silent as they moved, steeling themselves for what was to come. The forest was quiet too; the animals had either fled or been terrified into silence. The only sound apart from Callum’s heavy breathing was the steady clink of Soren’s armor, which drew constant glares from Rayla. They all knew the plan, so there was nothing else to discuss.

As they drew closer, Corvus slowly fell back, allowing Callum to take the lead. When fighting mages, dark mages especially, speed was vital to one’s survival. Of the four of them, Callum was the one best suited to confronting the mage head-on. That was to say, he was the only one capable of offering any resistance whatsoever to a magical attack unleashed by their foe. While he drew the mage’s attention, the others would move unseen to surround him, ambushing him all at once and taking him down before he could do any serious damage. There was the sound of running water in the clearing up ahead. Before they reached it, Corvus tapped Callum on the shoulder and signaled for them to stop. This was it.

Callum nodded and pointed to Soren. “You stay here,” he signed quietly. The less Soren moved, the less likely his armor was to give them all away. “I’ll try and turn him away from you.” He then gestured to Rayla: right, and Corvus: left. Rayla was already gone by the time Callum turned back to where she had been.

Soren shifted to a comfortable squat and rolled his head to loosen his neck. Looking up at Callum, he flashed a quick, bright smile and signed, “You’ve got this,” stopping to pop his gloved fingers. Callum was glad that someone was confident about all this. With a deep breath, he stepped out into the clearing.

Two large stone toes, the foot of an ancient mountain, rose from the west. Dense foliage covered their weathered shapes, obscuring the afternoon sun. A natural spring bubbled out at their base into a small pool, which overflowed its banks into a lazy stream that snaked north and east before disappearing to the south. It was narrow enough to be stepped over, and Callum did so, careful to avoid making any splashing sounds that might draw attention. Mentally, he put out careful feelers, searching for any wards that might have been left for intruders.

“No closer!” a voice called, shrill and gargled. “Not your home. This is mine – all mine!”

Callum swore under his breath, finally spotting the man hunched beneath the sheer overhang beside the pool. His hair was stained an unnatural white and hung over his face in a sloppy mess, which offered glimpses of the piercing eyes that raked him mercilessly. Bare legs, skin and bone, stood out beneath the tattered rags that draped his body. A prominent nose that had been broken too many times curved to the left. It seemed to lead the rest of his face, as though the man were still searching for Callum.

“What is this place?” Callum asked, standing up and circling the far bank of the pond. No fish disturbed its gentle waters, although grass still grew around its edges. There must have been something magical about this place, but Callum felt nothing beyond the corruption left in the wake of the dark mage’s presence. Why here? There had to be a reason.

“It’s mine!” the dark mage snapped, pointing an accusative finger at Callum. “Grom found it. Grom drove away the others. Now it’s mine!” The nail was broken and jagged, leaking pus at the end of the swollen finger.

“What others?” Callum asked. “Come closer. I promise not to attack you.”

Cautiously, the man crept out from under the rocks and stood up. He had been tall once, perhaps even handsome, but his spine was now bent into a permanent hunch. His face abruptly lit up in a wide, toothy smile, as though a switch had been thrown. “Squirrels, birds, little fuzzy foxes… sneaky and persistent, but Grom found them all. No one sneaks up on Grom!” The dark mage remained on the opposite bank of the pond from Callum, but now his back was to the direction from which Callum had come, and where Soren lay in wait. There were no signs of Corvus or Rayla yet, but Callum supposed that was a good thing. He just had to keep him talking.

“Grom,” Callum asked. “Is that your name?”

“Yes,” Grom replied. “But Grom doesn’t hear it so often these days. Easy to forget. So sometimes he says it himself. Grom! Grom!” He shouted, turning his head to listen to the echo. “Grom!”

Callum shuddered as he met those beady yellow eyes. There was no conversation to be had with this man; he was already as good as gone. He’d read up on documented cases of insanity, but Callum had never heard of one this bad before. “Pull yourself together, man,” he found himself saying. “What happened to you?” There was no way he could have always been like this. He wouldn’t have been able to survive, much less practice magic.

“My questions!” Grom was now walking towards Callum. “Why are you here?” Disturbed as he was, the man was still dangerous. Callum could sense it.

“To find you,” Callum answered, taking a deep breath and feeling the power of the Sky Arcanum rush into him. Droplets of rain condensed across his lips. “You can’t keep doing this, Grom. Someone could get hurt.” He dared not trace any draconic runes for fear of alerting the madman, but he held the power ready at a moment’s notice. Even as far as they were from the sea, Callum could also draw power from the pond in an emergency through his connection with the Ocean.

Grom stopped and seemed to consider this for a moment. Somewhat remorsefully, he conceded. “I know. Difficult to explain, but…” He looked up at Callum. “…have you ever loved something so much that you just had to kill it? Crush the life from its bones? Was it a woman, a sibling, a parent…?”

Callum wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I don’t think we have much in common at all.”

“But we do!” Grom insisted, drawing closer still. Faint tremors of laughter bubbled up in his thin voice. “I can see it in you,” he said, in a moment of lucidity, “the darkness. What was the first time like? For me, it was always the most… intense.”

“I… I hated it.” Callum blurted, taking a step back.

“No,” Grom shook his head with a rictus grin. “You only hated yourself. Grom knows, he loves it too. He needs it and hates himself for it.”

“Stay away from me,” Callum warned, but Grom ignored him.

“The power to dominate the life force of another and bend it to your will – it’s beautiful, orgasmic, but it’s a lie. You bend it to your will, but you bend yourself! It is a cruel mistress.”

Callum swallowed, unable to break away from those terrible eyes. In the depths of insanity, he saw the truth. He had once chosen to study primal magic instead of dark magic, but that hadn’t been the end of it. He had to make that decision again and again every single day of his life. The repetition should have made the choice easier, but it didn’t. It was quite the opposite. Powerful as it was, primal magic never contained the same thrill – that final memory of life washing over the body and into the void. Carrying with it all the pain and sorrow, it left nothing behind except the peace of its absence. Nourishing oneself with the life force of others was pure ecstasy, even when watching something else wither and die. Nothing else came close, and life without it felt cheap and meaningless. “How do I stop it?” Callum asked softly.

Grom froze for a moment and then burst out in terrible laughter. “You already know the answer,” he smiled. “It’s so simple: you can’t. It will just take, and take, and take, and take, until poof!” He clapped his hands together in Callum’s face, fluttering his fingers like the wings of a bird. “You’re all gone.” Suddenly sullen, he turned away and sat down beside the pool of water. “That’s why we never grow old.”

“That’s not true,” Callum stammered. “Lord Viren and K’ppar…”

“Where are they now, boy?” Grom demanded. “Everyone in Xadia knows the fate of King Viren the Conqueror, and no one’s seen his master in decades. You might last longer than I did. But one day, you’ll be back at this pond. Grom will wait for you.”

Grom fell silent and seemed to turn in on himself. Was it remorse that lingered behind those eyes, melancholy, or mere dementia? Callum absently touched the silvered strand of corrupted hair atop his forehead. It was hard not to pity the man, but a greater sense of fear gripped Callum’s mind. In five years – a dozen maybe, was this the fate that awaited him? Grom turned over a stone, inspecting a fat worm that writhed beneath it. Callum inhaled hungrily. “So small, so delicate…” He was reminded of similar specimens he had consumed over the years, always promising himself that it would be the last time.

“Break it in half,” Grom giggled, holding the creature up in his palm. “Enough for both of us.”

Callum swallowed again, eyes straining. This was the perfect time to strike. With heavy arms, he reached out, heart pounding in his chest. He wouldn’t even need to use primal magic. The man might as well be begging him to cast a spell. It would be so easy…

In the silence that followed came the deafening sound of steel plates scraping together. Grom’s eyes flashed in unkempt fury, and he crushed the entire worm in his fist. Spinning about, he threw out his hands, unleashing a cone of balefire. The whole world darkened around the pale unlight of the flames. Jumping from his hiding spot to get out of the way, Soren screamed and tumbled back down the hill.

Callum reacted quickly and tried to freeze the blood in Grom’s veins. But the man was strong and forced his limbs to move against Callum’s will. Grom’s fingers closed around Callum’s throat and shook him hard, smashing Callum’s head against the stone cliff behind them. Brightness flashed behind Callum’s eyes. He crumpled to his knees, and a wide smile appeared on Grom’s face. Descending upon his face, the crazed dark mage snapped his teeth ravenously, tearing at Callum’s nose as the world began to spin.

Corvus swung down the cliff at the end of his long grapple chain, driving both his feet into the center of Grom’s chest. There was a sickening crunch, and Grom’s choke hold suddenly went limp. He was thrown back, bouncing off the cliff side and falling face first into the pond with a loud splash. A moment later, he came up gasping for air, but Corvus pounced on top of him. With a knee planted in the center of Grom’s back, he wrestled in the shallows, suffocating him in the mud as he tried to wrench the man’s arms behind his back.

Grom snarled and struggled. Corvus cried out and fell back into the water, clutching his finger where the dark mage had bitten him. Grom struggled to his feet and summoned a crackling cloud of arcane lightning. Before he could bring it down on the hapless crownguard, Callum entombed the dark mage’s limbs in a shell of ice. Immediately, Grom’s eyes flashed a deep purple, and the ice vaporized. All Callum seemed to have accomplished was to draw the mage’s ire onto himself.

But that was enough. Dropping her arcane shroud, Rayla leapt onto Grom’s shoulders, locking his head between her legs. There was an unnatural strength in Grom’s emaciated form, but that alone was not enough. Bucking and leaning, Rayla threw her weight in every direction until the man lost his balance and fell to the ground. Somehow, the fall did not kill him, but the impact drove the wind from Grom’s body. He flailed and clawed and slapped and hit, but each blow faded and waned as Rayla held him down until he lay still. Spitting to the side, she tensed her muscles and made to break his neck.

“Wait!” Soren called, scrambling up the hill. The top of his head had been burned clean by the balefire. Only the blackened ends of his roots indicated any hair had ever been there at all. “We weren’t going to kill him, remember?”

Rayla looked over at Callum, who began coughing to clear his throat. A cold sweat beaded across his brow, and he felt his limbs shudder. The fight was over, but the truth remained. Rayla’s pink eyes softened and she released Grom, springing to her feet and rushing to Callum’s side. She immediately went to work, saying nothing but carefully checking each part of his body. Callum winced as she brushed the spot on the back of his head that had struck the rock. Rayla then tapped above his forehead, and Callum sighed. There was no point in arguing. Callum leaned forward.

“Don’t sigh at me,” Rayla snipped, parting his hair between her fingers. She looked up, studying the wound closely. “Not broken,” she declared. “But that’s going to leave a nasty welt. Now, follow my fingers.” Holding her middle and right index fingers together, Rayla slowly traced a box around the corners of Callum’s vision. Callum mirrored the movements with his eyes, although Rayla gripped him by the chin to keep his head still. Somewhat satisfied, Rayla pulled Callum into a tight embrace.

“I don’t deserve you,” Callum croaked.

Rayla pulled back and frowned. “Maybe you hit your head harder than I thought.”

Behind them, Corvus and Soren bound Grom’s hands together. It was hoped that this would make it difficult for him to cast spells during their trip back to Katolis, but there were always loopholes. Callum would have to pay him constant attention, and that only seemed to add to his troubles. The man Grom had once been was gone. Only an animal remained, waiting for Callum to join it.

“Hey, Rayla,” Soren called, turning back. “Check this out.” Striding over, he presented two halves of his sword, fractured just above the wristguard.

“You broke your sword,” Rayla observed flatly.

“I fell on my sword,” Soren corrected. “When I rolled down the hill, I landed right on it.”

“That sucks.”

“See?” Soren patted his breastplate. “My armor protected me from the blade. Wearing it was a good idea after all.”

Rayla rolled her eyes and turned back to Callum. Her expression tightened. “Callum, what’s wrong?”

Grom had regained consciousness, and Corvus pulled him to his feet. The dark mage’s eyes flashed between Rayla and Callum several times before settling on Callum’s with a terrible grin. He began to laugh again, raucous and insidious. “It’s a woman then…” he wheezed between guffaws, and Callum’s hands balled into fists. Rayla shot a glare back at the crazy man, but she did not see the truth that Callum feared the most.

Corvus put a gag in Grom’s mouth to silence him, but Callum could still hear his laughter as clear as day. It couldn’t be true. Callum would not stand for it. Corvus fastened a leash to the bindings that held Grom’s arms together and pulled him away, marching him away to Katolis and a cold cell. Blood roared in Callum’s ears.

“Do you smell something?” Soren asked, rubbing the top of his head. For the first time, he seemed to notice his burned hair.

Callum’s breath heaved within his chest. He could still feel those crazed eyes on him, all-seeing. All knowing. Although she still looked concerned, Rayla went to join the others, her body slight and innocent. Crush her bones.

“Wow,” Soren continued, brushing the charred strands of hair. “I can’t believe I was this close to…”

Something snapped. Callum drew a spear of ice the length of his arm from the pond and drove it into the back of Grom’s head. It was a mere moment’s resistance, and gave way to a fleshy crunch. A heartbeat later, the mage’s face erupted in a splash of chunky gore. Corvus yelled and jumped aside as Grom toppled forward like a sack of grain. He struck the ground with a dull thud, the shard of ice implanting itself upright like a stake. One of his feet spasmed once and then fell over, dead. Corvus snapped his eyes over to Callum. “What by scales was that for?”

“So much for taking him alive,” Soren grumbled dryly.

“He was restrained. We had captured him!”

“Callum,” Rayla repeated softly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Callum shook his head, unable to catch his breath. “He was too powerful,” he lied. “I wouldn’t have been able to hold him all the way back to Katolis.” A cold terror gripped him. “This was at least merciful. I doubt he even felt anything.”

Soren seemed to accept this explanation. “Still,” he said, “you might want to leave this part out of the story when we get back to the castle. It’s a bit of a mood killer, if you ask me.”

Corvus held his gaze a moment longer, “What’s done is done,” he sighed, and went to join Soren.

That left Rayla, who remained at his side to offer the impossible. Callum turned away. “I’m fine.” This was not something she could help with. “Let’s go.” He was not a monster. He wouldn’t be a monster, no matter what some crazed dead man said.

Grom’s corpse lay where it had fallen, the ice beginning to dew and melt in the afternoon heat. Dark blood and clumps of gray matter pooled around his destroyed skull, mingling with the stream that babbled by him, poisoning its waters.

A week later, Rayla found herself back in Katolis and at the very edge of her sanity. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Today was the day. All those years living in Katolis, the good and the bad, had led to this moment. She dried her palms on the skirt of her gown. It was a far cry from her ordinary attire, and she would never get used to walking in heels. But then again, a royal wedding was far from ordinary.

Music drifted in from the throne room as the band finished warming up. Servants scurried about, making last-minute preparations for the wedding reception afterwards. Rayla checked herself, heart racing. The ceremony was in the throne room, just beyond these doors. Callum would be there, and… she couldn’t think about it, or else she might get cold feet. Behind her, one of the bridesmaids covered her mouth and whispered something to another, who snickered mischievously. Heat rushed to Rayla’s cheeks. She’d known that the lacing about her bodice was excessive and her neckline scandalous. Those two could just be jealous.

Standing watch by the door, Soren shot her an encouraging smile. “You look nice,” he whispered. Nice. Nice? She hadn’t gone to all this effort just to look nice! Catching herself, she swallowed an angry retort. It was just her nerves, after all. What did she have to be worried about? This was one of the happiest days of her life. Inclining her head, she nodded for Soren to open the door.

All eyes fell upon her, and Rayla nearly froze in her tracks. She could not bear to look at them all and kept her gaze straight ahead at the altar, beside which Azymondias stood proud, high, and regal. The dragonling had grown enormous over the decade she’d known him. By now, he dwarfed even the largest warhorses trained by the knights. At one point in the wedding planning, he was going to give a speech, but the others quickly decided against it. Even as familiar as she was, Rayla still found his voice unnerving, to say nothing of the throng of humans who had never heard a dragon speak before. Instead, the young King of the Dragons would serve as the Justice of the Peace and infuse the marriage vows with his magical power, binding them eternally. It was all extremely romantic.

Rayla glided down the center aisle in sync with the gentle music. The pointed tips of her ears were hot atop the tight braids of silver hair pulled back in a bun. This was all a mistake. All she wanted was to hide somewhere and cry. She almost didn’t see Callum at all. Her head was spinning. Up ahead, Ezran saw her and smiled. She could see the concern in his eyes, but she put on a brave face and returned the gesture. It was better to just get this over with.

Rayla slid beside Callum and took her place in the audience.

Callum took Rayla’s hand, cold to the touch, and squeezed it. If her choice in attire had been made to torment him, she had done a spectacular job. But Rayla would not look at him. He supposed that was his fault. Today of all days brought attention to one uncomfortable truth: he was the older brother.

Trumpets blasted and Ezran jolted as if struck by lightning. The young man – it was still difficult for Callum to think of him that way – stood up on his toes and wrung his hands together behind his back. With a full beard and strong shoulders, he looked every bit the king his father was, and his ancestors before that. Corvus stood behind him with the rest of the crownguard around the altar, which was erected where the throne normally stood. There would be a second one after today. Azymondias purred, now a lower and more menacing sound than the adorable chirps and squeaks he’d made as a hatchling. All heads and eyes turned again, causing the old wooden pews brought in from the library to loudly groan in unison. The massive doors opened once again.

At the head of her bridesmaids, Ellis entered her throne room at the side of a massive man with dark hair and an extravagant mustache. In the years since they had first met her and her wolf, Ava, on the slopes of the Cursed Caldera, Ellis had grown into an incredible young woman. Tall and elegant, each step carried the strength of the mountain itself, unbowed and unbent by storm, gale, or sea. But beneath her veil rested a warm and gentle face, a worthy mother to the realm.

Ellis had never cared for pomp or luxury, and had insisted on a plain gown that could have been worn by any common maid on Solstice Eve. Ezran had agreed with Opeli, who’d insisted on a gown befitting the future Queen Consort of Katolis. In the end, they had compromised, and Ellis had gotten her way. Looking past Rayla, Callum had to admit that Ellis wore the bright whites and muted browns well. The crown of red carnations woven into her hair was also quite striking.

Callum shot a wry glance back at Ezran, who stood petrified in place – teeth nearly chattering. He offered a sympathetic wink, but he doubted his brother saw it. When he got like this, Ezran had eyes for only one thing – one woman – in all the world. It reminded Callum of how he felt with Rayla, even all these years later. Even… better not to think about that right now.

Rayla gently pulled her hand away, and Callum tried to focus on the music. The band was playing a slow, majestic rendition of “Four Seasons,” inspired by a poem of the same name. It spoke of the youthful vibrance of summer, the thousand colors of autumn, the enduring patience of winter, and finally the new life of spring, along with its promise of rebirth. Throughout all the stanzas, heavy parallels were drawn to the likeness of a woman – the poet’s wife of fifty years. It had been one of Damian’s favorites, and Callum’s father would often recite it to him and his mother before bed.

But Damian hadn’t had fifty years with Sarai. He’d barely gotten five before the breathing sickness had taken him, leaving his wife a widow to raise their child alone. Lady Justice Herself had sent them Harrow, but even they only enjoyed a few years together before the cruel winds of fate ripped their family apart again. Ava’s old collar was wrapped lovingly around Ellis’ wrist, a solemn reminder that the steady march of time took no prisoners. Callum’s heart ached and tears welled in his eyes, but he remained strong for his brother’s sake. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, Grom laughed bitterly.

Ellis left the company of the large mustached man and ascended the steps to the altar. Her bridesmaids parted to either side, joining the crownguard in a tight semicircle behind Zym. Ezran took his bride’s hand and placed it against the Storm Dragon’s scales. With her other hand, Ellis lifted her veil and gazed up into her husband’s eyes, offering a quick smile of encouragement. The band fell silent. Then, as they had practiced, they recited their vows, speaking in unison before those gathered and beneath the unseen eyes of the Almighty, their words bound in ancient magic.

“On the eternity of my soul, I pledge to take you as my lawful and wedded wife. I will have and hold you against sword and strife, my partner and my equal. My sunrise…”

“…and my sunset, the first and final thoughts of my day. My husband and companion, I will walk beside you from now until the moment our souls must part…”

Zym closed his eyes, and a breeze shifted through Callum’s hair. His breath caught, and Callum felt an immense pull of energy well within his mind; a storm gathering across the horizon. He could smell the rain. As attuned as he was, he could feel the lightning flash through his veins. He didn’t know what Zym was doing, but Ezran and Ellis’ voices seemed magnified, echoing through his mind with the rolls of thunder.

“…may Justice bless us with children to raise in Her light. May our hearth be warm in coldest winter. Until the sun grows cold and falls from the sky, our ashes swept together in the wind…”

“…until the last memory of our names fades from the memories of our heirs, I am yours. Under the eyes of Justice and my hope of eternity, so let it be…”

“…no truer words will ever be spoken: I love you.”

Their final words echoed across the silent throne room. Zym lowered his head somberly. Ezran slowly removed his wife’s hand from the dragon scale, but Ellis was quick to seize him by the small of his back. They kissed, and the moment their lips touched, the band’s timpani began a thundering, lively beat.

The crowd jumped to its feet, cheering as the rest of the band burst into song. Perhaps a little licentious, it was a brisk performance of “The Banther in the Cave.” As the song went, a nubile and rebellious princess stumbled upon the beast while it was resting in its lair, and fought it to the point of exhaustion. The implication was that the beast had not been a banther at all, and that there was very little fighting involved. Even the title was a double entendre, although any children in the audience would not have known that.

Callum shouted at the top of his lungs for Ezran, clapping his hands together in sync with the drums. As one, the crownguard descended, scooping Ellis up in their arms and hoisting her up above their heads. Ezran cried out in laughter as the bridesmaids lifted him in a similar manner. Together, the two groups carried the newlyweds out of the throne room down the center aisle, while the guests showered them with flower petals.

Grinning from ear to ear, Callum looked over to Rayla, but the elf was already gone. His heart sank, even as the band continued to play, and slowly joined the crowd making its way to the reception hall.

Outside, he found the dark-haired man with the mustache, wiping tears from his eyes with his large, pudgy fingers. It was a good illusion, except one guest had been noticeably missing. “Hello, Lujanne,” Callum said, stepping into the side passage with her.

The image flickered, and the Moonshadow elf returned to her slender, feminine form. “I still remember that little girl who first found me with her wolf pup.” She shook her head wistfully. “You humans grow up so fast…”

“What about elves?” Callum asked. “Just how old are you, Lujanne?”

Lujanne nearly sneezed in surprise. “I beg your pardon,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “That’s a rather rude to ask a lady, don’t you think?”

Callum raised his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“I know why you’re asking,” Lujanne replied, clearing her throat. “And I wish I had a better answer for you. The truth is, no one really knows how long elves are supposed to live. There are elves like that Startouched fellow who are everything but immortal. On the other hand, there are many other elves whose lifespans are comparable to humans. And yet, some of my colleagues can still remember the reign of Luna Tenebris.” She shrugged. “Given the enormous variance, most elves find it an unpleasant topic of conversation. It’s not discussed much.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Callum apologized.

“You’ve just been lost in your own thoughts,” Lujanne nodded. “Some women find that sort of thing attractive, but only if those thoughts are interesting. If you are concerned for your lady friend,” she continued, “I’m afraid that everyone in Rayla’s immediate family died young, making it difficult to guess how long she would live naturally. Then again, I have guarded the Moon Nexus for close to four centuries now, and my grandfather barely made it one. Perhaps heredity has nothing to do with it.”

“I just want to know I’m not making a mistake,” Callum said.

Lujanne raised a slim eyebrow. “Are you sure you want my advice?” she asked. “I once gave your friend an explanation of white lies, and I still haven’t heard the end of it.”

“I don’t want to be an anchor holding her down,” Callum insisted. “She’s already lost both her parents, and I understand just how terrible that is. I don’t want her to go through that pain ever again.”

“Then maybe you’re worried about the wrong thing,” Lujanne replied. “Humans almost always live less than a century, but many don’t even come close.” She nodded across the reception hall. “That old baker could easily outlive you, especially if you continue to live so recklessly.”

“Me?” Callum scoffed. “Reckless?”

“You’re a prodigy, Callum. I’ve never known any other human with your arcane affinity, but you’re not invincible. Especially with that vile barbarism your kind practices.”

“But I hate dark magic! I’m a primal mage.”

Lujanne ran a finger through her bangs and looked meaningfully at Callum. “Unless humans grow up even faster than I thought, I shouldn’t be seeing any white in your hair for several decades at least.”

Callum stopped and touched his pale lock of corrupted hair. Grom’s laughter echoed in his mind again. It was dry like old straw, devoid of the body’s natural oils – it almost crumbled between his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Lujanne apologized, adopting a more sympathetic tone. “What I mean is that you should not take even today for granted. Go out and enjoy life!” She lifted a glass of red wine from the tray of a passing servant. “It’s the best way to spend your youth.” Her eyes lit up mischievously as she brought it to her lips. “Did you see the muscles on those princes from Evenere? I hear the youngest is still single.”

Callum’s mouth fell open. “Lujanne,” he hissed. “You’re married!”

“So?” Lujanne asked. “We’re swingers. You should try it sometime.” And with that, she strode away. Her body seemed to shimmer, and within two steps, she had become a completely different person: a short, voluptuous brunette with twin braids running down her shoulders. Callum thought he needed a drink, and not only to get that image out of his mind.

He followed the servant who had brought Lujanne her refreshment, and came upon a large table set with row upon row of orderly glasses, all filled to a uniform height. These weren’t the large wooden kegs of ale cracked open in taverns and feast halls, beset by drunkards itching for a scrap. No, this was cultured, refined. If only the volumes weren’t so small. Someone would catch a knife to the gut if they served a glass even twice as full to a paying customer in town. He supposed he could always come back for more later.

It would probably be a good idea for him to bring something for Rayla too, wherever she was. But what would she like? They had nearly emptied the castle cellars for this many options to choose from. He’d better grab a bit of everything and make a sampler. Wine-tasting. That was a fun activity couples did together sometimes. It might help make up for the awkwardness of the day.

Callum took an empty tray and set it on the ground; there was no room on the table. He excused himself profusely as he stepped around people, trying to discourage them from knocking over the glasses as he put them down. Most were servants or other people from Katolis that he recognized, but there were plenty of foreigners too. Neolandians, Del Bariards, diplomats from Duren and Evenere, there were even a considerable number of elves. It was unusual to see this many so far west of Evrkynd, even this long after the war, but still Callum felt the most out of place.

A small, spindly man from Del Bar suddenly bent over and took one of the glasses Callum had set down on the tray. Callum tripped over him and fell to the floor, breaking one of the glasses and knocking the rest over. His clothes were now ruined, but at least the stains were from the wine and not his blood. He hoped. Before he even had the chance to be fully embarrassed, a strange yet familiar voice called out to him from the crowd.

“Callum, is that really you?”

“Oh, this is horrible! Simply horrible!” Barius pulled his red knit cap down over his ears with both hands and rushed about, eyes darting wildly.

“Barius?” Rayla jumped and darted over to his side. “What’s wrong?”

“Rahasia,” the old baker exclaimed, pointing towards the kitchens. “Have you seen Rahasia?”

“Your apprentice?”

“I never showed her how to chill the egg whites,” he sputtered, trying to explain. “If she didn’t let them set long enough, the whole structure will collapse, don’t you understand? The wedding cake! Rahasia!” He rushed away past a crowd of startled revelers.

Rayla sighed and slid back against the wall. She was too on edge. Nothing was wrong. Well, that wasn’t true, but nothing was wrong that required her immediate action. She pulled a ripe cherry off a nearby table and broke the skin with her teeth. It had already been pitted, so she simply paused to enjoy the flavor.

Soren caught her eye across the room, nursing what remained of a glass of wine. After his unfortunate encounter with dark magic had left him singed, Soren had decided to shave his entire head clean. He had been reluctant to wax his scalp and was very uncomfortable about his new appearance. Normally, he got by with wearing a helmet, but that was seen as a little too threatening for a diplomatic setting like this one. Instead, he wore a feathered tricorned cap made of dark velvet. At one point, he was also going to wear a monocle, but he could never manage to get the lens to remain still beside his nose.

Rayla walked over. “Shouldn’t you be off with…” she cleared her throat, “…with the rest of the crownguard?”

Soren wavered a bit and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, they don’t need ten people just to carry the king off to his room.” He gently shook the glass and swirled the wine around the bottom. “Besides, I’ve served this family since before Ezran was old enough to wipe himself. Trust me, I have already seen everything, and have no desire to see more.”

Rayla’s cheeks burned. “I don’t think they actually make you stand in there while…”

“This Dureni red is dry,” Soren interrupted. “I thought they would have at least added a bit of that famous honey. Maybe I’ll try the Neolandian next. Would you like anything?”

“No, thank you. Sorry to bother you.”

“But something is bothering you,” Soren replied assertively. “I can see it on your face. It gets all droopy when…”

“My face is not droopy!”

“It must be about Callum, then. No one else is able to get you worked up like this.”

“You come close.” Rayla snapped. Then, “Do you think he likes me?”

Soren nearly spat out his drink laughing. “You’re joking, right?”

Rayla’s face burned. “I’m serious, Soren! It’s been eleven years. I really thought he would have proposed to me by now.”

“Have you thought about proposing to him yourself?” Soren asked. “He could be waiting for you to make the first move.”

Of course she had. She knew Callum. If she wasn’t the one to do something, it would never get done. But it was exhausting. She didn’t want to lead all the time. The few times Callum took control – and really took control – were incredible. Was it too much for a girl to want both? She was fine with leading, but she still wanted to be swept off her feet from time to time. “I don’t know why I bother,” she said. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Besides, if she did propose, that meant he could say no. She didn’t seriously believe he would, but those eleven years of silence made her nervous.

Soren shrugged. “Maybe it’s precisely because I don’t know what I’m talking about. Sometimes you just need to talk things through on your own, and having me here makes it easier.” He snorted. “So you’re not just yelling at yourself like that crazy dark mage we found.”

“Killing is so unlike him,” Rayla remembered, “but Callum still won’t talk to me about it. We’ve been together for years, but sometimes it’s as if I still don’t know him.”

“Do you trust him?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Maybe…” Soren looked past her shoulder. Rayla turned and saw Corvus returning to the reception on his own. His stride was brisk and purposeful – and heading straight over to them. “Sorry,” Soren said meekly. “Crownguard business.”

“Is something wrong?” Rayla’s mind immediately went to her weapons, but they could not be worn with her dress and were left in her room.

Soren shifted again and opened his mouth to speak, but Corvus had already arrived. “Good to see you, Rayla,” he smiled quickly. “You look nice.” There was that word again. “If you’ll excuse us, there’s something Soren and I need to discuss.”

He must have seen the look on her face because Soren added quickly. “Nothing’s wrong; this has nothing to do with you or anyone here. No problem.” He shot her a winning smile.

“We’ll let you know if there’s any trouble.”

Rayla sighed and nodded her head.

Corvus gestured to a staircase heading up into a nearby guard tower. Soren made his way over somewhat anxiously with Corvus following close behind. It sure seemed like a problem to Rayla, but apparently, she needed to be most trusting.

Her safety net was now gone, and Rayla was now left to contend with the great host of wedding guests and well-wishers that crowded the reception hall like foul locusts. She didn’t know who these people were. Even the scattering of elves wandering around, gawking at the plated suits of armor, were strangers. Lujanne was around somewhere, but Rayla could not think of a single worse wing-woman to have in a formal setting like this. Someone with the ability to disguise herself as anyone, combined with the impulse control of a small child in a pastry shop, was nothing but trouble. She needed Callum, no matter how frustrated she might have been with him.

There was a great crash of toppling glass over by one of the refreshment tables. Rayla groaned. That would be her Callum. Lifting her skirt in each hand, she moved as quickly as she could. Oh, how she hated wearing heels. She heard his voice up ahead, conversing with another, and suddenly her hackles began to rise.

Callum stood enthralled in the presence of a tall, red-haired woman. Taken aback, Rayla paused and studied her very closely. Her dress was of the finest velvet, green and purple, with pillowy pauldrons about the shoulders. A silk headband held back her voluminous bangs, and her bodice was held in place by an equally generous corset. It even appeared loose on her, a mere support of natural blessings.

Rayla scowled and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She knew she couldn’t blame Callum for finding such attributes attractive, but she hadn’t known that’d been his type. There were hundreds, if not thousands of women in Katolis with just as ample bosoms – she could toss a stone in an alleyway and hit three of them. But Callum preferred a toned woman, someone who could give as well as take. It looked like a strong breeze would have knocked this poor woman over.

Besides, Rayla had plenty of comfort too, at least where it counted. Even if she didn’t, what she and Callum had was special. He’d had her for years, and no amount of fair skin or natural curves could replace that. And look at that hair, she thought. A woman like that would be terrible to lie under, constantly worried that she might ruin it. The very fact she was angry made her angry. Eleven years, and that airhead still couldn’t make up his mind. Stupid, rotten…

When neither of them seemed to notice her, Rayla took matters into her own hands. The woman saw her approach from the corner of her eye and waved a hand dismissively. “No, we don’t need anything. Thank you.”

Rayla stopped dead in her tracks, too stunned to speak. Did she look like one of the serving staff? She clenched her fists as her blood began to boil. She looked nice. Nice.

“It’s so good to see you again, Callum,” the woman continued. “Although I must say, when I first heard about the wedding in Katolis, I’d assumed it must be yours.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint,” Rayla said, stepping between them, “but he’s still taken.” She gripped Callum’s hand tightly in her own. Callum winced slightly in pain and looked at Rayla, but she kept the pressure firm.

“But still unmarried,” the woman said pensively. Her pale blue eyes finished the sentence for her.

“Rayla,” Callum winced again. “This is Svanna Sea-strider. Her mother was Queen Fareeda of…”

“I don’t care who you are,” Rayla interrupted, glaring daggers. “Stay away from him, or someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Someone’s going to get hurt, alright.” A young man with a trimmed copper beard stepped between Rayla and Svanna. His hands were large with calloused fingers, and his figure was lean and wiry. He stood about the same height as Svanna, sharing her buttoned nose and cleft chin. He was nearly her spitting image. “You must be the assassin we’ve heard about,” he continued, stepping closer. His hips were loose and flexible, his legs coiled like springs. “I can’t imagine anything less chivalrous or more cowardly than killing for coin.”

Rayla stepped forward, accepting his challenge. “Then you’ll love me,” she answered, letting go of Callum’s hand. “I hurt people for free.”

A wry smile tugged at the edges of the man’s mouth, but his blue eyes remained murderous. “Then make your first strike count.”

“Please,” Callum babbled. “There is no need for this.” They were beginning to draw attention from the crowd. The reception was going quiet, and hushed huddles of partygoers turned to ogle. Rayla could feel the watchful eyes of a hundred gossips memorizing every detail of her stance and posture.

“What’s going on?” Another voice, rich and carnivorous, called out. “Is it time to kill someone?” A second man in his early thirties strode over. With gold hair, a broad chest, and arms the thickness of tree trunks, he looked what the first man might grow into after a decade of exercise. Drink, like he held in his hand, had swollen his gut, but his muscles still looked strong enough to break someone in two.

“No, Gunnar,” Svanna replied, “thank you.” Turning to the first man, she added, “Aedin, we are their guests.”

Aedin seemed to relax and stepped back from Rayla, but did not turn away. “I apologize,” he said reluctantly. “This was not the hospitality to which we’d grown accustomed from your family, Callum.”

Rayla looked at Callum expectantly.

“Svanna and her brothers spent a lot of time here in the winter months growing up,” Callum explained. “I understand Winters in Evenere can be quite unpleasant sometimes, less snow and more ice.”

“It was nice to see you again after so long,” Svanna insisted, nodding her head. “You’re so much more interesting to talk to than Magnar. He should be around here somewhere.”

“Cutting open a cat, no doubt,” Gunnar snickered, gesturing to Callum. “At least the Step-Prince doesn’t do that.” Suddenly, his eyes widened and he bellowed out a hearty laugh. “Well, shave my crack and call me an elf! Soren? I barely recognized you! What’s with the hat?”

Rayla turned to see Soren returning from the guard tower. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he walked with a purpose, head down. At the sound of Gunnar’s voice, he startled. “Um, hi.” He didn’t exactly seem to relax.

“You have to meet this amazing person I just found,” Gunnar continued, clapping a small brown-haired woman on the back, causing her twin braids to bounce gently atop her breasts. “She says she’s been to the Cursed Caldera.”

Even without the faint impression of the moon in her mind, Rayla felt as though she was going to be sick. Behind her, Callum dropped and shattered another wine glass on the floor. “Um… no,” Soren stuttered. Swallowing once, he cleared his throat. “Thank you. I have to get going. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

“Rayla.” Rayla turned back to see Svanna looking at her. “I also apologize. I did not mean to overstep.” She even sounded sincere. In a sense, that made Rayla even angrier.

She simply nodded her acknowledgment.

“I see.” Svanna dipped a short curtsy. “I’ll take my leave then.”

Elegant, Rayla thought as the woman walked away. She’d give her that, even as she scowled at the natural sway of her hips. Aedin lingered a moment longer, perhaps watching to see if Rayla would pull a knife. He had no idea how close she was to breaking one of her heels in his eyes. He backed away, still facing her, the way one retreated from a feral moonstrider, and nearly knocked over a passing team of servants carting the wedding cake. Rayla heard Barius scream from across the room.

“Oh no,” Callum whined, bending over. “Your dress. I’m so sorry.” Rayla pulled the hem of her dress away from him, grunting in frustration as she saw the bright red wine stain. That would be a pain to remove from the fabric. “Let me get something to clean…”

“Don’t,” Rayla snapped. “Let’s just go.” She’d already had more than enough for one day.

“Aw,” Callum protested. “But don’t you want to stay for the…?”

“Callum…” Rayla interrupted. She took a moment to gather her thoughts – she knew she shouldn’t say exactly what was going through her mind. “You know I love you, but…”

A chorus of high-pitched giggling cascaded down the hall leading from the King’s chambers. The bridesmaids had returned, minus the newlyweds. Their youngest, a small dark-skinned girl with warm, brownish braids ran in first, carrying with her the bride’s bouquet. The crowd’s attention was seized again, and everyone immediately began to swarm her.

Rayla had completely forgotten about this part. Cursing her heeled shoes, she fought her way through the throng. She barely had the chance to regain her balance before the bridesmaid tossed the bouquet across the room, over the heads of the people jumping after it. Someone bumped into Rayla, and her hand went wide, missing the flower by a hand’s breadth. Swearing in frustration, she turned to see Callum holding the arrangement in both hands, a bewildered expression on his face.

Rayla groaned in weary satisfaction. “Close enough.”

His mother’s room in the attic of the Barded Banther tavern was exactly as Callum remembered it. Cold wind battered the timbers outside, loosening dust motes that drifted through the morning sunlight. Snow gathered against the window panes, and, in the perspiration, Callum had traced the rough outline of a heart. It was his mother’s birthday, after all, but no one felt in the mood to celebrate.

Amaya sat cross-legged beside him on the floor, directly across a small wooden chessboard. His aunt was on leave from the army, but she had brought home a polished short-sword that rested nearby above a coat rack. “One last chance,” she signed, grinning mischievously. “Spot my threat on the board ,or I will crush you on the next move.”

“When is Mom going to get out of bed?” Callum replied, looking over at the cocooned mass of blankets slumped on the mattress. It was nearly midday, and she had not moved in hours. “We have to have her party,” he reminded, signing quietly.

“We will,” Amaya insisted. “We just have to be patient. Your mother is sick.”

“Then we need to get her some medicine.”

“Having you here with her and knowing you’re safe is all the medicine she needs,” Amaya replied. “Remember: patience.”

“Dad was sick too,” Callum answered solemnly. He hadn’t gotten better.

“That’s enough chess for now,” Amaya decided. Reaching over, she tucked her arms beneath Callum’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “A boy your age needs exercise. Go out and play with the other children. There should be plenty out there in the snow.” Her eyes brightened. “Maybe there’s a snowball fight.”

“Will you come with me?”

Amaya shook her head. “That would hardly be fair. Besides, I have to help your mother get ready, remember? I’ll stay here in case she… in case she needs my help.” She placed a reassuring hand on Callum’s shoulder. “We’ll come find you when it’s time for the birthday party.”

Callum groaned and stretched. His butt had gone completely numb. Bumbling over to the coat rack, he took down his scarf and began wrapping it around his neck. His aunt grabbed his jacket and briskly wiped away a few loose pieces of lint. “Callum…”

Callum froze at the sound of his mother’s voice. Hoarse and shaky, it contained just enough strength for a mother’s warmth. When she saw his reaction, Amaya nearly dropped his coat on the floor and rushed to her sister’s side. Callum followed closely behind her.

Sarai still had not moved. Only her face remained visible, barely, beneath her huddle of blankets. “…my beautiful boy. Let me see you.”

Amaya stepped aside to let Callum pass.

Sarai smiled. “There you are.” She reached out from under the blankets to squeeze his hand, her skin cold and clammy. Drenched in sweat, her brown hair lay flat across her face. Gently, Callum brushed her bangs clear of her eyes. “You are so handsome,” Sarai continued, “just like your father.”

“I miss him so much,” Callum sniffed.

“We all do,” Sarai replied, eyes glistening. “But you know he would have wanted you to go out and make a starfish in the snow. Now, give me a kiss.” Her voice began to break by the end. Trembling, she held him tightly by the wrist as he leaned over. He struggled to hold back his tears…

“…get better soon,” Callum repeated absently, and found his lips pressed against stone. Stepping back, he found himself face to face with his mother’s marble bust. Sculpted just a week after her coronation, it now rested in a place of honor within the royal family’s winter lodge. Before anyone could see him, Callum wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

Collecting himself, he left the west gallery and returned to the main hall. But before he had fully regained control, he was confronted on the stairs. “Hey,” Soren waved, appearing just as surprised as Callum. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Hey, Step-Prince,” Gunnar jeered, his voice echoing Soren’s. He was leaning against the handrail for support. Judging from the heat in his face, he was more than a little inebriated. “Sorry about your mom!” He laughed raucously. Soren responded with a nervous wheeze and, for a moment, Callum considered shoving them down the stairs. Then he remembered the beating he’d taken the last time he’d tried something like that. He was no match for one, let alone two of them. But one day, he would learn magic and tear them both to pieces. For now, he swallowed his anger and continued on his way.

The main hall seemed to be overflowing with festive noise and merriment. Just outside, one of Ezran’s wet nurses cradled his brother in her arms, rocking him from side to side and whispering soothing mantras. It sounded like he was having another one of his temper tantrums. Callum’s presence sometimes helped, but the poor woman simply smiled and shook her head, indicating that he should go on in and enjoy himself – if such a thing was possible.

Magnar Sea-Strider was waiting by the door. A boy of nine, he bore little resemblance to his other siblings, in the same way Callum did not look like his younger brother at all. Tall and lanky, Magnar had hit his growth spurt early, and he kept his black hair oiled and combed straight back. His chosen attire was even darker, and made his pale skin appear almost ethereal in contrast. As usual, rather than join the festivities, the boy had decided to guard the door, opening it for anyone to cared to pass through. Bowing his head formally, Magnar swept aside for Callum to enter. The soldier standing watch beside him shrugged to Callum silently. If Magnar wanted to do her job for her, she wouldn’t be one to argue.

No one seemed to notice him. All the adults were either deep in their cups or clustered around the head of the table, pestering the king. A few of them were both. King Harrow rested his head on a hand and, with the other, twisted his fork idly across his plate. He did not seem to have eaten anything. Two seats over, Queen Fareeda was directing the conversation, keeping the tide of drunken nobles away from her fellow monarch, while bouncing her little toddler on her lap. She smiled when she saw Callum and gestured for him to join them beside his stepfather. The seat beside Harrow was empty, but Callum knew not to take it. Neither did anyone else; no one dared to take the Queen’s chair.

Callum suddenly felt a sharp prod on his left shoulder. By the time he had turned around, Svanna was already running back to Claudia, who hid her face behind a gloved hand. Callum could still tell she was laughing, however. So it had been Svanna’s turn to poke him, he thought. He wasn’t sure why they did that.

Beside Harrow and across from the empty seat, Lord Viren was presenting the King with an ornate iron cage. Callum’s eye was immediately drawn to the small brown bird that roosted within, which cocked its head to the side as if listening to the conversation. Although otherwise drab and muted, the plumage about the face was a striking shade of green Callum had never seen before in a bird. Bright spots around the hatchling’s eyes made them appear larger than life.

Harrow spotted Callum across the room and gave a wide smile. His eyes brightened too, faint embers beneath a cloak of ash. “Look at this,” he called out. At once, the entire room was silent. It was the first time the King had spoken all night. “Come here,” Harrow encouraged, “you’ll love it.”

Color burned in Callum’s face as the entire world seemed to stare at him. He wanted to disappear. Recognizing his pain, Fareeda started up her conversation again, and soon the rest of the room had gone back to normal. But Callum could still feel Svanna and Claudia laughing and giggling behind him.

Harrow waited until Callum joined him before continuing. “Look at this songbird Lord Viren brought us,” he said. “All the way from Xadia.”

“Um, yes, my king,” Lord Viren cut in. “The exact species is…”

Harrow held up a hand to silence him. “Well, what do you think? He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” He broke off a piece of bread and handed it to Callum. “Go on.”

Mindful of his fingers, Callum carefully approached the cage and held the bread through the bars. Closing his eyes, he preemptively winced as the strange songbird studied the food. To his surprise, the bird was gentle and lightly nudged the hand with his beak before closing it over the bread crumb.

“I know it cannot replace what was lost,” Lord Viren said carefully, “nothing can. Instead, this is something new, and I only hope that it can help bring a bit of joy to my one and only friend.”

“Only onward,” Harrow agreed. Each word held within it a great weight that felt rooted to the center of the earth. He softened his voice when he spoke to Callum, but there was only so much one man could do. “We’ll need a name for him now, won’t we?”

“Pip.”

The word rang hollow in Callum’s mouth as he stood in the Valley of the Graves. In the end, that bird had meant more to his stepfather than anyone could have dreadfully imagined. He was staring at his parents’ mausoleum – their bodies buried side by side. It was late at night, and the moon shone brightly across a quiet, clear sky. The field of stars stretched to infinity, winking at him in callous mockery.

Callum took a deep breath and steeled himself. He knew why his dreams had taken him here. They did every night. This brief moment of lucidity changed nothing. Knowing what was to come made it even worse. The inevitable pull of doom called him, and Callum turned to look at the summit above the lake.

Pale and timeless, Rayla wilted in the cold moonlight. The years had been kind to her, but only in her flesh. No wrinkles creased her youthful brow, even as her body wasted away. Unable or unwilling to move, she sat beside an ancient stone sarcophagus, tears pooling beneath her chin. The cask lay open and delicately, serenely, she traced her fingers through the remains of a knotted white beard.

An insane, demented smile formed on Rayla’s lips. As she leaned over, she brushed her hand lovingly across the cheekbones of a desiccated and crumbling skull. The forehead collapsed where she kissed it. “Oh, Callum…” she giggled girlishly.

“Callum…”

“…Callum.”

Callum’s eyes opened slowly, heavy with weariness. The moment he saw Rayla again, this time standing before him in the empty parlor, he nearly jumped out of his chair. Her shoulders were bare, but she was still wearing that same tormentful dress from the wedding. “So there you are,” she complained. Her arms were crossed. Shadow made it difficult to read her face, but the frustration in her voice was plain. “At long last. You still haven’t apologized, you know.”

“What…”

“You ruined my dress,” she answered directly. “You have no idea how expensive this was, and now I just can’t wear it anymore.” She slipped her arms out of the dress sleeves and allowed the garment to fall to the floor. Then Callum really jumped out of his chair.

“Rayla!”

“Don’t worry,” Rayla cooed, stepping barefoot out of the pile of linens. Justice above, she hadn’t even been wearing a corset. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”

Callum stepped behind the chair. “I don’t think…”

“But I’ll warn you now,” she continued, drawing closer. “It will take a long time, and will be extremely hard for you.” She climbed up into the chair, knees first, with her head over the back, facing Callum. Gliding her hands down Callum’s chest, she looked up at him with wide, wanton eyes. “Even with that big, throbbing…”

“Stop.”

Rayla climbed down. “What’s wrong?” she asked, and tried to follow him around the chair.

Callum stepped back. “I really don’t want to do this right now.”

“Won’t you just tell me what’s…?”

“I said stop, Rayla!” Callum snapped. “I don’t have to say anything else.”

“Fine,” Rayla scowled. “I’m going to our room to sleep in our bed, with our blankets and our pillows! But I don’t know, maybe your hand will make for better company!” Angrily, she marched over to her crumpled gown. Bending over, she bundled it up in her arms. Then she left, but not before a parting, “This was a very nice dress!”

As soon as she was out of earshot, Callum breathed a sigh of relief. That was a problem he would have to deal with in the morning. He felt awful, but what was he to do? This was not something a heartfelt talk, or even an incredible midnight tryst, was going to solve. And the last thing he wanted right then was a “big feelings talk” with Rayla.

He needed to think. Gathering himself, he exited the parlor in the opposite direction Rayla had gone and headed up to the gallery, which overlooked the courtyard across from the library. The windows here were left open overnight in the summer to cool the castle, and fresh air was exactly what he needed. Others would still be awake, of course, mainly guards on patrol, but the soldiers did not typically stray far from their posts and designated patrols. Likewise, the servants wouldn’t begin to clean this area and change the candles for several more hours at least. He would be alone.

Yawning, Callum took a candle from one of the wall sconces and used it to light his own. In the harsh, flickering shadows, the armed suits of mail seemed almost alive, moving at the very corners of his vision. There was a light thump. Callum spun, catching a flash of fabric disappearing behind one of the columns.

His breath drew in the autumn storm, and he could feel the rain condensing inside his mouth. “I won’t hurt you,” he called, even as he traced the draconic rune for lightning. “But I don’t think the guards would be so understanding. Come on out where I can see you.”

A stocky man with matted brown hair stumbled out from behind the column. His legs were stiff and his face bright with indignation. “Is this how Katolis treats her guests?”

“Only those that go snooping around at night.” Callum frowned, thinking back to the wedding’s guest list. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one, my lord.” The man tucked his chin and pressed his knuckles to his forehead, a servant’s gesture.

“Are you one of mine?” Callum asked, stepping closer. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” He was trying to place the accent. Deep and strained, it was clear the man was faking it.

“If you have, my lord, I doubt you’d remember. Like I said, I’m no one important.”

Callum frowned. “Don’t play games with me.” As he advanced, he held his candle between them like a shield. On second thought, perhaps moving closer was a bad idea. The man was slow for his size, but barrel-chested and strong.

“Begging your pardon, my lord.” The servant planted his feet and squared his shoulders. “I’ve never hit a highborn before, but I will if I must.”

“It’s alright, Hegen! Callum is a friend.”

Callum relaxed and dismissed the rune. He recognized that voice. Svanna Sea-Strider poked her round head out from behind the column and emerged a moment later, wearing a short night gown. “I guess you couldn’t sleep either,” she offered sympathetically. Her hair was loose and indicative of a hard night.

“No, I couldn’t.” Callum sighed. “What are you doing so far from the guest wing? Is everything alright?”

Svanna gave a warm, soft laugh. “Everything is fine, Callum. I just wanted to stretch my legs a little. I’m sorry about my manservant,” she added, pointing to her companion. “Hegen, my manservant, is very protective of me. It’s sweet in a way, although it does get annoying from time to time. I’m sure he meant no offense.”

Callum nodded thoughtfully, considering this. “But you have nothing to fear in this castle,” he asked, “so why were you hiding from me?”

Svanna shrugged. “For the same reason you came here, I suppose. You wanted to be alone for a bit.” She studied Callum closely. “It’s about Rayla, isn’t it?”

Callum’s breath caught, and he looked anxiously between Svanna and Hegen. Svanna seemed to catch on right away. “Leave us,” she said, turning to her manservant. “Please.”

“But…”

“Hegen.”

The manservant stiffened, but begrudgingly knuckled his forehead again. “I won’t go far,” he promised. “If he tries anything…”

Svanna rolled her eyes. “Callum’s a mage. You couldn’t stop him if he did, which he won’t.”

“Never.” Callum agreed.

Svanna kept her eyes on Hegen until he disappeared down the hall and out of sight. It was certainly a curious way to manage a servant. “You didn’t have to do that,” Callum remarked. “It’s nothing serious.”

“I can still tell when something’s bothering you, Callum,” Svanna explained. “Even if today didn’t make it obvious enough. It’s serious to me.”

Callum shook his head in bewilderment. “Has it really been so long?”

“I know,” Svanna sighed. “I would have visited more often, but things back home have been…” She looked away for a moment. “…complicated. You aren’t the only one who’s still unmarried.”

Callum shrugged. “Marry who you want when you want. You have plenty of brothers to ‘continue the family line,’” he said with exaggerated pomp and severity.

“You can’t believe what a relief it is to hear you say that,” Svanna laughed, punching Callum’s arm, “but I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I’m the only one who can inherit the throne. There’s never been a King of Evenere. Even my father is just a Steward.”

“I don’t know why they make inheritance laws so complicated,” Callum complained. “Even here in Katolis, a monarch’s successor is usually chosen by the High Council. Only orphaned children can inherit the throne by right. Which, in our case, is convenient,” he added, “considering…”

Svanna’s eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, Callum,” she sympathized. “I sent you letter after letter as soon as I heard the news. When we never heard back, we feared the worst.”

This was news to Callum. He had never seen those letters. Maybe the Crow Lord still had them stashed somewhere, assuming Lord Viren hadn’t had them destroyed. “Well, it’s a long story,” he said. He would have to check the rookery later. “But basically, I was gone for a while. It all worked out in the end, though. That is how I met Rayla, after all.” He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the confrontation in the reception hall. “I take it you don’t approve?”

Svanna put her hands on her hips. “What makes you say that?” she scoffed. “If anyone I knew was going to fall in love with an elf – or have an elf fall for him – it would be you, Callum.” She leaned forward, grinning slightly. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s bothering you?”

“I’m just scared, ok?” Callum backed up. “There’s a reason humans and elves typically don’t end up together.”

“What are you talking about?” Svanna asked. “There are plenty of stories of humans and elves falling in love.”

“And they all end the same way,” Callum answered, “Tragedy, death, and heartache. I’ve had years to think about this, Svanna.”

“Then maybe you’re overthinking it. Plenty of human relationships end that way, too. Someone always dies first.”

“Except it’s always the human,” Callum argued. “Rayla’s already lost the rest of her family, and I feel as though I’ve taken everything she has left. I don’t want her to go through it again for decades –centuries even – after I’m gone. I know that pain all too well. There’s more to her life that’s worth living for than me.”

“So you are overthinking it,” Svanna frowned. “No one knows when the hour will come.”

Callum shook his head. “I’m talking mathematics, Svanna, basic probability. If there are one hundred pairings of humans and elves in recorded history and, on one hundred occasions, the human dies first, what can we conclude?”

“That the author doesn’t like humans,” Svanna rolled her eyes again. “Have you tried talking about this with her?”

“No,” Callum admitted, “because I know exactly how it would go. And it’s not as if she’s done anything wrong: she hasn’t. She’s perfect, it’s just… this is something I have to work through myself.” He thought back to the open casket and the pond. Grom drew his hand through the water, laughing at him. “I think you’re the only one I can trust with this,” he swallowed. Anyone else in the castle would be too close, too well-connected. “I feel as though I’m going mad.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Svanna commented. “I don’t think a real madman would consider himself so.”

“I guess that’s true,” Callum snorted. “It’s good to talk about it with someone. A friend,” he clarified, “but a friend with a different social group, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Svanna said absently, and Callum’s voice trailed off. His friend stared off into the distant night sky, seemingly lost in her thoughts. She suddenly snapped back to reality and turned to face him. “I have something to tell you, too,” she said decisively. “Something dangerous. You have my confidence on that, Callum, but now I need yours.”

“Dangerous? What are you…”

“I need you to be honest with me, Callum,” Svanna demanded. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I can,” Callum nodded. “But I won’t betray my brother, or anyone else I love.”

“Good,” Svanna softened her tone. “Because this doesn’t have anything to do with them. But it is still dangerous. Maybe not for you, but no one else can learn what I’m about to tell you…”

Chapter Text

Svanna knelt on the floor beside her bed and pressed her forearms into the mattress. The nauseous lurching in her stomach had woken her hours ago. Her limbs ached for rest, but her dry mouth denied her reprieve. A cold sweat pooled on her brow, and she tried not to cry.

This nightmare had gone on long enough; she could deny it no longer. The sickness had begun weeks ago. It wasn’t too late to stop it – yet – but she was running out of time. Svanna dug her fingernails into the bed sheets and sobbed through clenched teeth. It wasn’t fair. Why her, and why now? Decades of planning and politicking had been ruined by one turn of fate.

A parched tongue raked the back of her throat, swallowing her fear. She looked across the cabin at the small glass vial sitting beside her vanity. Her breathing was heavy and raspy, desperate attempts to stay her thundering heart. She was a monster, a murderer. No, she reminded herself, she wasn’t. She wasn’t a murderer because it wasn’t even alive to begin with – not yet. And if she did this, it would never be.

The bed sheets slipped in her grasp, and she let out a feeble moan. What if this was her only chance? This was what she had wanted since she was a little girl – a little girl full of stupid hope and stupid dreams. Stupid, stupid, stupid – it was all his fault, that stupid man. He’d done this to her. She’d kill him.

She needed a doctor, but that was too risky. People talked, and even if one doctor could be trusted, what about their family? This was too dangerous to entrust to a stranger. Should this ever become public, the recourse would be too terrible to consider. No, this required a more creative solution.

The glass vial called to her from across the room. Svanna blinked once and found herself beside it, running her fingers along its smooth surface. The dark liquid within sang to her across the deep expanses of the void.

Svanna caught herself when she touched the cork. She’d been warned that there would be pain – terrible, terrible pain. It was different from the medicine normally taken in these circumstances. That was because it hadn’t been made by a doctor, but by a friend. It had been brought to her by one of the few people left whom she trusted completely. A small drop of mercy, it contained her salvation, her future, and her misery. But no pain or misery could be worse than her present agony. The future would have to take care of itself.

A tear rolled down Svanna’s cheek as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” she wept, rubbing her hand over her belly. She could feel the knotting of new life twisting and burning within her. In the silence, she could even feel its heartbeat. Uncorking the poison, she drank it quickly before she had the chance to change her mind.

The empty vial shattered in her fist. Svanna buried her face in her bed and screamed until her throat bled. Clutching a pillow to her chest, she rocked back and forth on the floor as grief and dark magic ruined her body. Even if she wasn’t a monster, she sure felt like one.

Soren wiped a tear from his eye and hugged his friend for the last time. The persistent mare looked past his melancholic stupor and sniffed at the apple tucked away in his knapsack. “Alright,” Soren laughed, surrendering the fruit. “At least you’re predictable.” He chuckled to himself as the horse’s long, goofy lips flapped across his hand.

When she had finished – core and all – Soren patted her again on the shoulder and walked away. He could not bear to look into her wide, intelligent eyes. The rest of his things were assembled atop a workbench across the stable. Most of it fit inside the knapsack already around his waist. The rest, one change of clothes, a spare waterskin, and a pair of hemp sandals, were placed in a brown burlap sack. It was probably wise for him to keep his food in there as well, so he could hang it away from his camp at night and avoid wild animals. That would also make it easier for someone to steal it, but Soren still had his knife. Far from the sword he was used to carrying, the blade was of little use beyond whittling small scraps of wood, but it was still better than nothing.

Marigold, Ezran’s prized courser, knocked her head against the gate to her stall. When Soren looked back, she flared her lips, exposing her yellowed teeth in a ridiculous smile. “Justice above,” Soren shook his head, reprimanding her. “You’ll have to talk to Corvus about that.” When he turned away again, his jaw was set. He threw the sack over his shoulder and went on his way.

Corvus was waiting for him outside. His arms were crossed casually, with a sealed roll of parchment held in a gauntleted hand. “I wanted to see you before you left.”

Soren stopped dead in his tracks. “All my years of service…” he said scornfully. “She can’t do this to me.”

“Unfortunately, she can,” Corvus replied. His voice was neutral, but in the annoying manner reserved for scolding children. “Her marriage to Ezran makes her the Queen.”

“A queen-consort,” Soren argued. “Ezran is still the one in charge.”

Corvus sighed. “The King is trying to respect his wife’s authority. He doesn’t want to begin their marriage by overruling her decisions. It wouldn’t sit well.”

“It ‘wouldn’t sit well?’” Soren repeated, balling his hands into fists.

Corvus frowned. His arms remained crossed, but his expression hardened. “Ezran would see you off himself, but this situation has brought up some unpleasant memories. You tried to kill him, Soren,” he reminded.

“Eleven years ago,” Soren protested. It wasn’t a real argument, he knew that. But he was a completely different person now, and he’d thought everyone had moved on from it long ago.

“You tried to kill Ellis, too,” Corvus continued. “You only get one chance to make a first impression, my friend, and you left a very poor one with her. She doesn’t feel comfortable trusting you with her family’s protection.”

“I can see where she’s coming from,” Soren replied, forcing himself to adopt a diplomatic tone, “but…”

“Then you can see why, given the circumstances, Ezran thinks this is an excellent opportunity for you to retire with dignity.” Corvus handed him the sealed roll of parchment. “You’ll be provided one month’s salary to help you get back on your feet. Ezran also instructed me to give you this: a royal pardon for any crimes previously committed against him or his family.”

Begrudgingly, Soren took it. “How foolish of me,” he said, “I thought I’d already…”There was no point. Eleven years. It was closer to fifteen if he counted his time under King Harrow, half of his entire life. “Forget it.”

“Don’t lose it.”

Soren laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not funny,” he insisted, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “It’s not.”

Corvus cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said, “truly.”

Soren ignored him, and barely noticed when a courier delivered the last of his salary. He wasn’t sorry. He’d wasted enough time here already. Corvus followed him at a distance, out of the courtyard, down through the massive Attican Gate, and finally across the bridge leading out into town. At each strong-point, the watchmen hefted open the heavy iron portcullis for him one final time. As the final one slammed shut behind him, Soren took a deep breath.

As terrible as it was, it strangely felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had nothing besides the bag and the clothing on his back, but he was free. Alone in the world, but beholden to no one – he could be whoever he wanted. He pulled down the brim of his hat and headed into town.

The coin he had would not last him long, so he needed to be smart. Fortunately, earning a bit more wouldn’t be a challenge; he happened to be an excellent card player. Once he had enough money for a horse, maybe not one as extravagant as Marigold, the world would be his. He could be a trader, a mercenary, or even a traveling poet. There were limitless possibilities. But first, money – it took money to make money.

A short distance from the castle at a fork in the road, he came upon a tavern and posting station. The doors were open, even this early in the day, and the taproom inside was already bustling with activity. Soren stepped inside, mindful of the coat rack where other patrons had left their hats. Glancing around, he adjusted his nervously until he found what he was looking for in the far corner, directly facing the door. There, a group of sellswords passed the time with a deck of cards, trading small bets over short games of twenty-one. Soren reminded himself that there was no reason to get greedy. He only needed enough money to buy a horse. If he was careful, this was not going to take long at all.

As he made his way over, a small, weasel-faced man whispered something to his companion. They both bore flowing tattoos down the face and neck, his green and hers blue. His companion hid her mouth behind the palm of her hand, but Soren could just make out a whispered, “…he’s kind of cute though.” Her accent was Eveneri, and her eyes were stunning. “Do you think he’s a knight?”

Soren grinned eagerly. “Not just a knight,” he boasted, pulling over a stool. “I was one of the king’s crownguard.” The others at the table eyed him sideways, but soon went back to their own game.

“You might want to keep that to yourself,” the weasel-faced man advised, “our thegn quarrels with your prince.”

“So?” Soren asked, sitting down. “That doesn’t mean the three of us can’t be friends, right?”

The man shrugged. “Fortunately, my shield-sister finds you attractive,” he answered dryly. “Myself… not so much.”

“Your loss,” Soren smirked, glancing at the voluptuous shield-sister. “But I already was completely enchanted.” The shield-sister turned from his gaze with a flirtatious flick of her dark hair. Soren wondered how much of that padding came from the woman’s armor. He pressed his advantage. “I could never mistake you for a mere mercenary, my lady.” Both Eveneri wore pale, light gambeson, the sort used beneath ringed mail.

“We’re playing a game to pass the time,” the shield-sister explained, flashing a smile. “If we have to wait much longer, I’m afraid I’ll lose all my money. I’m not very good, you see.”

“Mind if I join you?” Soren asked, pulling his coin-purse out of his bag. The two Eveneri exchanged a meaningful look. “It’s really not that complicated once you know what you’re doing – it’s all probability.”

The weasel-faced man began shuffling the deck of cards. “You know the rules, then?”

“Closest to twenty-one without passing it.”

The shield-sister took Soren’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Please go easy on me,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I’m still learning.”

Soren took a deep breath, and his heart began to race. “We can start with small bets and work our way up.” He forced himself to remember that he only needed enough money to buy a horse. Then again, if he could ingratiate himself with these Eveneri sellswords – especially the doe-eyed shield-sister – they might let him sign on with them.

Each player was dealt two cards. “Let’s see,” Soren mused aloud, explaining the process to the shield-sister, who looked over his shoulder curiously. Justice above, she was wearing a lavender perfume. “A four and a seven. That makes eleven, which is not great, but not bad either. There’s no reason for me not to keep going, so I’ll ‘hit…’”

Crisp autumn wind snaked along the castle walls, rattling the old parchment in Callum’s hands. The first frost of the season would be weeks away, but there was something in the cold that made Callum feel alive, more alert. Then again, perhaps it had nothing to do with the cold. He was sleeping better.

Grom still haunted his dreams from time to time, but the demented ghost seemed to be biding his time. On good days, Callum could ignore him and pretend he wasn’t there, that he didn’t even exist. Those good days were becoming more frequent. As usual, his girlfriend helped a lot with that. He and Rayla were in a much better place now. The awkwardness of Ezran’s wedding three months back was water under the bridge. Things were back to the way they had been before – the way they had been for almost a decade now.

Sometimes it felt as though time was not passing at all, and that life was nothing but a dream. The days dragged on, and Callum could scarcely remember one from another. And yet the months and years just flew by him. As a child, Callum would spend weeks anticipating and planning his birthdays. Now, they always seemed to take him by surprise. He thought he might grow old one day and never notice it.

But some things marked the passage of time and kept him grounded in reality. Callum flipped through the old parchment with delight. He couldn’t believe the Crow Lord had been able to find these. They’d had to turn the rookery upside down and search it from top to bottom, but they had finally uncovered Svanna’s old letters buried in an archived catalog. A part of him dreaded reading them – these had been written during a painful time in his life – but it was so good to hear from his friend again, even if the words themselves were old.

He tucked the letters into his coat pocket and traveled silently through the library. His brother left this place open to visitors and common folk, but that didn’t make the librarian any less draconian in her vigilance. The wisened caretaker had borne three sons and now boasted eight grandchildren, including a great-grandchild who was on the way. She had the uncanny knack for saying much with little, often in words with one syllable or fewer. There were only two women in the world whom Callum truly feared, and this one didn’t even carry butterfly blades.

The door to the library crashed open, nearly striking Callum in the face. The librarian scowled and looked up from her book, preparing her signature one-word rebuttal, but she stopped herself short. The commotion had turned out to be Ezran. Becoming the King had been the worst thing his brother ever could have done to that poor woman, because now she could never scold him again. Grumbling something under her breath, she went back to her reading.

Callum stumbled back in surprise and drew in a breath that summoned the Sky Arcanum. Ezran was clad head to toe in polished steel plate gilded with gold. A wild intensity burned in his eyes that Callum had never seen before. His armored hands wrapped around the grip of the Novablade, bare and extended before him with ferocious bravado.

Callum brought forth lightning in alarm and began tracing draconic runes to defend himself. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice echoing with the power that surged through him. “Is the castle…?”

“Shh!” Callum turned to see the librarian glaring at him over the cover of her book. Prince or no, he had not been granted the same leniency as his brother.

Ezran ignored the question and marched past Callum as though not seeing him. His boots clanked loudly on the stone floor. He stopped every few paces and listened, turning his head to search the second floor above. “I’m going to find you…” He warned, rolling his fingers anxiously down the grip of the Novablade. “…And when I do…”

He suddenly turned and charged behind a stack of bookshelves. A moment later, there was a delighted shriek, and Ellis came running out the other end. Barefoot and with baggy skirts, she scrambled across the floor and dashed across the room. Ezran turned the corner and bolted after her, disappearing down an adjacent corridor. Ellis shrieked again, but this time, laughter overpowered her. “Oh, Your Grace, what are you planning to do with that sword?”

At her desk, the librarian rolled her eyes and gathered her things. Rising from her chair, she hurried into her nearby office and shut the door behind her.

Callum was likewise spurred to motion. Color burned in his cheeks, and he hurried away in the opposite direction. He’d thought such antics would have died down by now, with the wedding three months past. What a fool he’d been. Ezran and Ellis had not taken any efforts to keep their relationship secret before, but there was something about the formality of their marriage that drove them both into a frenzy. And Callum wanted no part in that. It was as if he were suddenly a stranger in his own home.

In his haste, he tripped over someone’s foot. He threw his arms wide, flailing desperately, but there was nothing to grab onto, and he toppled out the door. Rayla swept in from her hiding spot and caught him in her arms. Her eight fingers were pointed and wiggling, eager to begin tickling his sides. “Do be more careful,” she teased.

“We need to go,” Callum blurted. At least she hadn’t made another joke about sweeping him off his feet. He didn’t mind those, but this wasn’t the time. “Now.”

“Aw,” Rayla laughed, helping Callum to his feet. “Is Ezran out ‘hunting’ again?”

“I don’t know how you can joke about this,” Callum frowned. “It’s not funny.”

Rayla raised an eyebrow. “It’s your reaction that’s funny,” she corrected. “I’m happy for Ellis and Ezran. Aren’t you?”

“I am,” Callum insisted, leading Rayla across the courtyard and to the stables. “It’s just weird, ok?”

“Only if you make it weird,” Rayla replied, catching up to him. She looked at him through the corner of her eye. “Besides, it’s only fair. Ezran’s had to listen to us for years now.”

Callum scoffed. “We don’t make noise,” he argued. He glanced around and saw that the courtyard was mostly empty. The few people milling about were not looking directly at them. Discreetly, he reached over and popped his girlfriend across the bottom. “At least I don’t,” he added in a husky voice.

Rayla jumped. Heat flashed in the pointed tips of her ears, but a mischievous smile crossed her face. “Oh really?” she asked, stepping up to him. Palm flat, she slid a hand up the inside of his leg. With the other, she wrapped her arm around him so that she could whisper in his ear. “How about when I stroke your…”

For a moment, Callum thought about pulling her hand off of him, but he wouldn’t let her win that easily. Assertively, he grabbed her rear and pulled her closer. Rayla gasped and let go, lifting one of her legs to grind against him slightly. “See?” he taunted, enjoying every tremor that passed through her body. But he shouldn’t be doing this here, he reminded himself. “I’ve got just the activity for us today,” he said, pulling away.

A few passersby had stopped and watched them flatly. Callum was glad he’d regained control when he had. Forcing through his embarrassment, he snapped his fingers at a stable hand who had been just a little too slow in averting his eyes. “Saddle two horses,” he commanded. “The lady and I are going riding.”

“‘Riding,’ eh?” Rayla cooed, sliding up behind him. Her voice was silky temptation. “So that’s what we’re calling it…” Heat rose in Callum’s cheeks again. He knew he shouldn’t have turned his back on her.

Callum cleared his throat. “Of course,” he laughed nervously. “We’ll make a race out of it.” There weren’t many athletic events that Callum could compete in with Rayla. But riding was a nobleman’s sport, and he’d begun practicing it long before his family had moved into the castle.

“You’re not bad,” Rayla conceded. “But you know how well I ride…”

Callum did, but he wasn’t going to think about that before the race had even started. “Good,” he said. “Then you shouldn’t have to worry about getting lost. I’ll leave a nice trail of dust for you to follow.”

Rayla’s eyes lit up. “Pity,” she replied. “I was going to feel bad about leaving you behind.”

The stablehand returned with two young coursers. Callum took one of the reins, but Rayla held up her hand. “No horse for me,” she said. “Give me a moment.” She ran off and disappeared into the stables without further explanation. A moment later, she returned, leading a Xadian Moonstrider. “I always wanted to try this,” she smirked, patting the animal’s chest. “We’ll even give you an advantage by racing during the day, when her powers aren’t as strong.”

“Xadia against Katolis,” Callum remarked. “I like it.”

“Don’t let humanity down,” the stablehand joked, before quickly adding, “Uh, my prince.” He bowed and took the second horse back to its stall.

Callum put a foot in his stirrups and swung up into the saddle. His horse, a young mare named Marigold, tossed her mane and pawed the ground anxiously. Rayla’s moonstrider yawned widely, exposing her pointed canines and curved purple tongue. The beast stretched, dragging her claws across the cobbles, and Rayla mounted her in one swift motion. Marigold swatted the curious moonstrider away with a flick of her tail, and Callum coaxed her forward.

Rayla caught up with him, yawning a bit herself. “Some race,” she remarked dryly. They were barely traveling at a modest canter, down through the outer wards and to the main gate. Corvus waved to them, traveling back on his way up to the castle.

Callum waved back and shrugged. The gates were still closed. “The race hasn’t started yet,” he said. There was no point charging into a closed portcullis.

“Well,” Rayla replied. “Wake me when it does.” Leaning back, she lay almost flat in her saddle, resting her head against her palm as though it were a pillow. Callum rolled his eyes. Now she was just showing off. It was incredibly difficult to sit like that in the saddle, lying parallel to the ground without touching the steed’s backside. He could see that every muscle in Rayla’s body was taut – and he knew that was exactly her intention. It was a miscalculation on her part. He already knew how attractive she was; if she wanted to tire herself out now, that would only make the race easier for him.

The massive walls of the Attican Gate shrouded the sun for several moments as they passed under them. In the final courtyard beyond, Callum stopped to explain the situation to a guardsman. The soldier smiled and called out an order to the gatehouse. The gates slowly began to open, rising under the toil of half a dozen laborers. As they worked, Rayla sat up in her saddle again.

“Not yet,” Callum said. There was the heavy sliding of metal pins, and the portcullis stopped in its raised position. The soldier turned back to Callum and saluted, nodding briskly.

“We’ll go on three,” Rayla said.

Callum nodded. “One…”

“Two!” Rayla spurred her Moonstrider, and the animal took off, charging under the gates and out across the bridge.

“Hey!” Callum cried out and snapped his reins. Marigold bolted after Rayla, but her moonstrider was already twenty lengths ahead of them. Her laughter still reached Callum’s ears, carried across the crisp autumn breeze. Rayla must have thought she’d beaten him with that dirty little trick. She’d pay for that. Callum leaned forward and pushed Marigold into a gallop.

Perhaps thinking the race was over, Rayla began to slow near the end of the bridge. That gave Callum all the time he needed to overtake her. The far gate was already open, and Marigold flew through it. The startled moonstrider yelped as they passed, and Callum heard Rayla swear under her breath. Then it was his turn to laugh as he continued down the road to town. Rayla could cheat if she wanted to; he was still the one who decided when the race was over.

There was a fork in the road on the outskirts of town beside an opulent posting station. Traffic would only get worse inside the town, so instead, Callum took the road down along the river. It was the same river he’d taken to escape from the Banther Lodge all those years ago. The Lodge itself was only a short ride downstream. It would make a fine finish line for their race, although it would be too late in the day for them to make it back to the castle by nightfall. But that wasn’t so bad, he thought. He’d been trying to give his brother some privacy anyway, and now Callum wanted some privacy of his own with Rayla.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure his girlfriend was still following him. Her white hair gave her away, even at this distance. She was quickly falling out of sight, but at least she’d made the right turn. Callum thought about dropping back and joining her, but the wind in his face just felt too good. Marigold was thundering beneath him, every muscle in her body rigid and powerful. Her breath was short and ecstatic. She licked at the bit of her bridle, and Callum’s heart was lost in the thrill of the moment.

It was a fairly straight run to the Banther Lodge. So long as Rayla stayed on the road, she shouldn’t get lost. If he got there soon enough, Callum thought he would fix himself a bowl of punch from the lodge’s wine cellar. He wouldn’t fill it up all the way, of course. He would make it look as though he had been drinking it for hours, reclining on the porch when Rayla finally caught up to him. That would show her.

The forest closed around him as he left the signs of civilization behind. Callum ducked to avoid a few low-hanging branches from the canopy above. The leaves were only just beginning to change with the season. Memories of summer clung stubbornly to the branches, but the afternoon breeze pried a few leaves free. They drifted yellow through the air.

The river dropped down to his left and into a ravine. Callum followed the road’s path atop a tall ridge line across from some cliffs. A tall wooden fence protected travelers from plunging into the depths, but it was damp and rotten with age. Callum ran Marigold along the opposing side, next to a gentle embankment. He could still smell the spray from the rapids far down below.

Up ahead, the river grew wide and deep again, and the road branched around the feet of an ancient stone monument. Time had chiseled its toll into the marble so that only a one-legged feminine torso remained. Counterposed, the other leg had been scavenged away long ago, along with the rest of the statue. The groove for what may have once been a spear rested between a pair of four-toed feet. Both branches of the road went the same way and eventually wound back to the same point downstream. The left branch went down to the river, and would have been a natural place to water horses. However, Callum was certain that the right branch was faster, and so brought Marigold deeper into the forest.

To her credit, the young mare showed no signs of fatigue. She had been bred for this, ever since King Atticus had purchased her great-great-great-granddam from a Del Barish princess. Callum leaned forward, whispering words of encouragement in her ear and stroking her mane. He could almost close his eyes and let the horse run herself. She bounded along like a well-oiled machine, and Callum could feel the rhythmic thunder of her hooves rolling through her muscles and into his body…

…Until he couldn’t. One moment, Marigold was there, and the next she wasn’t. Callum’s eyes opened wide with terror as the ground flew by beneath him. The reddish dirt road rushed up to meet him, and he landed with a loud pop. Air was forced out of his lungs. The fabric of his clothing was shredded, and the world spun. Pain was everywhere, but he was too confused to notice it. His head hit the ground at the edge of the road, and his legs flew into a tree. Soon after, his body followed with a bright flash and splintering crunch.

“…I’ll hit!” Soren dug his fingernails into his palm, his jaw tight with concentration.

The weasel-faced Eveneri mercenary drew another card from the deck and slid it to him face down. A six and an eight made fourteen, which wasn’t ideal. But he still had a good chance if… nine. That made twenty-three. Soren cursed and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d lost, again.

As the shield-sister deftly pocketed Soren’s wager, her compatriot collected the playing cards and reshuffled them. Despite all the theatrics and showmanship, the man never seemed to raise his forearms off the table. A sadistic chuckle rumbled behind his smirk.

“What’s so funny?” Soren demanded.

The weasel-faced man ignored him.

So Soren slammed his fist into the table. “What’s so funny!” The tavern room fell silent.

That got his attention. The weasel-faced man glared at Soren and rose from his seat. The three mercenaries at the other end of the table did the same. Soren was mindful of their weapons leaning against the wall only a few paces away. He gripped the handle of his small whittling knife beneath the table. Even if it wasn’t a sword, the grip of a weapon in his hand normally calmed him down. Normally.

The shield-sister remained seated. “Axel,” she said. “Sit down.”

“Short-tempered for a knight,” the weasel-faced man, Axel, grumbled. “Worst sportsman I’ve ever seen.”

“He has every right to be upset,” the shield-sister argued. “He’s lost a lot of money.” She turned to Soren. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My sword-brother meant no offense.”

Soren swallowed and sighed through his nose. “None taken.” He just couldn’t believe he’d never won, not even once. But he could still earn it all back. “One more hand,” he said, pushing what remained of his coin purse to the center of the table. Now it was all or nothing, but the Law of Averages was on his side. After so many failed attempts, he could not possibly lose again.

Reluctantly, Axel plopped down in his seat again and shuffled the deck. It was Soren’s turn to go first. The first two cards he was given were both tens. This was going to be an easy hand, although Soren would have preferred to go second. Twenty was a fine score. It wasn’t perfect, but unless the very next card was an ace, he would bust if he did not hold now. “I’ll stand,” he said, taking a deep breath as Axel dealt to his companion.

But the next card was an ace, and the game ended faster than Soren could have possibly imagined. An ace and a ten – although an ace was usually used for just one point, in this specific situation, it could also be used for eleven, which made a perfect twenty-one. He watched in dismay as the shield-sister raked the last of his coin across the table and into her purse. It was all gone. Cold sweat puddled on Soren’s neck as he stared into the abyss. He barely heard the clatter of thundering horse hooves on the cobbles outside.

The door to the tavern swung open, and a sellsword wearing the same armor as the Eveneri marched in. He waved his hand once in a brisk gesture and called out to his companions. “Let’s go.”

The three mercenaries at the far end of the table put away their cards and grabbed their weapons. Their stool scraped loudly against the wooden floor as they stood. The shield-sister gave Soren a cold smile. “Thank you for going easy on me,” she said callously.

Axel snickered again, rising from the table. “A good lesson, sir knight, on how not to…”

Soren’s left hand snapped across the table and seized Axel by the sleeve. The sword-brother froze, and his words died in his mouth. Soren squeezed the gambeson and felt the extra cards the man had hidden there. It was as he had suspected. “A cheat…” Soren shook his head slowly, raising his arm and allowing the cards to spill down onto the table. He began laughing, but did not take his eyes off Axel’s. “Now that is funny…”

Axel tried to pull away, but Soren held on tight. His laughter turned into a snarl. Suddenly, he lunged across the table, pinning Axel’s arm beneath his body weight. The whittling knife all but sprang to his fist, and Soren drove it down into Axel’s hand. A river of blood gushed from the wound as Soren drove the weapon clean through, burying it into the wooden tabletop. He twisted the blade, and Axel screamed, the whites of his eyes wide and burning.

The shield-sister dove at him, and Soren jumped back, kicking the table into Axel. With the knife still stuck in the center of his hand, the sword-brother fell to the floor against the wall, making the wound worse. Soren’s stool tumbled to the ground, causing him to nearly trip over it. The shield-sister went for him again, and he ducked beneath the blow. Lifting her with his shoulders, he turned and threw her across the room. She slid across the bar top and crashed into a keg of mead, which toppled to the ground with a splintering splash.

Axel was down, but his four companions joined the fray, including their leader from the door. They all drew weapons. Soren grabbed his stool by the seat and swung it before him like a giant club, forcing them back. It was bulky and poorly balanced, but the wood was sturdy enough to break bones. Two Eveneri flanked him, one to each side, and Soren backed to a corner, where he couldn’t be surrounded.

“Help! Help me!” The tavernkeep shrieked, bolting from behind the bar and out into the street. “Guards!” The small scattering of other patrons was not far behind, eager to give the brawl a wide berth.

The shield-sister was on her feet again and drew a small knife from her belt. With little more than a flick of her wrist, she hurled it across the room with murderous intent. Soren blocked it with the stool, but the blade punched through. The point only stopped a hair’s breadth away from his eyes.

Seizing the opening, an Eveneri charged, lopping off one of the wooden legs with his axe. Soren drove the rest of the stool into the man’s chest, shoving him into the wall beside a window. His legs burned and his knuckles bled, but he drove his fist into the man’s face over and over again, until flesh turned to mush. There was no thought, only violence.

With Soren’s back turned, another mercenary swung a sword at his head. Soren ducked, and the window exploded, raining shards of glass around him. In a moment of lucidity, he tasted blood, but he couldn’t tell whose it was. He didn’t care. Grabbing the man’s sword-arm, he wrestled it behind his back – one strong pull would break it. Soren had a hostage now and used him like a shield. The remaining two Eveneri backed up, anxious to avoid hitting their friend. The third flopped to the ground against the wall, fumbling around on the floor to try to regain his balance. In the corner, Axel whimpered and tried to pull Soren’s knife from his ruined hand.

Soren advanced slowly, marching his captive in the direction of the door. He needed to be quick – guards would be along shortly. The rational part of his mind was returning. He knew he had gone too far, but it was too late to back down now. All he’d wanted was the money to buy a stupid horse.

The leader stepped closer, and Soren spun to interpose the hostage between them. He needed to get outside in the open and make a break for it. “Easy…” he warned, eyes darting between his adversaries. If he got surrounded, it would be over. It was hard enough to watch the three men in front of him, not to mention that there was still the other…

Behind him, the shield-sister suddenly shrieked in pure, primitive rage. Her shrill scream was cut short by a heavy thud on the back of Soren’s head. Blinding light flashed behind his eyes, and every muscle in his body went flaccid. Then gravity took over.

Rayla followed behind Callum – far behind Callum – cursing with frustration. She’d always planned on letting Callum win the race, but she hadn’t meant to throw the competition this badly. “Come on, girl,” she pleaded, trying everything she could think of to inspire a bit of urgency in her steed. “What’s gotten into you?” But the moonstrider offered her nothing beyond a brisk trot. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but that was no reason for the animal to behave this way. Her ears were up, and she licked her lips frequently, either hungry or agitated. Or maybe Rayla was the one who was agitated.

To her annoyance, Callum’s earlier jest about leaving a trail of dust behind would have been extremely helpful. There were no other signs of his passage, and even the fading hoof-beats of his horse were now masked by the general din of the forest. A cloud of gnats flocked around a harvest of overripe dragon fruit, and Rayla swatted them away in irritation. This wasn’t her idea of a romantic afternoon, but there was still hope. It would all depend on what came after this race, if one could even call it a race. Over the years, she’d grown used to the land in these parts, and so she reckoned that Callum would be heading to the Banther Lodge. It was a bit early in the season, so the Lodge would still be vacant, which would lend itself to a quiet, luxurious evening. That was assuming Callum was going to stop there at all.

Regardless, that was going to be where Rayla stopped for the night, one way or another. She’d already had enough of this. Bringing the moonstrider was a mistake, but she wasn’t going to go back to the castle to get a horse. Her mount loped casually along the ridge beside a waterfall, which emptied into a wide pool below. Rayla was tempted to jump in, if only to get rid of those stupid gnats. She was a poor swimmer, but anything had to be better than this constant whining and buzzing, prickling, and…

In anger, she lashed out and kicked the fence holding the road back from the edge of the cliff. The wooden post crumbled beneath her foot and fell into the ravine. Rayla counted three seconds before she heard the splash. She winced to herself. On second thought, jumping down there probably wasn’t a good idea.

They reached a crumbled statue, and the moonstrider finally had enough. Planting both her front paws in the dirt, the animal snapped and jerked at the reins, staring back at Rayla in indignation. Rayla swore. “Alright,” she growled, and dismounted her saddle, “now you’re just being a round-ears.” Marching out in front of the moonstrider, she took the reins and pulled with all her strength. “Come on, you big, stupid…” She leaned back to put her body weight into it, but the beast was stronger. The leather snapped, and Rayla fell flat on her back. She pounded the ground with her fist and jumped to her feet. Rayla snarled, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. “That does it!”

The moonstrider’s ears suddenly pulled back at the sound of an unnatural scream from up ahead. Rayla heard the hooves of a horse approaching, but they were muted, almost as if something was missing. Through the late afternoon gloom of the forest canopy, a pale horse appeared. Rayla recognized Marigold almost immediately, but something was wrong with her. She was even paler than usual – a ghost – and the flow of her mane dissolved back into nothingness. Her hooves fell in clouds of smoke, and Rayla realized that she could see the trees through the horse’s body. The saddle was empty.

Rayla stiffened and unclipped the butterfly blades from her athletic corset. A moment later, Marigold solidified back into her normal form. Although longer an apparition, the mare remained panicked nonetheless. She barreled past Rayla and nearly knocked her over in her mad dash to escape whatever lay deeper in the forest. The moonstrider fled with her, abandoning Rayla beside the statue at the crossroads. Rayla grimaced as she recognized the corrupting tendrils of dark magic left in the wake of the horse’s flight. She was not leaving without Callum.

Clinging to the shadows, Rayla ran along the left branch of the road, from which Marigold had come. It was challenging to move quietly without the cold shroud of the Moon to guide her, but she had trained for this. Decades of experience helped where magic could not. A conspicuous wooden post, shaved of bark, lay just beyond a steep rise in the road among the trees. As she drew closer, she spotted the bulky canvas of a sail rolled beneath it. Rayla dropped down onto her belly. Creeping forward, she crawled up the rise and peered down across the river.

A long, flat wooden ship lay below her on a clear bank of smooth grass. Rayla hugged the ground closely, hiding her horns and silver hair beneath the roadside brush. She checked behind her twice and then went back to studying the ship. The large mast had first caught her attention back on the road, but the sheer scale of this ship was far beyond any vessel she’d seen navigate a river before.

Whatever this was, it didn’t belong here. Neither did the two soldiers standing watch outside the vessel. Both were armed and armored, their mail glinting in the sunlight over light gambeson. They were carrying on a conversation and leaned idly on their large, round shields, which each depicted a green dragonfly. Neither had spotted her yet, so Rayla pulled back into cover. She’d counted thirty oars and a tiller, so these two were not alone. The ship’s proximity to the road could not be a coincidence, but there was no sign of the rest of the crew. There was no time to go back for help either. Callum was in danger; Rayla felt it in her bones.

The two soldiers guarding the longship continued their conversation on the riverbank and paid scant attention to their duties as lookouts. Their conversation was not particularly interesting either – one was simply trying to impress the other by recalling what he’d had for breakfast that morning. There was only so much that could be done with the provisions on the ship, but he had still found a way to wax on and on and test the patience of his compatriot. At least he held her attention.

A loud splash echoed from around a bend in the river.

“What was that?” the woman asked, pulling her axe free of her belt.

“Sounds like it was just a rock,” the man shrugged. “But like I was saying, this time I soaked the hardtack in the sea before I…”

The woman cut him off again. “Rocks don’t move on their own.”

Rayla winced from her hiding spot. The stone she’d chosen had been too large, and the river too shallow where she’d thrown it. She had wanted to make it sound like someone had jumped in the river. Instead, the stone had gone straight to the bottom and hit the riverbed with an audible crack. Now they would check the road, and not the river.

“I want to check it out.”

“Do you think it came from over there?” The man kept talking, giving away his position while Rayla scrambled for cover. By the time they found her first hiding spot, she was already at the top of a nearby tree, holding another stone.

“We can’t wander too far,” the woman said. “They might be trying to fire the ship.”

“Or maybe it was nothing,” the man shrugged, “and an animal just knocked the rock over by mistake. This forest is full of them, you know.”

“Of what,” the woman asked, “rocks or animals?”

But the man seemed to miss the sarcasm. “Both, actually. I once heard that there are over a dozen different types of…”

Rayla dropped the stone down on his helmet with a loud clang. Sliding off her branch, she fell onto his shoulders and sent him crashing to the ground. She landed after him and, twisting her legs, she threw the man headfirst down the hill. He bounced and tumbled all the way to the side of the ship, where he finally slid to a stop, motionless. Rayla sighed with satisfaction. “I thought he’d never shut up.”

The woman jumped in surprise and drew in a deep breath to call for help. Rayla drove it from her with a swift kick to the stomach. The woman was strong, and her armor protected her from the worst of the blow, but she still doubled over. Rayla spun around and caught the woman’s neck between her bicep and forearm. She leaned back and squeezed tightly, restricting blood flow until the woman went limp in her arms.

With practiced discipline, Rayla set the unconscious woman down and listened for anyone who might have overheard her. Firing the ship did sound like a good idea, but not before she found Callum. No one else seemed to have heard her, and the two guards did not look like they would be waking any time soon. To be safe, Rayla fetched some rigging from the ship and bound the two soldiers together. Their armor made them significantly heavier, and the breakfast guy really could have gone without seconds. When she finished, Rayla took their weapons and threw them as far out into the river as possible. She had wasted enough time already.

Rayla climbed the tall prow of the longship, which depicted a large scaled beast. It didn’t resemble any dragon she’d seen before; there were no horns, no ears, just a long, triangular head and short, stubby legs. Its nose rested on top of its skull before two beady eyes that peered up from the other end. The rows of wooden teeth pinched her fingers as she climbed across its gaping maw. Heaving with her legs, Rayla threw herself out onto the closest branch.

Running along the canopy, Rayla followed the road from where Marigold had come. The two branching paths merged back together a short distance away, out of sight from the riverbank. She heard voices up ahead. Suits of mail glinted from the forest below, but these soldiers were silent, lying in ambush for anyone else traveling down the road. Fortunately, none of them thought to look up – humans rarely did – and Rayla was able to slip by. She took advantage of the casual rustling of leaves in the wind to mask the sounds of her movement overhead. As she drew closer, the voices ahead became more distinct.

“Don’t move him yet,” someone said, and a chill ran down Rayla’s spine. The man’s voice was filled with the corrupted resonance of what humans called ‘the deep song.’ She had found her dark mage. “Most of his bones are still broken.”

“Will he live?” The second voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Rayla could not place it. “That fall nearly killed him.”

“What game are you playing, Magnar?” A third masculine voice jeered. “Are you trying to steal all our fun?” There was a faint gurgling sound, and Rayla’s heart froze.

“Callum,” she breathed silently.

“Shut up!” the third voice snapped, and a heavy thump followed. Cold anger burned in Rayla’s chest.

“Not across the face, you idiot!” the dark mage slurred. “He must be seen in public.”

“What about his toes, then?” Drawing closer, Rayla could see two men hunched over Callum’s wrecked body. The dark mage stood over them, with oiled black hair combed back across his pale scalp. Whatever spell he was casting seemed to be healing Callum’s wounds. She would let him live, for now. Rayla didn’t recognize the mage, but remembered the two other men from Ezran’s wedding. “He doesn’t need all of them, right?” Gunnar continued. “We can make him look like that elf he lies with!”

Callum began to squirm, pinned to the ground. Inarticulate, he wailed and moaned in terror. As the spell continued its work, he finally managed a shrill and garbled, “Help me!”

Rayla drew her butterfly blades with a flick of the wrists. Normally, she avoided murder whenever possible, but the rage that filled her as she looked down on Callum’s broken and bruised body blinded her. She would begin with the big, muscle-brained brute that had struck him, then his red-headed brother, and then she would cut her way through the rest of their soldiers. There were many of them – at least one for each of the thirty oars on that longship, but she would figure out the rest as she went along. Leaning forward in a crouched stance, she angled her blades downward and prepared to pounce.

The third brother, Aedin, suddenly spotted her. His blue eyes met hers and flashed in alarm. “Magnar!” he pointed, and the dark mage reacted instantly.

Rayla jumped to avoid the vortex of balefire that erupted from the Magnar’s fingers. Her balance was off, and she fell from the tree, rolling to break her fall. She landed in a low stance with weapons raised, eyes darting to watch her foes. In a way, being surrounded like this simplified her problems. At least now, the dark mage would need to be careful of hitting anyone else with his spells.

“Ridiculous,” Gunnar grumbled, waving to the rest of the warband, “What did we bring the rest of you idiots for, anyway? Were you all asleep?” Surprised and embarrassed, the soldiers recovered from their shock quickly. They’d already formed a complete circle around Rayla, and, when they locked shields, Rayla found herself in an inescapable vice of board and steel. The branch she had fallen from simmered with castigating dark energy, high above and impossibly out of reach.

“Hold,” Aedin called, and the soldiers stopped. Shields raised, they kept a wide berth around Rayla just beyond the reach of her weapons. “Leave us, assassin. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Leave him,” Rayla nodded to Callum. “Or I will kill you all.”

Aedin shook his head. “We can’t do that. He has wronged our kin. As honor demands, we have come to accept his life or his death. I wouldn’t expect an unchivalrous cutthroat like you to understand.”

“What…” Callum sputtered, struggling to sit up. “What are you talking about?”

Gunnar seized him by the collar and balled his hand into a fist.

Rayla gritted her teeth. “Whatever you do to him, I will carve into your scalp. Slowly.”

“Still, you persist?” Aedin asked. “Perhaps I misjudged you, as you’ve misjudged your sorry excuse of a prince. Trust me when I say that this isn’t worth your life.”

“Is it worth yours?” Rayla demanded. “Even if I fall, the King’s army will descend upon you. None of you will leave Katolis alive.”

Magnar looked away from Callum for a moment to address Rayla. His eyes radiated withering, violet light. “We have soldiers watching the castle,” he slurred sluggishly. “They signaled us when the two of you left this afternoon, and they’ll warn us if anyone comes to rescue you.”

Aedin crossed his arms and answered Rayla’s challenge. “A true warrior cannot share the same sky as this scum. If such is the price of honor, I will die to avenge my family.”

“We grew up together,” Callum pleaded, “every summer. Justice above, I thought we were family!”

“I thought so too,” Aedin agreed. Turning back to Rayla, he planted his feet and set his jaw. “I am prepared.”

“Then don’t hide behind your people,” Rayla goaded. “Let’s settle this ourselves. Is that ‘honorable’ enough for you?”

A cold steel settled across Aedin’s visage. In a slow, elegant motion, he drew his sword and raised his shield beneath his coppery beard. “So be it,” he declared. He pressed the flat of his blade against the shoulders of the soldiers in front of him, insisting they part ranks. “Form a square!”

“No, brother!” Gunnar barked, jumping to his feet. “I claim eldest privilege. She’s mine.”

Aedin looked between them and sighed, reluctantly sheathing his sword. He set down his shield and rolled it over to Rayla. “Take this,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

Rayla kicked it aside. “Don’t feel bad,” she growled, “you can go next.” She didn’t need a shield to cut around this blundering oaf, whose bulk was that of a mountain and who had a brain to match it. The last thing she wanted was a cumbersome chunk of wood attached to her arm and weighing her down. She didn’t need armor either. Humans relied on both too often, and that reliance always failed them.

Aedin drew an indignant breath, but obliged her. “Suit yourself.”

Gunnar lifted an axe from his belt and thumped it against his broad chest. “Everyone back!” he commanded. “The rest of you will just get in my way.”

Shields locked, the warband cleared a square the width of the road. Rayla circled Gunnar, her stance low but flexible. Gunnar glared at her through the thin eye-holes of his helmet and swung his round shield in front of him, covering himself with the green dragonfly of Evenere. His ring mail glinted in the sunlight, almost straining to cover his broad shoulders and bulky gut. A combed, golden beard scratched at his chest, and long gloves extended all the way to his elbows.

Under the edge of Gunnar’s shield, Rayla could see Callum slumped against the base of the tree. The same spell that healed his wounds held him there, even as he struggled to break free. One eye was blackened and swollen shut from where he had recently been struck. Gunnar would pay for that slight, one drop of blood at a time. “If I kill you,” Rayla asked, “will your people let Callum go?”

“‘If,’” Gunnar echoed with a sinister chuckle. “You know, it’s been too long since I killed an elf.” He thumped his axe again, this time across his shield. “Everyone pay attention,” he ordered, “I’m only going to do this once!”

Rayla feinted high to draw in the first strike.

Gunnar charged forward, roaring ferociously. His momentum was impetuous, but Rayla did not meet him on his terms. The princeling was faster than a man his size should have been, but his feet betrayed him all the same. Rayla bounded away, dodging to the side, and caused Gunnar to nearly run clear out of the square. But when she turned her blades to strike, Gunnar brought his shield to bear and blocked them. He rushed at her again. She bounded away again – this time in the other direction. She was farther from his shield, but closer to his axe. Her counterattack was stopped when he swung into her. She had to abandon the maneuver and parry, but by the time she could riposte, Gunnar’s shield was back on guard.

Rayla found herself on the run, avoiding his charges and punishing him whenever he overextended. Or at least she would be punishing him if he didn’t manage to hide behind that big, stupid shield every time. The prince was stubborn and endlessly persistent. He allowed her to sink her butterfly blades into the wooden shield and tried to twist them from her grip. But her weapons were made of the purest moonsilver and tempered by the greatest blacksmith in the Silvergrove. They cut themselves free every time.

Gunnar struggled to angle his shield so that Rayla could not strike it directly. She adapted her blows, twisting the edges for the best cuts, but this cost her some of the power behind her attacks. She hacked at the hand holding the axe, but Gunnar dropped it behind the shield. He pressed her mercilessly into a corner of the square. With no other option, Rayla planted a foot on Gunnar’s shield and springboarded herself over her opponent. Somersaulting over his head, she landed upright on the other side.

“Dance for me, little elf,” Gunnar jeered, “Someone get her a dress!” His strength seemed endless, but his body was beginning to fail him. The armor was weighing him down. Sweat poured down his face, and he panted hoarsely between his attacks. Even the strongest foundations crumbled beneath the weight of a mountain.

She could do this all day, doing this little ‘dance’ until the princeling’s sickened heart exploded. Gunnar was everything Callum wasn’t – a dense, simple-minded brute whose only two thoughts seemed to be fighting and fornication. His strength was spoiled by a lifetime of luxury, his muscles caked by a privileged dough. He was a slave to his baser passions, gorging himself on the labor and suffering of others. But the feast was over. It had ended the moment he’d laid a hand on her beloved Callum.

Anger boiled within her, simmering into a murderous concentration. The crowd yelled and cheered around her, but she blocked them out. All that mattered was Callum, and to get to him she had to cut through this monster, this animal – this embodiment of all the worst aspects of human society. Such barbarians aspired to nothing but death and destruction, burning the world while they sat, protected by their wealth and class. War was a game to men like this, protected by armor and legions of fodder that they massacred for sport. Rayla never took a life without cause, but men like Gunnar were a blight upon the world. Killing him was her duty as an assassin.

The princeling was furious too, blinded by his wrath. She needed to bait the beast and lure him deeper into the snare. Spinning through his assault, she caught the blonde hairs of his beard between her fingers and the hilt of her butterfly blade. With one sharp yank, they came free. Gunnar screamed with rage, hacking at her, but she was already gone. Rolling across the ground, Rayla jumped to her feet and sprinkled her trophy through the air. “You’re out of breath,” she taunted, coldly.

Gunnar threw himself at her like a rabid animal. Form and discipline were abandoned by a savage desire to tear her apart. He swung his axe and shield at her one after the other, more like a boxer than a warrior. Left, right, shield, axe, the drive was relentless. Once again, Rayla was driven back, but this was a feigned retreat. Each exchange cost Gunnar a piece of his shield, which Rayla carved down with patient determination. The green dragonfly was unrecognizable across the tiny shard of wood that remained strapped to his fist. But Gunnar didn’t notice. He thought he had Rayla on the run, and it would cost him dearly.

Rayla allowed him to fall into a predictable pattern of strikes. With her left blade, she effortlessly parried the punch he threw with his axe. When he came at her with his shield arm, he expected her to block it with her right as she had before. But this time, Rayla planted her foot and sprang forward into the attack. Gliding along his forearm, her butterfly blade cut clean through the remains of his shield and carried onward. With her full body weight behind the blow, her blade passed through his guard and struck Gunnar in the shoulder, just below the joint.

Sparks exploded from the mail where the blow fell, but her blade slid off clean. The cut should have severed Gunnar’s arm, but had failed to even break his armor. Gunnar did not even acknowledge the hit as he continued his attack. The shield was still coming toward her. Eyes wide with surprise, Rayla brought her second blade around in a desperate attempt to block it. But it was too late.

Gunnar punched her in the right armpit with his shield, now a pointed shard of wood. The blow broke Rayla’s stance and lifted her off the ground. Her scream was cut short as the air was forced from her lungs. She felt a cascade of muted pops within her body, like the cracking of knuckles. Falling back, she caught herself on the ground with her butterfly blades. However, her shoulder gave way the instant she put any weight on it. She toppled to the ground, clutching her side and moaning when she felt the splinters that dug into her flesh. Her fingers came away slick with blood.

“Looks like you’re the one out of breath,” Gunnar panted, rubbing his shoulder where Rayla had struck him. He raised his axe over his head in triumph. As the others cheered, one of the soldiers handed him a fresh shield. The bloody shard was cast aside, and Gunnar advanced again. Rayla struggled to push herself to her feet.

“Stop,” Callum cried. “Stop, please!” He struggled against his magical restraints, but Magnar held him fast.

Aedin grimaced and looked between Rayla and Callum. “Gunnar,” he called, “it’s over.”

“Not yet…” Gunnar sneered, aiming his axe at Rayla’s neck.

With the last of her strength, Rayla kicked at Gunnar’s ankles to try to sweep his feet out from under him. Fresh pain flashed in her mind where her shins struck his metal boots. Unmoved, the prince looked down at her in amusement. Dropping the axe, he laughed and grabbed her by the calves. Rayla hacked at him with her swords, but the blades glanced off his gauntlets. Gunnar heaved and swung her around his body, hurling her across the square like a sack of grain. The soldiers caught her on their shields and threw her to the ground. Rayla landed on her wounded side and cried out in agony. The butterfly blade fell from her grasp.

Gunnar picked it up and inspected the balance. “Too bad,” he chided thoughtfully. “You would have made a formidable shield-sister.” He lifted her chin with the point of the blade. Rayla had held that weapon for almost her entire life. She had never thought to fear its touch. “But…”

“Don’t hurt her,” Callum wailed. “I’ll do anything!” The sound of his voice was comforting. At least he was alive.

Rayla’s body was becoming numb. With her left arm, she knocked away the butterfly blade Gunnar was holding with the other one. Gunnar shook his head incredulously and backed up, giving her the chance to get up again. Limbs cold and shaking, Rayla climbed to her knees. But her legs were too weak to stand. Her remaining butterfly blade trembled in her grip as she rested her weight upon it. The time had come to die.

Magnar finally spoke up after finishing his spell on Callum. “Don’t throw your life away, assassin,” he implored, his features cracked and withered from exertion. He rested a shriveled hand on Callum’s shoulder. “He’s not worth it.”

“We wouldn’t be here if he were,” Aedin agreed. “Stay down.”

“He is,” Rayla winced, struggling to make eye contact with Callum. The dark magic had healed him, and he looked just as handsome as he had in the courtyard. Even while twisted with anguish, no hair was out of place, and his face shone with the same brilliance she’d first fallen in love with all those years ago. She forced herself to smile, for his sake. “But I have not always been worthy of him. I’ve lied; I’ve stolen; I’ve kept terrible secrets from him, but through it all he has stood by me without question. He’s always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. I love him more than you could ever understand, and it is the honor of my lifetime to lay down mine for his!”

Tears welled in Callum’s eyes, and he looked away, staring down at the ground in silence. Rayla could not read his expression, but he looked ashamed.

The Eveneri were silent as she spoke, but Aedin Sea-Strider was the first to react. Lip curling in rage, he suddenly turned and struck Callum across the face. “You milk-drinking spawn of a sea hag!” he shouted. Rayla urged herself to stop him and hobbled a step forward, but her strength failed her once again. “She doesn’t know, does she? You lied to her!”

“About what?” Callum whimpered, holding up his arms to defend himself. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Our sister,” Magnar answered. “You hurt her.”

“You ruined her life,” Aedin corrected, “so now, we ruin yours.”

“Svanna?” Callum blabbered. “No, I never lay so much as a finger on her, I swear…”

“You did more than that,” Gunnar snarled, “you got her pregnant!” The words stuck Rayla like a hammer to her skull. The pain and confusion fell away in a cold moment of sobriety.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Aedin asked, lifting Callum’s head to stare into his eyes. “Think carefully before you lie to us again.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Rayla argued, aghast. “They’ve never spent any time together. It’s impossible. Tell them, Callum.” But Callum remained silent, eyes wide as he took in the news.

“It’s not impossible,” Magnar replied. “There was the night of King Ezran’s wedding. The timing is… more than convenient.”

“No,” Rayla shook her head. “Callum would never do that.” The memories of that terrible day came flooding back – his disinterest in her, his fascination with the Eveneri princess. He’d taken that woman’s side, his ‘dearest friend’ over her, his one true love. He’d lain with her night after night, but refused to marry her even eleven years into their relationship. He was getting exactly what he wanted from her, but still. “No,” she repeated, “he wouldn’t…”

“Well, Callum?” Aedin demanded, pointing at Rayla. “If you ever loved her at all…”

“Rayla,” Callum interrupted. He would not look at her. “Do you trust me?”

“What?” Rayla blubbered, fear rising in her voice. “What do you mean?” Callum’s expression sank even further. “Just tell me…”

“…tell her the truth.”

“The truth?” Callum swallowed. He looked up, down, around, everywhere except at Rayla. “The truth is I…” he took a deep breath. “…I didn’t know she was pregnant.” He looked between the three brothers. “Excuse me, I never could have imagined, but this… this is wonderful news!” he exclaimed, voice cracking.

Magnar’s shriveled and crumbling features turned to scowl at his older brother. “I told you there were other explanations for his absence,” he hissed. “He simply didn’t know. But you were so obsessed with blood and glory…”

“Shut up,” Gunnar scowled. “If you’d had your way, we never would have learned about this to begin with.”

“Callum?” Rayla asked softly. None of this made any sense.

“Perhaps we all misjudged you, Callum,” Aedin said, looking at Rayla. “But I wouldn’t think you’re out of trouble just yet.”

“Well, if she says I’m the father, I must see her,” Callum insisted. “Please, take me to her. I’ll go with…”

“No,” Rayla grunted, shaking her head. “Callum, you’re under duress. You don’t have to…”

“No, Rayla.” The words fell as a second hammer. “I’m not going to run or hide from this,” Callum continued. “This is the right thing to do.”

“We have eye-witness testimony,” Magnar added in confirmation. “Svanna’s man servant found the two of you… ‘coupling’ in the gallery while the castle slept.”

“Did he, now?” Callum asked, his voice cold and vengeful.

“Don’t threaten him because of your lack of self-control,” Aedin warned. “You already had everything a man could want, and you still lusted for more. You’re an animal, Callum. Gentle life has rotten you to your core.”

“Hegen Torfsson said nothing at the time,” Magnar answered. “It wasn’t his place. He only broke his silence when it was clear Svanna carried your child.”

Their words seemed to fade as Rayla sank deeper into the earth. She wasn’t sure whether tears or blood ran down her face, or whether blood or bile coughed up her throat. Someone was bringing bandages for her injury. Her body had stopped quivering and now just hung like a dead weight. There was no light in the world, no color. Callum was standing now, but she didn’t recognize him. She couldn’t.

Rayla sniffed. “That night after the wedding,” she said to the stranger, voice shaking. “You never came to bed.”

To her left, Gunnar shrugged. “It seems he did, just not to yours.”

Hissing, Rayla lunged at him. The soldier carrying the bandages dropped them on the ground and ran back to join the others. Rayla caught herself on her butterfly blade to keep from falling over. Gunnar ignored her and turned back to the others.

“News will reach the castle eventually,” Magnar reminded. “We need to leave soon. Is he coming with us?”

There was a tense silence as the three brothers exchanged looks. Aedin was the first to speak. “You may be the lowest slime crusting on the keel,” he grumbled reluctantly. “But if Svanna saw something in you, I must be satisfied.” He removed his hand from the pommel of his sword and looked at Gunnar.

“Aye,” Gunnar sighed. “I will not be the one who kills you, step-prince.” He laughed and jerked his head at Rayla. “Not sure about her, though.”

“This is your only warning, assassin,” Aedin said, crossing his arms. “Don’t try to follow us.”

“No,” Rayla answered, her voice tearing at her throat. “You will never see me again!”

The stranger had foolishly decided to approach her, but now stopped dead in his tracks. His expression sank. Perhaps he’d thought he could help. “That’s…” he said, “…that’s for the best.”

Rayla drew a fiery breath.

“…there are plenty of other things in your life worth living for and pursuing than…”

Rayla screamed and bolted upright, blade hacking at him. In an instant, Magnar’s eyes flashed violet while Aedin and Gunnar drew their weapons. The warband sprang to arms around her and positioned themselves, this time to defend the errant prince, that stranger with such a familiar face. Defend him from her.

“Rayla…” the stranger gasped, overcome with terror.

“You’ve done quite enough,” Aedin scolded, shooting him a quick glare before shouting, “What’s it going to be, Rayla?”

Rayla stood, counting the host before her. One for each of the thirty oars on the ship. This was murder, not a fight, but she didn’t care. And then something came over her as she suddenly realized that. She didn’t care.

Her butterfly blade snapped back into its sheath, and she clipped it back to her athletic corset. “You’re right,” she laughed coldly, coughing up blood. Eleven years of her life had been wasted on this idiot. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth anything at all.”

“Is he dead?”

The sickening stench of vomit burned in Soren’s nostrils. Gradually, each muscle in his body returned to life. Their order was random and sporadic, and he was left twitching on the floor as his body remembered how to function.

“No, I just saw him move.”

He wasn’t ready to open his eyes yet. Keeping them shut made his head hurt less. His neck was stiff and swollen, but he could still move each of his limbs. One by one, he practiced curling his fingers into fists. Arms akimbo, he brought his hands to his sides and pushed himself off the floor. The world spun in the darkness, and Soren lurched forward, heaving dry air. His stomach was already empty, its contents spilled out around him.

“Did you send for a doctor?”

Soren’s eyes creaked open, and he found himself staring at the boots of two men directly in front of him. The light hurt him, but he recognized the tavernkeep’s voice from earlier. Groaning, Soren felt the broken leg of the stool resting beside him. It had nearly snapped in two, and its splintered length was caked in dried blood. There was more in his beard, and Soren marveled at how it crumbled to dust between his fingertips. He searched for more and hissed in pain when his hand drew close to his ear.

“Are you kidding? He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get the gallows after what he did to my tavern – him and those Eveneri cutthroats! You there,” the tavernkeep continued, pointing at him with a thick, calloused finger, “stay where you are! The catchpole is on her way to deal with you, rotten vagrant.”

Soren stood up and held on to the side of the table until the world stopped spinning. It was all gone: his coin purse, his knapsack, even his small whittling knife. His clothes were ruined too. He felt naked, surrounded by thieves and perverts that gathered in a small crowd behind the tavernkeep. Each step was its own battle, but he gradually felt his way along the wall and to the door. He was in no condition to explain himself to a catchpole, if she would even listen to him. It was said that when the only tool available was a hammer, every problem looked like a nail. And Soren felt as though a nail had been driven into his head several times already.

“Where are you going?” the tavernkeep scolded, chasing after him. “Do you have any idea how much this set me back? You’re going to pay back every bit of damage you did, down to the last copper piece!”

Soren ignored him and grabbed the coat rack standing beside the door.

“Hey,” the tavernkeep snapped, stepping in front of him. “Are you going to rob me, too? Put that down before I…”

Soren smashed the rack against the door jamb, breaking off its base and leaving behind a makeshift quarterstaff. Without a word, Soren straightened his back and glared down at the tavernkeep. The man quickly abandoned his posture and scurried back to the others. The way was clear, so Soren shouldered the coat rack like a crutch and hobbled his way through the door.

As soon as he was a safe distance off the front porch, the tavernkeep followed him outside. “That’s right,” he called, “get out of here! And don’t come back!”

Soren said nothing.

“I’ll have you swinging from a gallows for what you did!”

Soren continued to ignore him.

“I’ll string you there myself!”

His voice faded away, slower than what Soren would have liked. He could manage a somewhat brisk pace by throwing his weight forward and catching himself on the crutch, but the constant lurching made his headache intolerable. Still, he had to get away. Neither the castle nor the town was a safe option, so he chose a second path that curved down along the river.

Bushwhacking through the forest was not a good idea in his current state, so he remained on the road. If he’d had any money left, he would have hired a boat to take him downriver. But that was exactly the problem. “Couldn’t even buy a stupid horse,” he cursed through gritted teeth.

Minutes turned into hours. The sun set and the crescent moon rose high overhead, a mere sliver of light. The road remained empty aside from the solitary calls of owls and the persistent hum of crickets hidden deep within the foliage. Maybe the catchpole had chosen not to follow him, or planned to wait until the morning. Either way, Soren was not going to go back to town and check. His breathing seemed to thunder in his mind, over the sound of roaring water crashing down into the ravine beside him. He rested against an old railing that guarded the edge of the cliff and felt the timbers shift in the loose soil.

Eventually, he came upon the stone remains of an ancient statue and let out a great sigh. This crossroads was only the halfway point. He wasn’t going to make it to the Banther Lodge, not tonight. It was time to rest. The left branch was gentler and went down to the river, but it would have been a terrible place to sleep. Any amount of rain upstream would make the river break its banks, and Soren could not move fast enough to escape a flash flood. He hadn’t come all this way just to die. Begrudgingly, he took the high road and looked for a place to sleep beneath the lush branches and leaves.

A faint voice drifted to him from farther down the road. She was weak and whimpering, the sound almost alien, but Soren recognized her immediately. “Oh no,” he groaned, and forced himself onward. Sleep would have to wait.

He found Rayla beyond a slight dip in the road and nearly tripped over her. She was alone, curled into a tiny ball on the ground with her legs hugged to her chest. The surrounding dirt had been churned to mud by feet too numerous to count. She rocked side to side, weeping into a wide pool of blood that soaked the earth around her.

Soren dropped to his knees in exhaustion and placed a hand on her shoulder. To his horror, she was cold to the touch, nearly frozen. A discarded spool of bandages lay a short distance away. Grunting through the pain throbbing in his head, Soren crawled across the ground and brought them back, touching Rayla again in an effort to find her injury. She barely acknowledged him, just lifting an arm to expose a glaring wound in her side. The bleeding had stopped, but that was not a good thing.

He did what he could to bandage her wound. Rayla had stopped crying, but whimpered in pain when he lifted her to wrap the dressing. That took the very last of his strength. When he had finished, Soren slumped back against a tree. His head hung forward so as not to hit the trunk. A cold liquid dripped slowly against the back of his pallet – on the wrong side of it. He had done what he could, but Rayla’s condition was still critical. She needed water; she needed food. But Soren could provide her with neither of those things. He had failed her.

Numb to the world, Rayla lay her head back against Soren’s chest. Her horns curved up and over his shoulder. Soren wrapped his arms around her in an effort to keep her warm, but her eyes remained closed. She was dangerously pale, even beside her sparkling white hair that shone in the dim moonlight. “Eleven years,” she lamented quietly.

Soren sighed with a heavy heart. “Eleven years.”

Nothing more needed to be said. After all the time he’d known her, Soren understood that the visible wounds were secondary. Rayla had survived far worse before. The real harm lay elsewhere, and Soren knew the culprit. After all, no one else could have hurt her this way.